Iraq War Veteran Tomas Young’s Last Letter

This week marks the 10th anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq. Millions of people in the U.S. and around the world took to the streets in opposition to the invasion. We wrote letters and made phone calls to our so-called representatives in this so-called democracy. We knew an invasion would be a crime against humanity.

I was in San Francisco on spring break with my young family when the first bombs were dropped on Baghdad. Protesters chained themselves in the streets, outraged by what our government was doing in our name. We knew it was a crime, but the people in power did not care. They still don’t care. That invasion didn’t affect their lives except to make them richer and expand their power base. Fear and greed ruled that day, as it continues to rule.

Please read this powerful letter to George W. Bush and Dick Cheney from a man who paid the ultimate price for their invasion (from Truthdig – The Last Letter):

Tomas Young

Tomas Young

The Last Letter

To: George W. Bush and Dick Cheney
From: Tomas Young

I write this letter on the 10th anniversary of the Iraq War on behalf of my fellow Iraq War veterans. I write this letter on behalf of the 4,488 soldiers and Marines who died in Iraq. I write this letter on behalf of the hundreds of thousands of veterans who have been wounded and on behalf of those whose wounds, physical and psychological, have destroyed their lives. I am one of those gravely wounded. I was paralyzed in an insurgent ambush in 2004 in Sadr City. My life is coming to an end. I am living under hospice care.

I write this letter on behalf of husbands and wives who have lost spouses, on behalf of children who have lost a parent, on behalf of the fathers and mothers who have lost sons and daughters and on behalf of those who care for the many thousands of my fellow veterans who have brain injuries. I write this letter on behalf of those veterans whose trauma and self-revulsion for what they have witnessed, endured and done in Iraq have led to suicide and on behalf of the active-duty soldiers and Marines who commit, on average, a suicide a day. I write this letter on behalf of the some one million Iraqi dead and on behalf of the countless Iraqi wounded. I write this letter on behalf of us all – the human detritus your war has left behind, those who will spend their lives in unending pain and grief.

I write this letter, my last letter, to you, Mr. Bush and Mr. Cheney. I write not because I think you grasp the terrible human and moral consequences of your lies, manipulation and thirst for wealth and power. I write this letter because, before my own death, I want to make it clear that I, and hundreds of thousands of my fellow veterans, along with millions of my fellow citizens, along with hundreds of millions more in Iraq and the Middle East, know fully who you are and what you have done. You may evade justice but in our eyes you are each guilty of egregious war crimes, of plunder and, finally, of murder, including the murder of thousands of young Americans – my fellow veterans – whose future you stole.

Your positions of authority, your millions of dollars of personal wealth, your public relations consultants, your privilege and your power cannot mask the hollowness of your character. You sent us to fight and die in Iraq after you, Mr. Cheney, dodged the draft in Vietnam, and you, Mr. Bush, went AWOL from your National Guard unit. Your cowardice and selfishness were established decades ago. You were not willing to risk yourselves for our nation but you sent hundreds of thousands of young men and women to be sacrificed in a senseless war with no more thought than it takes to put out the garbage.

I joined the Army two days after the 9/11 attacks. I joined the Army because our country had been attacked. I wanted to strike back at those who had killed some 3,000 of my fellow citizens. I did not join the Army to go to Iraq, a country that had no part in the September 2001 attacks and did not pose a threat to its neighbors, much less to the United States. I did not join the Army to “liberate” Iraqis or to shut down mythical weapons-of-mass-destruction facilities or to implant what you cynically called “democracy” in Baghdad and the Middle East. I did not join the Army to rebuild Iraq, which at the time you told us could be paid for by Iraq’s oil revenues. Instead, this war has cost the United States over $3 trillion. I especially did not join the Army to carry out pre-emptive war. Pre-emptive war is illegal under international law. And as a soldier in Iraq I was, I now know, abetting your idiocy and your crimes. The Iraq War is the largest strategic blunder in U.S. history. It obliterated the balance of power in the Middle East. It installed a corrupt and brutal pro-Iranian government in Baghdad, one cemented in power through the use of torture, death squads and terror. And it has left Iran as the dominant force in the region. On every level – moral, strategic, military and economic – Iraq was a failure. And it was you, Mr. Bush and Mr. Cheney, who started this war. It is you who should pay the consequences.

