The War on Christmas

#Breaking: As part of Operation Kringle, President Trump today ordered the deployment of the newly renamed 1st North Pole Battalion to an undisclosed mid-west location to monitor and protect the Koch Tree Farm, the nation’s largest supplier of Spruce and Fir trees.

President Trump today, speaking from a dais festooned with holly and ivy, declared the latest deployment the first step in the War on Christmas.

“Today, we will make America Merry Again!,” the president declared. “No one celebrates Christmas as bigly as The United States of America, no one, ok? It’s tremendous. So much Christmas-ing. You’re going to be sick of Christmas-ing there’ll be so much of it.”

The President was flanked by his advisors, all donned in gay apparel. One notable exception was vice-president Pence who was seeking conversion therapy from apparel he donned “too gay”.

“After eight years under the imposter Kwanza president, with his anti-American diversity and his sad policies, I’m here to tell you that Americans can once again have a holly jolly Christmas without fear of prostitution! What’s that?” he asked, “Oh, without fear of persecution!”

The President’s remarks were praised by his Attorney General, Jeffrey Sessions (who, despite  strong resemblance, insists there is no family relation to the Keebler Elf).

“They,” the president continued, “they want to come into our country and take Christmas away from us! With their dirty “Happy Holidays” and their foreign “Season’s Greetings”. It’s everywhere you look,” the president shouted into the microphone. “It’s all over the cards. You go into a Wal-Mart, and what do you hear from the people working there?” he asked, “Happy Holidays,” the President appeared to mock the words, screwing his face and raising his hands, reminiscent of his mocking of a disabled reporter during the election campaign.

“No one, you hear me, no one is going to force you to say ‘Happy Holidays’ anymore!” the president shouted. At one point Trump, pausing in his speech, pointed to a speaker hanging in the corner. “You hear that, folks? If we can bring Christmas to Africa,” referring to the 1984 song Do they Know it’s Christmas playing, “we can bring Christmas back to the United States!”

AP Reuters later reported that the audience was stacked with paid supporters of the President.

At one point, appearing to go off-script Trump asked, “You know what you never hear?You never hear I’m Dreaming of a White Hanukkah, do you? Or It’s Beginning to look a lot like Kwanza. You never hear Rocking around the Menorah. You don’t hear any of those things, but them? Those people? Liberals and Pochahontas and devil-worshippers? They want to come in with their political correctness and make you sing songs about Three Kings Day. They want your kids to know that some people celebrate other holidays. Fake holidays! Not in this country! No. December is for Christmas. The rest? Fake holidays! Sad!”

The President went on, “I’m going to build a great, big, beautiful wall around Christmas. And newly elected Senator Moore over here from Alabama? Well, we’re putting him in charge of rounding up yon virgins. Mother and child.” The Presdient chuckled. “Look, between you and me,” the president said, winking at Moore, “the mother’s just there for show, right? He’s really just after the yon virgins. Hey Roy, did you know that ‘yon’ means ‘young’? I didn’t know that til my son-in-law told me. Very smart. Smartest kid in the room.”

Asked by pool reporters about the absence of mistletoe above the podium, the President replied, ‘Who needs mistletoe? When you’re a star, you can do whatever you want. You can grab ‘ by the pussy!” the president said, to laughter.

BBC News later reported that the raucous laughter was from a pre-recorded laugh track.

CNN reporter Jake Tapper asked the President if he saw any hypocrisy in celebrating the story of Joseph and Mary, Jewish refugees seeking shelter, while promoting his travel ban, which targets visitors from majority Muslim nations, including refugees seeking shelter. Trump decried the biblical story as fake news.

Later, when asked if the President viewed Jesus as a white-skinned, blue- eyed blonde, despite anthropological and historical evidence, press secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders said, “This was all covered during the campaign. The President has made his opinions of Jesus known. He prefers to believe in the alternative bible. It is the President’s position that all other biblical scholars are liars.”

Trump ended his press conference with a bold promise.

“I pledge the full power and might of our great military to fight this war on the yuletide season. We shall go on to the end of the year. We shall fight them in the shopping malls, we shall fight them on the coffee cups, we shall fight them in the schools and in big-box retailers, we shall fight in the media; we shall never surrender, and we shall win. Bigly.”

During Huckabee-Sander’s Q&A session afterward, a Fox News reporter asked how the President was planning to celebrate the holiday.

“Alone in Mar-a-lago, counting his coins,” Huckabee Sanders said. “But in the spirit of Christmas, he shall choose one white boy-child to send a turkey to because in the US, white boy children are routinely oppressed and discriminated against. The President has pledged to bring turkey back to the forgotten Americans.”

“Would that be the same turkey he pardoned at Thanksgiving? the reporter followed up with Sanders.

“No comment,” the press secretary said before she walked off the stage.

When asked later for comments, critics of the President pointed to 68,540 studies showing that retail sales during the holiday season were up, and that, in actuality, there were zero actual instances of Christmas being banned, of Christians being denied the opportunity to wish anyone a Merry Christmas.

