I can’t stop the chairs. Every time they think I am not looking they shudder with anger. Their legs are weak, and their backs are bent. They were ready to support a woman who would have used chairs to quietly negotiate peace. These chairs should be dancing. They steady themselves as I rest my pantsuit-clad backside. They are kind.
I look for a book that has a fairytale ending, to cover myself with armor built of words. The Princess Bride is always good for levity, excitement, and belief in true love. If I pull enough of the words off the page and stick them onto myself, I might feel less vulnerable as I review an election that fell into hell. An election won by a man who has no moral compass and knows nothing about communicating with the rest of the world unless he has his twittering scepter in his tiny thumbs. He lives like a prince – not a man of the people.
Yes, okay. I pulled out my poster of Geraldine Ferraro clad in a skimpy French dress depicting her as Liberty leading the people. She paved the way as Walter Mondale’s running mate in 1984. I met her when I was a baby journalist. (She told me she’d rather have more clothes on in the poster, but she was not the artist.) I followed her life until she had to sit and rest while a blood cancer stalked her like a hyena.
The chairs stood still for her. They loved the weight of progress.
They picked up speed and confusion when Sarah Palin wrapped unintelligible sounds around their legs and made them run with her. More than one of them fell over.
The chairs stopped running when they met Hillary Clinton. Their legs felt safe, they softly rocked. Then she made a mistake that made their legs grow restless while the seats absorbed her nasty words, “basket of deplorables.” To be fair, that basket was packed with deplorables, white supremacists, misogynists, and blatant sexual predators. And if Hillary was a man, no one would call her nasty. They would call her strong.
Donald Trump skulked behind the chairs, told lie after lie, and interrupted every fifth word that came from a woman who should be in the nation’s most coveted chair. The peaceful chairs refused to listen to the words of a man who would torture, harass, and bar immigrants from a country whose motto is, “Give us your poor, your hungry…” Well, you know the rest.
Lady Liberty stands in shock at what America has become. Its shores no longer welcome. The air is charged with distrust. Fear. Anger. America’s shores and borders will become walls, real, or figurative. America will deport, not welcome.
The chairs are nervous. Tense. Anxious. They make grinding, off-tune sounds waiting for another woman to clad herself in armor and take on the misogynists. Someone to champion women, our children, and the poor who built this country. They look forward to a time of calm discussion. They keen for a woman of substance and merit. If I listen very closely I can hear their sad, yet soothing sounds.
Nasty women, you are welcome to sit down.