I would not be writing this letter if I had been wounded fighting in Afghanistan against those forces that carried out the attacks of 9/11. Had I been wounded there I would still be miserable because of my physical deterioration and imminent death, but I would at least have the comfort of knowing that my injuries were a consequence of my own decision to defend the country I love. I would not have to lie in my bed, my body filled with painkillers, my life ebbing away, and deal with the fact that hundreds of thousands of human beings, including children, including myself, were sacrificed by you for little more than the greed of oil companies, for your alliance with the oil sheiks in Saudi Arabia, and your insane visions of empire.

I have, like many other disabled veterans, suffered from the inadequate and often inept care provided by the Veterans Administration. I have, like many other disabled veterans, come to realize that our mental and physical wounds are of no interest to you, perhaps of no interest to any politician. We were used. We were betrayed. And we have been abandoned. You, Mr. Bush, make much pretense of being a Christian. But isn’t lying a sin? Isn’t murder a sin? Aren’t theft and selfish ambition sins? I am not a Christian. But I believe in the Christian ideal. I believe that what you do to the least of your brothers you finally do to yourself, to your own soul.

My day of reckoning is upon me. Yours will come. I hope you will be put on trial. But mostly I hope, for your sakes, that you find the moral courage to face what you have done to me and to many, many others who deserved to live. I hope that before your time on earth ends, as mine is now ending, you will find the strength of character to stand before the American public and the world, and in particular the Iraqi people, and beg for forgiveness.

To: Mr. Tomas Young                                                                                                             From: Tracy Abell

I am so very, very sorry. I wish you peace and comfort.

Snow Birds

It’s been snowing wet concrete all day, but after my first shoveling shift I was rewarded with lots of bird action in the back yard. Turns out robins and starlings like to hang together.

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The water droplets on the window alter this starling’s appearance, but I still love the shot.Squirrel and birds in snow 008

Then there’s this head-on view of a robin. Who knew they could look so menacing?Squirrel and birds in snow 021

The European Starling is considered an invasive species, but I’m always happy when they stop by for a visit. Look east, my feathered friend!Squirrel and birds in snow 009

 

Wisconsin Death Trip

When Zippy and I lived in Anchorage, we took a black and white photography class at UAA. Our instructor (hey, Bob!), learned I was originally from Wisconsin and asked if I’d ever read WISCONSIN DEATH TRIP. I had not. But I filed the title away in the dim recesses of my brain until a couple weeks ago when I came across the book while doing research.

Wisconsin Death Trip cover

From Wikipedia: “[Wisconsin Death Trip by Michael Lesy] is based on a collection of late 19th century photographs by Jackson County, Wisconsin photographer Charles Van Schaick, mostly in the city of Black River Falls, and local news reports from the same period. It emphasizes the harsh aspects of Midwestern rural life under the pressures of crime, disease, mental illness, and urbanization.”

This book dispels any notions about “the good old days,” with its pages of matter-of-fact newspaper accounts of death and insanity. It boggles the mind to contemplate living in that time and place, and the grim expressions in the photographs make me ache for everything those people endured. It’s not easy to read, yet the book is incredibly compelling; I feel almost obligated to finish it as a sort of tribute to them and their monumentally difficult lives. (One newspaper excerpt mentioned the small town where I grew up. A grave was excavated — the article didn’t say why — and when the coffin was opened, it was discovered the woman had shifted position inside because she’d been accidentally buried alive. As if life above ground wasn’t horrible enough during that time . . .)

What’s the takeaway from all this? I’m very grateful I did not live in Wisconsin in the late 1800s because I’m quite sure there’d be a notice in the newspaper about my admittance to the state psychiatric hospital. Unless I took the attitude of Mary “The Window Smasher” Sweeny, and broke plate glass windows wherever and whenever I had the chance.

In light of all I’ve read about life back then, smashing glass seems like a relatively healthy coping mechanism.

          

Two Personal Reminders

Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.                                                             ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

AND

To be really great in little things, to be truly noble and heroic in the insipid details of everyday life, is a virtue so rare as to be worthy of canonization.                                 ~ Harriet Beecher Stowe

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Friday Five: The Pain Management Edition

1) Coco’s acute back pain troubles have greatly improved, but it’s a fine balance between managing her pain and keeping her from feeling so good that she does dumb things like jump from the back of the car before I can stop her. Right after a massage session.

