In Paris, Yesterday's Date Looked Like This: 9/11/16
In Connecticut on Tuesday morning (11/8/16) I voted. That night I got on a plane to Paris and slept believing I would wake up the next day to learn that America had elected its first woman president. Two stunned, stricken women at the baggage carousel broke the news to me. All we could say together was "No... no." One woman got sick to her stomach.
To see the date in Paris—day first, month second—it is 9/11/16. Those dust clouds charging down the canyons of NYC in 9/11/01—that’s what it feels like internally. Now we know half of Americans are mean and cruel—indifferent to the pain of others—hypocritical Christians—devoid of empathy. They all came out with vicious gusto to vote like a spit. Paris, city of light, is gray today. I spoke to a waitress I know here who told me she cried all day yesterday. A world view lost.
Everybody here is sympathetic and horrified and bracing for Le Pen.
Nightmare. Coup. The worst people are about to take the reins. This is collective suicide. How?
I was hoping not to hear his rude coarse ignorant voice anymore. Now his voice is the voice of America. He is the logical conclusion of the American dream. An approximation of something—a set piece with no anchor or moral code—a cruel ambition with no aspiration or vision. This is not funny. This is tragedy. George W. was an eight year blood soaked embarrassment. This is catastrophe.
I quote the line from the film Reds: "in America, voting is the opiate of the masses." As suggested, don’t boo—vote. People did vote. Hillary got the most votes. Trump is president. Occupation afoot. Now the boos. Now the protests. 11/9... 9/11—the new post-9/11 begins.