For the Record

History is written by the victors.

A year from now...
Four years from now...
A decade out...

I don't know who will be the victors writing history. I only know what I experienced today.

I canceled my account on X, née Twitter. I joined Twitter in 2009 when the site was young. I amassed a decent following and shared ideas about teaching and parenting and (eventually) politics. When Elon Musk bought the app a few years ago, I lightened my foot traffic, but still hung on. It is now a bridge too far. I really can't support anything--even using the free version of X--connected to Musk. I moved to Bluesky. Join me there.

I'm gobsmacked to see Musk glued to Trump's hip as the president-elect taps choices for appointments even The Onion didn't imagine.

My thoughts vacillate between two poles:

Pole 1) We'll get through this. Much of America understands checks and balances and the value of a shared understanding of freedom, democracy, and common decency. 

and

Pole 2) The boulder is rolling down the hill. We cannot stop it. Trump has made it clear he disdains the mores and civility that gave politicians guardrails in the past. He is ready to use recess appointments to people his power with yes-men (and god help me, yes-women).

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I mentioned in yesterday's post that I'm now reading/teaching Animal Farm and In Cold Blood. As it goes for English teachers, I'm also reading Our Town with my AP lit kids, Catcher in the Rye alongside a precocious freshman, and The Bell Jar (because I haven't read it before). Plus I have a slim volume of On Tyranny by Timothy Snyder deskside.

But what I really need to re-read right now is The Handmaid's Tale. I have forgotten too much since I read it--rather late--a few years ago. What I do remember, what I've been thinking hard about, and what I now need to revisit is the blind-sided dismay experienced by Offred as the life she knows is sucked so swiftly into the unimaginable.

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I hope I can look back on these posts with a chuckle. Oh, how dramatic! What a worrywort you were! What a waste of emotional energy!

And that reminds me of what I tell my children when they come to me with anxious thoughts. In our anxiety, we experience the sensations of dread and hurt even if the events have not, actually, transpired. 

Let's not give our anxieties control of our guts.

But let's also not turn blindly away from the history now in the making.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

onward

It is now Friday, 10 days post-election. I have come to this page several times to jot notes, but I've been unable to draw my thoughts to cohesion. Tonight I will post come hell or high water--and I'll say the past 10 days have felt like both.

I made a commitment to blog through THIS on Oct. 27 as we were headed into the final days of the campaign. THIS has not turned out to be a Harris win followed by god knows what. Instead, THIS is day after day of watching a slow-motion train wreck. 

Here goes:

On the morning after the election, I told my husband Dan I was gutted, maybe I should call in sick. If I ever questioned the mental-physical health connection, my doubt was wiped clean on Wednesday. My heart was a heavy lump in my chest. My bones cried. My thoughts and my body were one in pain.

I was determined to just get through the day. And the next. And the next week. And the next four years. And then...it won't be a lot longer until I die.

Sheesh.

Let's just say I (you too?) visited some dark places.

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I survived Wednesday with blinders on. I stared straight ahead, doing the next thing in front of me, which was teaching. Then when the bell rang between classes, lightning shot through my stomach as I remembered the election. 

I am grateful to have a job that consumes me. Once in the flow, I have no space for thoughts of...tyranny? authoritarianism? the demise of democracy?

In the stages of grief, Wednesday was numbed denial.

It was also on Wednesday that Dan checked the messages on our landline (which we check only about every two months...) Turns out our neighbors had left a message that yes, they would post a Harris sign in their yard. 

It wouldn't have made a difference, I know. But I appreciated the solidarity.

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On Thursday I awoke feeling better. On a scale of 1-10, I went from -3 to a solid 1. I could face the day. 

It was later on Thursday that I learned a student had, the day before, come to school wearing a Trump flag wrapped around his shoulders. I've been told that during at least one class he affixed the flag to the white board at the front of the room. The teacher was absent, but the substitute both allowed the student to post the flag and also addressed the class with comments supporting Trump and disparaging those who did not support Trump. The fallout of the episode is still up in the air.

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I was about 13 when Watergate unfolded. I remember feeling a surge of patriotic pride when Nixon resigned and our country said "no" to insidious attempts to sway elections. That time now looks benign. We did not know what we did not know.