2) Due to lifting Coco and the stress of her ongoing health issues, I’m now experiencing back pain that isn’t alleviated by yoga but is improved by treadmill running.  Hooray?

3) We’re gathering estimates for a roof replacement and already feel enormous pain in our bank account that is further exacerbated by the fact that the roofing materials we can afford are bad for the planet. Asphalt shingles = nasty.

4) This morning while removing Zebu’s bread from toaster oven, the slice fell onto the heating element and burst into flames. Ouch.

5) Okay, that last one was just silly. It’s not as if I burned my hand or stabbed myself with the knife I used to remove the flaming bread. Who am I trying to kid?!

And on that note, here’s a dapper little House Finch on this late-February Friday:Bird shots 025

Wishing everyone a wonderful, pain-free weekend!

Honoring the Periphery

Sometimes a photo is exactly as it seems. Bird shots 001In this case, an Eurasian Collared-Dove dipping its tail in a heated, slushy bird bath.

Other times, however, photos contain bonus details the viewer might miss. Take a look at this picture: Bird shots 007If you’re like me, you didn’t immediately notice the safflower seeds falling from the pointed beak of this Northern Flicker.

How about this photo? Bird shots 009Did you notice the incoming finch in the upper right-hand corner? Or how about the finch suspended in flight in this next one? Bird shots 015Pretty cool, huh?

I have gazillions of feeder photos taken over the years, and I’m loathe to delete any of them because it seems there’s a surprise hidden in each if I take the time to see what’s there. I’m having a similar experience in my writing life as I work with a fast-drafted manuscript I wrote and put away for four years. I’m creating a bookmap (an analysis/breakdown of each scene) and am tickled by the little gems hidden in the rough of that first draft. Granted, there’s a lot of not-so-good and, of course, the distractions of various plot and character possibilities. But I’m trying hard not to be blinded by the obvious so that I’m open to all possibilities. I want to honor everything: the written, the implied, and the subtle-yet-powerful details dancing on the periphery.

Breaking Bad in Downton Abbey, Yo

I have a long-time habit of coming late to television shows. Recently, I began watching both BREAKING BAD and DOWNTON ABBEY. I can’t imagine two shows more wildly different yet I find them both quite compelling (and sometimes imagine Carson the butler cooking meth in the servants’ quarters).

Carson from Downton Abbey

Me enjoying a violent contemporary program and a feel-good period piece might indicate a split personality, but the truth is, I have about as much admiration and respect for the British aristocracy as meth cookers/dealers; neither would make my birthday party list. However, I’ve grown fond of these characters (although, In the case of DOWNTON ABBEY, I’m much more invested in the servants than the pampered, with the exception of Maggie Smith’s Dowager Countess who is a rude delight).

I jumped into DOWNTON ABBEY in season three, and have had no real difficulty easing into the characters’ lives and their story lines. While I wouldn’t want to spend time with any of the aristocracy, it’s not a huge stretch for me to (mostly) root for them or, at least, not wish them any ill will. BREAKING BAD is a whole other premise.  I’m watching it from the start (am halfway through season two), and am so glad I went back to the beginning.
The writers do a phenomenal job making me care about those characters. I could easily loathe Walter and Jesse if I hadn’t gotten glimpses of their lives before they broke out the beakers and masks. But not only do I not loathe them, I root for them. As in, last night I caught myself being glad for them as I watched sale after street sale of their crystal meth. Whoa.Meth lab from Breaking Bad

At the same time, Walt’s character is becoming less and less sympathetic (and I’m so glad Skyler is giving him a taste of his own attitude!), but there’s no way I’ll stop watching. And from the rave reviews, no one else stopped, either. DOWNTON ABBEY, on the other hand, has pissed off plenty of viewers by killing off the second major character of the season and may well slip in the ratings.

What does it all mean? Hell if I know. I’m just filtering everything through my writerly perspective while pondering how to apply these same can’t-turn-it-off principles to my own storytelling.

