When he's gone
I won't rejoice.
A little over a week ago, my friend and fellow substacker (and frequent live show guest) Katie DeBonville posted a piece that stuck with me:
It was in reaction to the president’s horrible, if predictable, response to the death of Robert Mueller. I won’t post the response here or go into all the reasons that it was horrible. Most of us know how to behave ourselves like adults and how to honor someone’s passing even if they weren’t your favorite person.
I loved Katie’s piece. But I found myself at odds with a couple of passages:
There will be a day
when the president is dead
and I will be glad.
A decade ago I did not believe
I would ever celebrate a death.
-
I was wrong.
I’ve heard this sentiment from a lot of friends lately. They will dance in the streets when he’s dead. They will throw a party when he’s dead. They will celebrate when he’s dead.
And it’s not that I don’t share the spirit of what they’re saying. I also wish he wasn’t president. I also wish he was in jail for his (many) jailable crimes. I also wish he simply didn’t exist anymore.
I’m just not comfortable wishing him dead. Or dancing on his grave when he is.
This whole thing brought back memories of a headline in a Boston paper shortly after the second president Bush (another terrible president, back when we thought presidents couldn’t possibly get worse) invaded Iraq. We had killed Saddam Hussein’s two sons and the paper ran a photo of the two men with the headline “Smoked.”
Another friend—and live show guest— Amanda Hennessey was not a fan of that headline. I remember she said something to the effect of—They’re people. We shouldn’t celebrate their deaths.
Yes, times have changed a lot since then. And, yes, the relentless cruelty of this president and his henchmen/women have worn me down, like all of us. Down to the point where we’ll take their removal from office, and from this earth, any way we can get it.
I get that. And I, too, will be profoundly grateful when he is no longer around, no longer a part of our daily lives. I just can’t go that last mile of finding joy in his death. I can’t stomach it.
Who knows—when that day comes, maybe I’ll feel differently. Maybe I’ll drop our daughter off at school, pick up a hazelnut mocha for the wife, and as I make my way back to our house, find myself lost in a euphoria I didn’t expect.
Maybe. But I doubt it.
Rorschach? Sounds right to me. But why don’t we dance when he still lives? I guess we need a demonstration to contextualize the dance. But Rorschach is about context, too. No?
I get it, Adam. Everything about him evokes complicated feelings. He's like a Rorschach test for our own ethics and morality and emotions. I will celebrate our release as empathic human beings, as a country, as a world, from the constant daily intrusion and worry and exposure to his sickness--and from the constant daily analysis of everything to do with him. (Witness my commenting! It's part of the syndrome.)