Writers Write

A Mean Place

I’ve avoided this page for too long. I can’t any longer.

My mama wouldn’t be proud. I’m breaking her rule. I have nothing nice to say, but I’m sayin’ it anyway.

A while back, I wrote about my confrontation with my neighbor.

Here it is.

I want to walk next door and confirm that the current state of my country, my world, was what she wanted.

I wish I hadn’t been right.

I wish I could go back and grow a pair.

I’d actually put the Hillary sign in my yard.

I would’ve stopped the voter suppression I witnessed at my poling place, where the man in charge intimidated the brown people in line.

“You might as well leave now if you don’t have a photo ID.”

I knew he was wrong. I knew about the court ruling. I gripped my own drivers license and turned away, disgusted at his lie, disgusted at my inability to confront the well-dressed, middle-aged Republican in charge.

So here we are:



Climate Change,


the EPA,



the subtle implosion of my health insurance,

the racist comments my Asian-American daughters have endured at school because it’s now acceptable to chant “TR**P, TR**P, TR**P” on a school bus.

I’m using asterisks because, in this era, all press is good press. I’m not about to contribute to that sinkhole.

If my words upset you, feel free to unfollow. This isn’t a one-off and done rant from me. I’m done pretending that things are OK. I’m an American. I vote. I expect more from my government than this.


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