Not For the Faint of Heart

It’s that special day again, when children and adults are encouraged to put their heartfelt emotions on public display, whether those feelings are authentic or not.

I appreciated my son’s sentiment years ago when he made and shared this Valentine with his classmates:

Kid valentine 2 001

But this one from Wildebeest is my all-time favorite:

Kid valentine 001

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY TO ALL OF YOU!                                                               (AND I REALLY AND TRULY MEAN THAT FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!)

Dog Ache

Our Coco is suffering some mystery ailment now, crying out in pain associated with her right back leg. It came on suddenly Tuesday at 5 p.m., and the vet doesn’t have a diagnosis.

Our vet is also our neighbor, and she just took Coco with her to the clinic for further examination.

I want to know what’s wrong, and yet, I don’t want to know. I’ve had many canine companions over the years, and I’m not ready for another round of break-your-heart-in-two.

Coco 003

Winter Reflections

“Water is life’s mater and matrix, mother and medium.                                            There is no life without water.”                                                                                                               ~ biologist and Nobel laureate Albert von Szent

© Tracy Abell 2013

© Tracy Abell 2013

A Feathered Tale

Wandered over to the window, and what should I see? A Red-tailed Hawk on the wire not far from my feeder. Watching the activity below.

Red-tailed Hawk 010

But what about the finches, chickadees, and juncos? Surely they recognize the danger and are hunkered down? Or not.

Red-tailed Hawk 013

Oh, no! Is he about to make his move?

Red-tailed Hawk 014

He’s moving, all right.  In the opposite direction.

Red-tailed Hawk 016And I’m pretty sure he took off because he noticed me taking pictures. I’m afraid neither one of us was behaving in a very stealthy manner.

 

A Tale of Three Sweaters

Years ago, my mother bought me a multi-colored wool sweater from L.L. Bean. I wore it often when substitute teaching in Anchorage, and sometimes felt too warm but still loved it because wool seems to provide a psychological barrier against cold and dark. At least, that’s how I see it.

A year or two later, I purchased a longer/larger wool sweater while at the Alaska State Fair. It was made with different shades of blue and purple yarn, and every time I put it on, remembered that day at the fair. Specifically, riding the Scrambler with Zippy, laughing while our friends Anne and Jim (who I hoped to make a couple) rode in another car and blushingly struggled to maintain some distance between them as the laws of physics smushed them together.

About ten years ago I went to the People’s Fair in Denver on a hot, hot summer day and, in a fit of counter-intuitive behavior, tried on wool sweaters. I ended up buying a black and white one that was handmade in Ecuador, a stunning sweater that came with a jaunty little hat. I couldn’t wait for the temperatures to drop. Later that winter I wore my new sweater across the street to my neighbors’ house where a bunch of people shouted SURPRISE! and squirted me with silly string to help celebrate my 40th birthday.

Beautiful sweaters, all.

I kept them in my closet in Anchorage and then here in Colorado, up on a shelf for easy access. Then one day I decided to put them in a zippered bag and store that bag in a bin beneath my bed. Last weekend I got cold and went to the storage bin for my large made-in-Alaska sweater. I pulled it out and put it on, thinking something felt different.  As I walked back down the hallway, a wooden button dropped from the sweater. I ran my hands over the wool and realized it’d changed.

MOTHS!  CATERPILLARS!  DESTRUCTION!  EWW!

Apparently I’d sealed my sweaters away for safekeeping with a moth who got very lucky. And very busy.

I said goodbye to those glorious wool sweaters and threw them in the garbage, encased in their zipper bag. However, I’m still having difficulty getting that imagery and tactile sensation out of my mind, and it doesn’t help that I found a caterpillar in my cleavage a few minutes after putting on the sweater. (Like I said, EWW!)

All that’s left is my little hat.  Still out on the deck because I’ve been afraid to bring it back inside. Here it is in all it’s Ecuadoran wool glory:

Wool hat 001But now that I’ve handled it in order to get a photo, maybe I’m brave enough to give it another chance in the house.  I’m not yet ready to wear it, though.  Perhaps it should be my gift to Coco.

Wool hat 004

 

Birds and Munchkins

Happy Solstice!  Happy New Year!  Happy Happy!

