Red Dawn

Or where is Patrick Swayze when you need him?

Photo by Andrew Keymaster on Unsplash

Let me preface this by stating that I had every intention of posting about something not politics. Maybe a humorous piece, or a poem I just completed. But last night my dreams were invaded by waves of paratroopers coming down over an idyllic camp scene. Because I grew up in the cold war era, it had shades of Red Dawn. But these paratroopers were all young men, all white, all buff, and they looked like they marched their way out of some dusty Midwestern gym that catered to militia members. Shit's getting crazy out there when you start invading my subconscious real estate. I used to have periodic dreams of alien ships zipping through the sky. They were filled with wonder, not fear. I've said it before, one man's alien abduction is another man's rescue. Calgon take me away. (That’s known as a “Before Times” reference.)

I think I know the genesis of this. Mexican food and political discussions. Specifically, I had dinner yesterday with my son and his friend, two politically aware, engaged young men. And J’s friend Y mentioned how a certain Pittsburgh neighborhood is filled with skinhead types – a neighborhood I would never have associated with their presence.

While I’m already past exhausted of having right-wing grievance suck all the air out of the room, it’s clear there’s no going around. We must go straight on through, and hope for morning.

I am of a “transitional” age where half of me wants to have an exit strategy, and the other is in for a penny, in for pound. But I do worry about my son and subsequent generations. It’s a rough time to be young. I could seek comfort in the moral arc of the universe, yadda yadda … and truth be told, to a degree, I do. This must pass, as all things will. But the resulting discomfort, pain, grief, fear … these things suck in the moment and leave scars.

I’ve got no uplifting message to end this, except like this, all things end.