“I voted for Trump. Because of health care, and immigration. These are real problems.”
Remember records, and the sound that the needle made scraping across them?
Let’s back up a bit. Set the scene. Just another day in Paradise, snorkel on one of St. John’s pristine beaches, looking at a coral eco-system that has some chance of surviving as no one is throwing an anchor down on it every five minutes (thank you National Park Service, for these mooring balls, and the “Rockefeller interests,” for giving the land to the gub’ment in the first place), the air is a perfect 80 degrees as the sun prepares to go down. Fish are jumpin’, cumulus clouds are stacked over the horizon, ready for their sunset cue.
Neighbors calling–“come over, have a drink!” This is how you socialize in the cruising community, whether you drink or not. This is tribal ritual. I want to belong.
Nice chit chat; we’ve met this couple before, they came down in the rally, have led interesting lives, really sweet people, you know? Us ladies swapping divorce stories, tales of the journey down, where to get the best veg–the usual. Dudes talking about sails and engines.
And then it happens. The bubble–mine, that is–pops.
I have to admit, it’s been a good ride. Trip down, we and crew were all on the same page politically, and when we got the news in the middle of the freakin’ ocean, we were all blown away, depressed, outraged. After that, communiques with friends echo my own sentiments. People at home are mobilizing. I’m trying to be a part of it all long distance, while still enjoying my travels. Keeping well out of it up close and in person down here. I mean, we’re all sort of focused on these floating homes, and figuring out life on the boat–who has time for politics?
But it had to come up.
My little amniotic sac, broken all over the nice people’s very nice boat.
What did I expect? I mean, 90% of people down here doing this thing are rich white guys enjoying the fruits of their labors with their mostly reluctant wives/girlfriends. And why shouldn’t they? Work hard, live to enjoy it. American way. My beef against these very nice people who will give you a fuse or a part or hours of good advice is a reflection of my own schnizzle with money and I know it. I’m not even supposed to be here; I’m not part of the club, not the sort of person I am.
Would you listen to me? Judge Judy. Fergodssake.
I was speechless in the face of this nice lady’s political choices. The conversation rattled round the cabinet picks, the nice man’s hope that Trump will be a great president (he voted for Hilary, but he’s holding a positive thought.) Eventually we parted, nice neighbors, see you next time.
Malcolm said–“If she hadn’t said anything, you’d be thinking she was a great person.”
It’s true. Yes it is, god help me.
This situation triggered allll my shit; not just how sad I am that the country of mine origin elected a psycho for president, but my own struggle to be myself, to tell people I’m a animal loving, tarot-reading psychic, give-a-shitter who has never made over 40K a year, who wants there to be actual meaning in the paradise lifestyle, who just wants love to rule the world even as she struggles to love herself.
I am a stranger in a strange land. I feel. Malcolm says, hold on, you don’t know that. He’s right, of course. But my brain is fritzing, and my heart is sad. I can’t help it; it matters, that even if I’m not a target (yet) of this crazy regime-to-be, other people are. And I’m sad that this very nice lady just doesn’t get this.
I sit here, drinking in this lovely piece of the planet where I am, and think … can Trump somehow destroy the National Parks? Of course he can–the very planet we ALL inhabit is now, I believe, in even greater jeopardy. And the nice lady just doesn’t get this.
And yet, does this woman deserve the judgment I’m throwing her way. The Dalai Lama would love her anyway. Is not my whole where-do-I-belong shnitzit about being judged?
Stone throwing is a precarious sport. But no one wants to not be picked for a side, the last one left standing.
As yet, you see, I’m an imperfect human. But damn if I’m not growing, and you guys know me, that’s all I want to do. That’s why I travel, do things I find uncomfortable. So I’m here, on the threshold of yet another growth experience.
If love is my language, can I extend it to people that don’t think like me? If I can’t, am I any better than Mr. bad-hair-narcissist? People, I just don’t know.
I was going to write a pretty post about turtles and dolphins, the sea, the awesome crew who got us down here (I will guys, I promise). But I’ve just been circling round this thing, and if I can’t be authentic on my own blog, then god help me.
As I write, the air smells of flowers, turtles bub around the boat, there’s a pristine white beach about a quarter mile away. I’m lucky, I’m privileged. I want everyone to smell flowers when they wake up, and to hear the sea. Whatever their version of paradise, I want everyone to have a shot at it.
It may be naive. Silly. Embarrassing. New age pastel unicorn speak.
Still. It’s my truth.
Is there a tribe for freaks like me? I hope so, I surely do.
4 thoughts on “Trump in Paradise”
You are never not in my tribe. And keep loving. I have hope that I will never have to go out and buy a gun. Keep the love flowing. Not bombs and bullits.
Elia. The tribe exists. You are just fine and in the best company available. Ohhh yeahhh
Welcome. Pastel unicorn speak is my favorite language
Elia – What ever tribe you are in, I’m in it too:)