I’ve been hard at work on revisions and had The Plague for about ten days. I’m just now easing back into life. One good thing about being ill is I could keep a close eye on the feeders and bird bath, and so caught lots of  fun activity. Here’s a finch-in-flight in front of a fellow finch.

various birds 005

Here’s a Northern Flicker:

various birds 017

This is our first winter with a heated bird bath and it was the best investment for our feathered friends, especially when temperatures were below zero early this week. I’m always so happy when someone drops by for a drink.

The other day I was working at the table next to the window overlooking the main feeder, the many finches, chickadees, juncos, etc. chirping away, when I became aware of SILENCE. I looked outside and there was not a bird to be seen. Not a one. I scanned the power lines for a predator, and finally located a hawk at the very top of our old maple tree at the other end of the yard. I was craning my neck for a better view when it took flight. Within a minute, birds began to reappear out of the plum bushes behind our fence, reminding me of the Munchkins in Oz.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are . . .”

All Those Who Care About Children, Please Stand Up

Originally posted at From the Mixed-Up Files of Middle-Grade Authors.

All Those Who Care About Children, Please Stand Up

Op-Ed

This is a group blog of people who write books for children, and it’s safe to say that people who write for children care about children. The same can be said of teachers: they care deeply about children’s well-being. So do their classroom aides and the school librarians, bus drivers, crossing guards and custodians. Even the literary archetype of evil-lunchroom-lady-beneath-the-hairnet cares about children. Mothers and fathers, of course, care about children. As do grandparents, principals, office secretaries, coaches, school nurses, babysitters, daycare workers, pediatricians, and child psychologists. Aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters – they all care about children.

I’d go so far as to say the vast majority of people on the planet care about children.

I am a mother, and I reject the notion that advocating for children’s safety and well-being is a political act. I reject all false equivalencies between cars and assault weapons, knives and assault weapons, falling-off-ladders and assault weapons. I also reject the notion that there’s a right and wrong time to discuss massacre prevention. Because if not now, when?

Please understand: I don’t pretend to have the absolute solution. All I know for sure, with every fiber of my being, is that we must make some changes.  Big changes.  Meaningful changes.  A society is measured by its treatment of its most vulnerable, and few are more vulnerable than kindergarten children.

If not now, when?

flowers and birds 023

Tracy Abell is a former teacher who is very grateful for the men and women who work in the schools with our children.

On Being a Bad Birdwatcher

I glanced out the window this morning and saw a bird high up on the wire.
It was partially blocked by the bare branches of a red maple and power
lines, feathers fluffed against the cold wind.

Kestrel, I thought.
I grabbed the binoculars and, sure enough, it was an American Kestrel.

American Kestrel 006
© Tracy Abell 2012

I smiled and thought about Simon Barnes who wrote one of my absolute
favorite books HOW TO BE A (BAD) BIRDWATCHER.**

Simon Barnes wrote about jizz*** (I know, such an unfortunate term), defining it as               “the art of seeing a bird badly and still knowing what it is.” The more you watch birds,      the more information you internalize, and as Mr. Barnes points out, “Familiarity        enables you to process scanty information and interpret it in a meaningful way.”

When I see a bird in flight, one moving in a bouncy up-and-down pattern,
I know it’s a finch.  If I catch a glimpse of a bird on the ground, scratching in the
leaves, I identify it as a spotted towhee. If a bird flaps past me, trailing long tail
feathers, I recognize it as a magpie.

This makes me happy. Because no matter what else is going on in my life —
parenting worries, frustrating quest for publication, search for part-time
employment, etc. — I am a bad birdwatcher and I’ve got jizz.
It’s a life-long condition and no one can take it away from me.

** From the opening chapter: “…[that’s] what being a bad birdwatcher is
all about. It is just the habit of looking. Born-againers talk about bringing
Jesus into Your Life; this book is an invitation to bring birds into your life.
To the greater glory of life.”

*** Apparently, it’s inadvisable to search Google for the etymology for jizz
so I’m content to accept the one theory suggesting it’s a contraction of just is.
As in: “How do you know the lower bird in the photo below is a northern flicker?”
“Just is.”  

American Kestrel 002
© Tracy Abell 2012

In Which Tracy Turns Fifty

Last week I turned 50 years old.

