Hubris: When I Told You So Is Not Fun

This feels so wrong. I’m dreadfully anxious as Rachel Maddow’s big reveal grows closer. If my interpretation of common perception is correct, I should be feeling smug – gloating even – about this huge opportunity to say, “I told you so.”

But this isn’t like being the one who correctly identified the lead singer in an old song, or guessing the exact number of miles before the next exit. This is about something that matters greatly and I’m fairly certain that anyone to whom I could smugly say, “I told you so,” will never believe the truth. This is not fun.

I plan to watch MSNBC’s film, Hubris, hosted by Rachel Maddow and based on Michael Isikoff and David Corn's book, tonight (February 18, 2013, 9 p.m.) although I will be shocked if I learn anything that I didn’t already know years ago. Scars will break open as I remember the many times and many ways I tried to convince others to pay attention because the Bush Administration lied and cost us lives, money, and reputation. And I will know that those people will not see this documentary or believe anyone who tries to tell them about it. They will continue to live in the dark, pulling their heads out of their sorry asses only long enough to ridicule others for caring about facts and to share more fear-mongering bushit that they learned from the Brietbart lie machine - since even Republican politicians admit that's where they are getting their lies these days. 

If anyone else still communicates with people who call themselves Republicans, I hope you will invite them to watch the Rachel Maddow show tonight, on MSNBC, at 9 central time.

UPDATE: As expected, I learned nothing new. This information was available to all who were paying attention at the time. I'm still glad I watched because this film was nice to see all if this information collected and presented so nicely, some from the mouths of people involved. Today, I wonder why no action was taken against the people who lied us into this costly (on many levels) mistake.

 

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Children and Politics

Each of my grandchildren has developed a special 'gramma thing' - something they think they alone share with me. Politics is the link with my grandson, who will turn nine in July. We delivered him to his first protest in a stroller (but did let him out to stand on the base of a statue with his little "Let Every Vote Count" poster for the TV cameras) and he has been my partner-in-protest and campaign buddy since.

By the time the 2004 campaign rolled around, he thought he knew just about everything, and talked some big issues when we were out. It got a bit complicated when he had memorized Kucinich's entire platform, and then had to switch to Kerry even though his heart was with Edwards (not a first, second, or third choice for any of us, and we hadn't taken him to see Edwards - so he did some independent thinking based only on what he had seen on C-span.)

While standing on a busy street corner during rush hour one day, he dropped his Kerry sign to his side and asked, "Gramma, why do you hate George Bush so much?" I think at that point he was tired and wanted to make sure this work really necessary.

I sighed, hating Bush even more because he had given me reason to hate him enough that it was obvious to my grandchild that I hated someone. Too much hate for me. I did something that made me sick at my stomach.

"I don't hate him, I just hate what he has done to my country and my world," I lied.

"What do you hate most?" He asked.

"I hate the way he spends our money. I hate that he spends it on war instead of education and health care." That sounded age appropriate.

Noah thought for a minute before he asked the next question. "If John Kerry wins, will he spend more on school?"

I nodded. Noah found renewed strength, jumped to the curb, waved his sign, and shouted, "Vote for Kerry.” A lady came up and asked why he supported Kerry. Noah's response was, "Because if he wins we might get a new playground at school."

We had a small disagreement last year when he wanted to play with the toy soldiers I had on my window ledges (holding 'Bring Me Home' signs) and I told him they were not toys and no, he could not play with them.

Yesterday, he told me his friends finally stopped liking Bush when they found out he lied about the war. I was excited to hear that eight-year-olds are talking about politics, but the next line let me know that some were still spreading false information. "But, we had to start that war because they had those weapons. Right, Gramma?"

And the hatred grew. I knew this child wanted me to assure him that we are the good guys, and I couldn't do that. I asked him if it would be 'right' for me to knock him off the couch because I thought maybe he wanted to hurt me some day. He laughed - not the response I wanted.

Fortunately, in an earlier conversation, Noah told me Shaq is the biggest man on earth. I had something to use. "Okay," I said. "What if Shaq thinks Tatum (Noah's four-year-old sister) might want to pick up a stick the next time she goes outside, and that she might hit him with that stick someday. Is it okay for him to knock her down now to make sure she can never get that stick?”

He shook his head.

"Shaq is about the size of the U.S., and Tatum is the size of Iraq," I reminded him. "We thought Iraq wanted to have big weapons like the ones we have.”

“They do have weapons,” he said. “They are shooting back at us.”

“The weapons they had when we invaded them were like sticks."

"Well, I would protect my baby sister," he decided.

"No," I said. "You can't, because you are Syria."

"Who is Syria?"

"A country that is just a little bit stronger than Iraq," I told him. "Iraq's big brother."

"Then Dad would protect Tate."