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I scheduled an appointment in Des Moines for Friday. I've been in need of a new breast prosthesis (19 years out from my cancer diagnosis now), so I harnessed my blue mood and scheduled a fitting, then headed to the city for a day of soft quiet and pretty lingerie. 

On the drive over and back I listened to In Cold Blood on audiobook. Not your general cheer-me-up fare, but it's a book my AP Lit kids are reading, and it took my mind off the whirlpool of dread that sucks me down if I let my thoughts roam untethered.

In Des Moines, I bought lacy bras and then ate lunch at Thai Flavors, as my sister had suggested. I sat in the warm sun and read a book (Distant Sons, the All-Iowa Reads choice by Tim Johnston *****). Again, not your feel-good story, but consuming, and I needed to be consumed.

So I'd say Friday was another day of denial. I avoided the news. I avoided social media. I drew my focus into a very small space called me.

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On Saturday I hosted a neighborhood coffee. Since my son moved into our old house a half mile down the road in August, I've intended to introduce my daughter-in-law to the other young mom across the section. 

This past Saturday, I needed to take a positive action. I needed some joy. A three-generation coffee (with accordion music!) was the ticket. 

But the next day: Dan was crabby. Our gravel roads were muddy. It was Sunday, always a blue day.

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Sunday night was rough. My 9th-grade students are beginning to read Animal Farm, and I read the opening chapters before trying to sleep. 

I'm ashamed to admit how many years I've taught this book with insouciant confidence it was a cautionary tale for others--not for the United States of America. 

This time, each line stabs.

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Monday...Tuesday....Wednesday....Thursday....

This week has found me moving out of paralysis and into dismay.

The Onion itself could not have selected Trump's advisors. 

For now, Friday, Nov. 15, let me say I feel ragged. 

Enough.

Be well, if you can.

Allison

ohmyohmy - my unposted post from election night

It's 7:39 p.m. as I start this post.

p  e  n  n  s  y  l  v  a  n  i  a

Dan and I are watching CNN, reading tea leaves and bird formations.

Pundits are parsing approval ratings of Biden, then pivoting to North Virginia, Michigan, and again to  

p  e  n  n  s  y  l  v  a  n  i  a.

I feel like I'm watching a slow-motion movie with manic voice-over. 

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Now Phoenix. Maricopa County, to be exact. (But only the early voting results...)

Still long lines.

Mesa Community College...

Mesa Community College! - Like Proust's Madeline cookie, Mesa takes me back to Diana, my high-school friend who headed to Mesa after our 1978 graduation, eager to shake off (I can only surmise-- Aren't we all trying to shake something off after graduation?) her Ft. Dodge stomping ground. Who did she vote for? Who do we know?

--Time out-- 

It's now 8 p.m. and a new batch of election results are pouring in.

Oh. North Carolina, home of my sweet grandbaby Roger, hang in there.

I want to see Iowa. I've been overly hopeful since the Ann Seltzer poll was released over the weekend.

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It's 8:22 p.m.

We are seeing more projections.

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That was my last notation of the night. I stopped watching and went to bed.

Enough.

The Next 48 Hours

 

Thanks, Katie Howland.

Last night my sister made a batch of Pakistan goulash, a favorite food from our childhood. She said she plans to eat this cheesy comfort casserole for the next three days.

I'm buffering myself in a Harris-blue shirt (today) and a new (Harris-blue) blouse and patterned slacks tomorrow. I'm ready to wear my Harris-blue RAYGUN "Books Build Better Brains" T-shirt on Wednesday.

I'm also giving myself, my students, and those around me all the grace I can muster.

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We are tense. 

This feels like applying for a new job: We have to convince ourselves the work and effort are WORTH it, while simultaneously reminding ourselves that if we lose, we'll be okay.

Or will we? 

Serve me up some of that Pakistan goulash.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

It's Not Over

We know it won't be over on Tuesday. 

This from Reuters :

Nov 1 (Reuters) - Democrats are readying a rapid-fire response to flood social media and the airwaves with calls for calm and patience with vote-counting should Donald Trump try to prematurely claim election victory, as he did in 2020, Harris campaign and party officials told Reuters...