50 skeeball LJ 11.28.12
(image from morguefile.com matthew_hull)

Even when the birthday isn’t a major psychological milestone,
it’s hard for me to feel celebratory in late November
when the days are short and the gloom seems to stretch on forever.
Which is why I planned ahead and made arrangements for our family
to fly to San Diego and stay in a condo on the beach in Oceanside.

I really, really wanted solid family-bonding time because our
last few tumultuous years yielded less-than-heartwarming vacations.
This family time would be different, dammit!

And it was.

Wildebeest and I took morning walks on the beach,
talking and laughing.
Zebu and I shared a nighttime stroll,
watching the silhouettes of shorebirds
in the lights of the distant pier.

There was football, Frisbee, and boogie-boarding.
Sunshine,
surfers,
and sanderlings (my favorite busy-busy shorebird).

I saw dolphins just beyond the line of surfers, gracefully cutting through the water,
and Zebu got to see his first sunsets over the Pacific; he took this photo from our balcony:
Sunset in Oceanside

I shot pool for the first time in years and regaled my sons with tales of
my many years playing in bars and pool halls. My performance was
streaky, but I made enough good shots that Zebu commented it was
obvious I used to play a lot. (Score one for Mom!)

Months ago when I made arrangements, my plan was to
celebrate my birthday by running on the beach for 50 minutes,
and run I did (along with Zippy). My altitude lungs were tickled to
be at sea level, my trail-running feet were grateful for the mostly
flat beach, and my bird-loving heart was thrilled by the constant
presence of gulls, pelicans, crows, willets, and curlews. I smiled
and waved and called out greetings to my feathered friends as I ran.
We went 5.69 miles in those 50 minutes, the final mile our fastest.

Then we soaked in a hot tub.

Now we’re back home in Colorado dealing with our real lives, the
skin-shriveling dry air, and a lack of happy-inducing negative ions.
However, I’ve got a mental scrapbook filled with wonderful memories and a
healthy start on how I’ll define life after fifty.

Plus this lovely souvenir from our family vacation in Oceanside, California.

Oceanside rock in hand 005

Friday Five: The Rejoice Edition

1) We survived the onslaught of election calls and advertisements mostly intact.
Bronco Bama girl

Rejoice!

2)  There were some awesome outcomes on Tuesday, including:

  • Elizabeth Warren is now Senator from Massachusetts!
  • Tammy Baldwin is now Senator from Wisconsin!
  • Alan Grayson is back as Representative from Florida!
  • Allen West was voted out of office and no longer represents Florida!
  • Joe Walsh was voted out of office and no longer represents Illinois!
  • Messed-up-in-the-head, anti-women Todd Akin gone!
  • Forced birth nutso Richard Mourdock lost senate race in Indiana!
  • Raul Grijalva is still Representative from Arizona!

Rejoice!

3)  Gay marriage was legalized on Tuesday:

  • Maine
  • Maryland
  • Washington

Rejoice!

4)  Marijuana was legalized on Tuesday:

  • Colorado
  • Washington

Rejoice!

5)  Karl Rove (aka Turd Blossom) and his $300 million Super PAC
had a 1% success rate in the elections PLUS he suffered a public
meltdown on FOX News as he begged them to not yet call Ohio for
Obama.

Rejoice!

6) BONUS: Here’s Jon Stewart documenting the collective FOX meltdown.

Rejoice and laugh!

Laughing girl for post 11.9.12
image from morguefile.com

Vote Against Romney or Vote My Conscience?

Several years ago I decided I would not, could not vote for Obama again.
Not because I believe Obama is a Kenyan-born Muslim Socialist who was
once The Most Liberal Senator Ever; there are boatloads of facts refuting each of these
claims and I wish people would either do the research or shut the hell up.
Really, it’s disheartening to share citizenship with so many people who
grasp at faux issues rather than recognize that our two-party system is offering us
two candidates who operate right-of-center and are both bent on creating an oligarchy.
The differences between Obama and Romney** are mostly a matter of degrees (see the Foreign Policy debate for their Israel love-fest, Iran hate-fest, and who-would-use-more-predator-drones-to-kill-more-Muslims-fest).