"Your dad is Iran, and Shaq won't allow him to have anything bigger than a stick. Shaq has a baseball bat."

He grinned. "You got me, Gramma."

I haven't heard from his parents yet. I hoped he would retell this conversation to them before talking to his friends.

Empty Shirts and Empty Hearts

Today marks three years of war. It seemed appropriate and compassionate to stand on the busy street corner with others who wanted to remember those who died in this war. Wearing black, standing alone and silent, felt benevolent, at least for much of the three-hour tribute.

I appreciated the clothesline of empty tee shirts, one for each of the 2000+ Americans who have died in this war, because it made me think of the individuals. However, the big picture slammed me where it hurts a couple of times when I looked down both sides of the road, saw those empty shirts flapping in the wind, and imagined the crowd of strong, young bodies that should be filling them.


Sure tears and wind would play havoc with my eyes, I shied away from the big picture and adopted the five shirts in front of me. The red one was small, but well protected by the two on either side of him. Rabble-rousers flapped on either end of my group. I’m sure their spirits snickered each time they wrapped around the line and I walked over to untangle them.

My group remained anonymous; my daughter had a boy with freckles in hers. The pizza lover was farther down. Two fathers hung across the street, one who died before his first child was born, which made the pro-war protesters who came to call us baby-killers sound rather foolish.

I wish I could say they stopped at foolish, but there’s no such luck with pro-war people. Lefty hippies left over from the sixties didn’t bother me. It’s true enough for me, but didn’t impress me as the most intelligent name-calling when used on people who were obviously born after the sixties. Likewise, tree-huggers and liberal freaks didn’t hurt.

The real discomfort started when an overweight, teen-aged skinhead asked the woman behind me when she had been in Iraq. Assuming he had a heart, she told him she hadn’t been, but her son had died there. Skinhead told sad mother to love it or leave it.

Another pro-war advocate dodged the line of police officers attempting to hold them under control, and came to my space. “This is world war IV,” he said. I walked away to unwrap my rabble-rouser. He followed. “Those terrorists want to kill you.”

His tone said he did too.

My little red guy wasn’t wrapped, but I thought he could use some attention anyway. I moved down and straightened his sleeves. Obnoxious, disrespectful Pro-War Daddy stepped closer, really crowding my space.

“My son’s over there,” he said.

With tears, I looked him in the eye and said, “I’m sorry.” And I meant it, assuming he would be too. Who could not be sorry his child was away at war, even if he supports the war?

He laughed as the police officer sent him back to his side. Later, he shouted at me again. “Lefty cry-baby.” His friends liked the new name so well they all shouted it a few times. He added, “Why don’t you stop whining and support the troops.” Not a question, a command.

My letter writing, phone calling, constant campaigning for decent equipment, uncontaminated water, benefits, VA hospitals, and bringing them home is how I support the troops every day. This man couldn’t see that by standing on that corner, enduring his disrespect and ignorance in order to remember the lives lost, I was supporting the troops and their families today.

The least intelligent pro-war chant I heard today was, “You just want to support Iraqi abortion clinics.” No, but I suppose the pro-war gang just wants to support killing everyone in Iraq and Afghanistan (and Iran, according to their signs), including pregnant women. Do they even think?

I’m not as strong as I want to be. By the time I left that corner, I wanted to hurt someone. My choice would have been the man who stood in my space and breathed his hatred on my five shirts.

I also wanted to counter their ‘God bless Iraqi Freedom’ sign with one of my own - ‘God Damn the Warmongers’

Epitomes of Weakness: RW Christians

Joined in ignorant bliss
bound by family and home
you breed hatred and blindness
toward everyone but your own

spewing empty words of love
veiled in god’s name
while diffusing devastation
born in the bowels of shame

I curse your gutless clans
of hypocrites and beasts,
flag-waving bible-thumping liars
epitomes of weakness.

Fuck your big hearts
swollen beneath curdled brains.
Your actions speak your truth
your victims wear your name

Choke on the lies you spew
drown in the tears you produce.
May the blood of those you hurt
wash back over you

A Rattlesnake In the Basement

There’s an elephant in the kitchen
We pretend he isn’t there
He cries about the basement,
says a rattlesnake lives down there
Wanted, dead or alive, he cries
that snake really must go
The elephant in the kitchen
doesn’t have a soul

The rattlesnake in the basement
more rattle than he is bite,
whines about the kitchen
says the elephant isn’t right
Open your foolish eyes, he cries
that elephant has to go
the rattlesnake in the basement
doesn’t have a soul

There’s an army on the staircase
anxious to drop their bomb
to hell with right or wrong
they kill children, dad, and mom
We cleaned out the basement, they cried
snaked him out of his hole
The army on the staircase
doesn’t have a soul