It has been eight years since a presidential candidate has delivered a conceding phone call to the winner and a concession speech to the nation, modeling for the free world what Democracy looks like. Hillary Clinton, despite winning the popular vote by almost 3 million, called Donald Trump :

"I congratulated Trump and offered to do anything I could to make sure the transition was smooth," she wrote. "It was all perfectly nice and weirdly ordinary, like calling a neighbor to say you can't make it to his barbecue. It was mercifully brief ...."

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Four years later, the tradition of conceding an election was jettisoned when Trump not only refused to make "the phone call" and "the speech," he also refused to attend Biden's inauguration or assist in the peaceful transfer of power. 

You all know this. 

But think of our first-time voters. They were in the fifth grade in 2016. They likely don't remember watching the Obamas, with utmost grace, welcome the Trumps to the White House in January 2017. Watch it here, but you might want to have Kleenex handy.

Our youngest voters have grown up seeing a good chunk of America decry its democratic principles during elections. To them, our elections do not come with calm assurance that this nation can move forward, guided by Lincoln's better angels of our nature.

I don't think Trump will concede a loss tomorrow night without months of fractious, litigious post-election disruption. He has already told us what he will do if he wins--which frightens me even more.

Regardless of the outcome of the vote, nothing will be over for some time to come.

Peace be with you.

Allison 

A Golden Ball

A gold mirrored disco ball hangs in the center of my classroom. It is there to remind students that we are in a place where we are kind to all, welcoming, forgiving, and patient. The expectation is civility, and students get it. 

This doesn't mean we never hear an insult or see rudeness. But such behaviors are the exception. Students even admonish each other: "Look at the golden ball!" which is a happy way of getting us back on track.

It's taken me years to hone an effective classroom management style, and besides my selfish preference to work in a peaceful space, there is a pedagogical reason for my attention to decorum. You see, when students feel safe from ridicule, they are more likely to share their opinions, try new learning, and explore their creative selves. 

This is also why civilizations have developed expectations for public interactions. We (generally) do not accost one another in the grocery store or at work or in the library-- We agree to behaviors that allow us to go about our business with some confidence and security.

Which brings me to Saturday, Nov. 2, 2024.

In the preceding 72 hours (not to mention the preceding 72 months) our news cycle roiled with "he saids--" and "she saids--" There no longer seems to be a basement to abasement. 

We've heard "comedians" riffing on ethnicity and gender; news anchors excusing racism; "serious" politicians condoning violent rhetoric; we've even seen a candidate for president miming a sex act.

The current atmosphere of public political exchange is the polar opposite of what I work to create in my classroom, where ideas are expressed with supporting evidence, with respect to people with opposing views, and with adherence to social norms.

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It used to be teachers taught students the civility they needed to function as adults in the world beyond the schoolhouse gates.

Now it seems we have turned this model on its head. I am preparing my students for a civilized public sphere that no longer exists. There is no golden ball.

Enough.
Enough.
Enough.

Allison

Family Matters

This afternoon one of my sisters sent me an unsolicited text, asking me to explain how farmers, teachers, and rural Iowans could possibly vote for Trump, given his history (and promise) of tariffs. The last line of her text read "What is the thinking of the men who seldom talk, but vote Republican?"

This sister and I share space on the same end of the political spectrum, yet she riles me with such messages. (This is not her first.) It seems as if she wants me to explain--and justify--tariffs and subsidies and all things agri-politcal.

Her line about "men who seldom talk" is code for my husband Dan, a reserved man who--until 2016--voted Republican. 

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Two weeks ago I sent a text to Dan's brother, asking if we could post a Harris sign at the mailbox of his property. He lives out of state and is on his Iowa farm a few days a month. He responded saying he'd prefer we don't. "We try our best to seem politically agnostic...I'd rather stay off the radar of the nut jobs." I responded with "Gotcha," but I felt betrayed by his unwillingness to take this small stand.

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In both of these examples, the upcoming election incites family tension--even when we (basically) agree. Many families feel such fissures break into crevasses, polarizing dear ones, freezing out once-warm relationships. 

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I'm thinking back to learning about the Civil War in Mrs. Housman's room. "Brothers fighting against brothers" was a possibility my fifth-grade brain could not accept. I could not mesh war with family into a cohesive narrative.

I lived another 55 years before I began to see the hairline cracks.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison