You would have been 16 years old. Maybe you are 16 years old somewhere. Certainly, the memories of you, our firstborn son, are 16 years old. When we first held you and you departed, we were preparing for the second term of George W. Bush in a post-911 world. At the time, we had just been through a raucous election season in which John Kerry’s campaign was swift-boated and our questionable lifestyle changes from removing our shoes in airports to detentions in Gitmo were becoming more routine.
It was hard not to feel despair. Your mother and I were precinct captains. I remember her knocking on doors and working the polls very pregnant, as the bitter winter weather fell upon us in 2004. We were also part of the early beginnings of internet activism with MeetUp, MoveOn, and Daily Kos. We were part of the VA grassroots for the Dean campaign, which had imploded in Iowa. We felt our future and yours hung in the balance. And we lost the election. And we lost you shortly thereafter.
At the time, my coping mechanisms for shock and grief had me turn to the only other dark periods in my life that I had somehow survived to remind myself of resilience. I was so young then that the most my psyche could muster were some broken-hearted memories of my youth. Paths not taken, dreams that didn’t pan out. Lives once intertwined never to cross paths again. Such small dramas for such a new and weighty event: Johsua Emet. 01.11.2005. 21:08.00 6 lbs. 13 oz.
This chord stretching back to high school memories wasn’t the only thread of support. We survived in our own various ways. The grassroots groups we were connected to, my colleagues from my recently graduated theology school, our friends and family spanning the globe, were all there at your funeral. They were all part of the grieving and healing process to come. Throughout that initial period of unemployment and restructuring of our lives, people were amazed at how well we seemed to be coping. I told them, it was only because of other people’s support. It was true.
At that point in our married lives, we had the opportunity and the choice to remain here or go start again elsewhere. We ended up staying in Virginia. We planned your funeral and buried your body here. We returned, recycled, or re-gifted your presents. We left your room intact. And not too long after, the family we thought we were going to have and then lost became the family your sister brought to life.
Election night 2016 turned a corner sharply and we woke up to the aftermath. My psyche was strengthened by more than 10 years of your memorial and presence. Saddened as I was that your sister would not be able to work on Hillary’s re-election campaign or vote in the election of her successor, I had a wider window of care and concerns to fight for. Like the lead up to 2004, your mother and I found ourselves reaching out to the grassroots again in the Resistance, Indivisible, the Women’s March, March For Our Lives, Swing Left, Faith in the Public Square, Black Lives Matter, etc. And surprise, Daily Kos again.
I remember a bittersweet comment someone made after your passing. Though we had held you in our arms, we never heard you cry. Because of that people said you were the perfect baby. It’s bittersweet because it would have been nice to hear your voice. But I’ll always remember your kicks, the sound of your heartbeat, and your hiccups.
We are just two weeks shy of the inauguration. The current baby in the White House has been crying and whining far too long. He is long past due. With him are sycophants and dead-enders who could hardly be thought of as adults in the room. They are seditious traitors hoping to indoctrinate their bigotry and racism by causing mayhem at the kiddie table, flying false flags, and gestating violence.
I don’t think that you envy us living here even as we miss you terribly.
But you are the constant reminder that there are tremendous aches, traumas, and hardships that did not defeat us. We did not choose or elect the man or his minions who attacked and brutalized us to such extremes these past 4 years. Nor will we be limited or defined by the ugliness they’ve left behind. You’ve shown us the family we live and fight for. You’ve helped us know it’s possible to endure. The scars we bear are beautifully us.