Here’s a partial, reality-based list of reasons for my anger at Obama:
climate change inaction
predator drone murders
assassination of US citizens without due process
the Tuesday morning kill list
war on whistleblowers
“Grand Bargain” to destroy Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security
income inequality
Wall Street profits
blocked investigation/prosecution of torture
record number of immigrant deportations
Not to mention, the oft-cited truth that while Republicans fear their base,
Democrats hate their base.

There are many other reasons, some less quantifiable than others.
For instance, Obama’s betrayal of young people’s hope and involvement
after he rode in on an overwhelming mandate and then squandered the
opportunity for positive action, thereby creating mass disillusionment.

Also, the fawning Democratic establishment that thinks as long as it’s
a so-called Democrat in the White House, all actions are justifiable (even
those actions that caused outrage when committed by a Republican president).

And a related item: as a result of that Democratic denial, a lack of an opposition party
which means Obama reacts to extremists and continues to move the discussion/policies
to the right with few in power willing to call him out on this, much less put up roadblocks.

So.
After living through what is essentially Bush’s third term, my thinking was I’d be a hypocrite
if I voted for Obama after raging against the Bush administration’s policies for eight years.
I would definitely vote for either Justice Party candidate Rocky Anderson or Green Party
candidate Jill Stein.

Then I read Daniel Ellsberg’s piece on why angry progressives in swing states should vote
against Romney/Ryan by voting for Obama. I have huge respect for Ellsberg
as a whistleblower and an anti-war activist, and his words carry tremendous weight
with me. If this nation’s most famous whistleblower believed it was in the country’s
best interest to reelect the president who has prosecuted more whistleblowers
than all previous presidents combined, I needed to think hard about my vote.
After much thought, I decided I’d vote “for” Obama.

020
(Coco doesn’t care about the election, but I thought she’d provide a fun break in the text.)

That decision only lasted several days. Because then I read Matt Stoller’s piece
making the progressive case against Obama, and I remembered all over why
I didn’t want to cast a vote in Obama’s favor. I would vote Anderson or Stein.

But then I read Dan Froomkin’s article about the betrayal of progressive activists working on a multitude of issues. These are people who devote their lives to activism and who were shut down by the Obama administration, yet some of them believe it’s still best to reelect Obama rather than Romney. If they could swallow their disappointment and keep fighting Obama on those issues, maybe I could, too. After all, the LGBT community put the pressure on him and he finally came out in support of gay marriage (a HUGE step and one for which I give Obama absolute credit.)

Tomorrow is election day and I still don’t know how I’ll vote.

I have never been more conflicted about a presidential vote in my entire life.
I have always been disappointed in the candidates and have always voted the
“lesser of two evils,” but I don’t know if I can do that again.

But no matter what, I will cast a vote for president.
(And I can only hope if Obama loses Colorado by one vote,
Zebu doesn’t keep his promise to throw a rock at my head).

**While it’s true Romney/Ryan are bat-shit crazy regarding women’s reproductive rights,
the Democrats are always willing to use women’s health issues as a bargaining chip
so I’m not convinced it’s a big enough reason to vote against my conscience on every other issue when the Dems happily enable the erosion of women’s reproductive rights.

Empathy: Part Deux

The other day I wrote about my feelings of empathy
for agents and editors who have to say NO to projects
they know are labors of love for the writers.

Well, this afternoon I experienced another level of
empathy for those agents and editors.

I received a phone call from the man to whom I’d sent
a carefully worded email letting him know I wasn’t
going to use his landscaping service.

He wanted to know why I’d chosen the other landscaper.
While his demeanor was pleasant, I was uncomfortable.
I’d made my decision and didn’t want to go into the specifics
behind that decision.
So I fumbled a bit and wished him well before hanging up.

I’m guessing agents and editors would rather not be put
on the spot that way, either.

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image from morguefile.com  (mrmac04)

Empathizing With the NOs

Today I had to send an email to a man who’d put time, energy, and creativity
into his proposal to landscape our back yard.
I had to tell him “Thanks, but no thanks.”

I spent quite a while composing those several email sentences,
wanting to be kind and to somehow minimize the “blow.”

In doing so I felt a certain empathy with agents and editors;
it must be really difficult to send out so many NOs.

Botanic Gardens 002
© Tracy Abell 2012