“No one is stopping anyone from celebrating Christmas,” said one critic who wished to remain anonymous for fear of reprisal.  “There are no Secret Nativity Police as is being reported in Breitbart,” she said. “There are no Tannenbaum Terrorists as Fox News is saying. In fact, the entire thing is made up. It started with a Starbucks cup. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I need to respond the President’s tweet that an army of Maccabees are marching on the White House armed with menorahs.” She paused.

“It’s not true, by the way. Oh, and Happy Holidays. Screw the President.”

 

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Dear Mr. President

mr-presidentDear Mr. President,

You won! Congratulations. Now that you’ve installed yourself in the Oval Office and surrounded yourself with a cabinet that appears to be mined from the nightmares of the liberal left, a few things, if I may.

Please don’t speak of the MAJORITY. The fact is, the majority of Americans voted against you. Sure, you won the election, and there is plenty of back and forth over the system that allowed that victory, but at the end of the day, the MAJORITY of Americans don’t want you there. In fact, I’d say the MAJORITY of Americans loathe you, both personally and the policies you stand for. Of course, I have no proof of that, but if I had to guess, I’d say at least 1 to 1.5 million more Americans actively loathe you than don’t. I’ll get the National Parks Department on it right away for proof.

So, in between overuse of exclamation points (God help me survive four years of that), 140 character assignation attempts, and generally scaring the bejesus out of the modern world, you need to remember that when you say you speak for Americans, you really don’t. Not all of us. And not the majority of us.

The orders you are signing with the stroke of a pen? Those orders don’t respect the wishes of the majority of Americans either. They pander to a fear-fueled base of people who need something to project their fears onto–because facing inward and realizing that the life of a coal miner is never going to be the life of a Kardashian is too depressing to face. Oh, and those frothing at the mouth to turn a neighbor in for wearing a headscarf or not speaking English or cooking something that smells ‘gross’. And the ones that are all rah-rah-sis-boom-bah about blowing shit up. You are governing to a minority who feels that exceptionalism takes the form of Fuck you world, we’re America! Here, hold my beer.

That is not what American Exceptionalism is, or ever was supposed to be. American Exceptionalism is the idea of creating a bastion of freedom and democracy to use as a model, not chest thumping and grunting and posturing to see who has the biggest missile in their pants…I mean arsenal.

You have, in two short weeks, reduced my country to satire. In fact, no one can tell what is satire and what isn’t anymore. McSweeny’s, known for it’s cutting wit, just published one of your ‘speeches’ in lieu of a satirical piece. I use the term “speeches” lightly because really they are just a mash-up of words. Incoherent and full of braggadocio–or was it braggadocios?– ego stroking, full of falsehoods, well…shit to be honest. My seven year-old did a research project last year which was better thought out than your speeches. And his vocabulary was bigger too. And he knows what a thesaurus is. Granted, he’s pretty smart. But still…You know that theory that if you gave a group of monkeys long enough they would replicate Shakespeare? You didn’t have enough monkeys. And you didn’t give them long enough.

groucho-marx

You may be playing to your base, but the eyes of the world are on you, Mr. President. And right now, those eyes are rolling heavenward with a mixture of “Are you kidding me? and “What the fuck is actually going on?” If, as my favorite author Margaret Atwood wrote, the greatest fear of men is being laughed at, well then, you should be shaking in your boots, because the majority of Americans and the world are laughing. Granted, we’re laughing while shitting our pants in terror, but we’re laughing none the less.

Your posturing is ridiculous. Your obsession with ratings and popularity. Your bullying. Your need for sycophantic (look it up) behavior and blind loyalty, your form of governance, which essentially amounts to I’m not going to share my shovel with anyone in the sandbox, your bizarre fixation with adoration, everything really. Everything about you is ridiculous.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.

We, the MAJORITY, we will never love you. No matter what you do. No matter if you give free health care to all and reverse the Hyde Amendment. You did too much damage to our relationships, our psyches, our ideals and our vision of what America is and could be. Personally, I will never get over the pussy grabbing comment. Ever. No, we will never love you. You will never speak for us.

But you can go a long way toward easing the loathing.

You can start by listening to those around you when they tell you to wait, to study, to look before you leap. You can actually listen to what the MAJORITY of Americans want. You can do all you can to avoid getting into another war, instead of rushing headlong into one or two just to see who can piss higher up the wall. You can at least try to meet us–if not half way, then perhaps a quarter. An eighth even.

majorityI’m not going to lie. There is still a part of me that wants to see you fuck up spectacularly–simply because I think you deserve the loathing of the minority as well as the majority. But I’m willing to shelve my increasingly dark fantasies if it means no actual Americans will be harmed during this reality show administration.

You want me to give you a chance? You’ll have to actually give the majority of Americans a chance first.

Respectfully,
A Majority Member

Dear 2016, Suck It

hangoverDear 2016,

Well, here we are. December 31st. If you’ve got any more surprises up your sleeve–say Harrison Ford dropping dead or Simon le Bon suddenly suffocating, the sudden annexation of Poland by Russian troops-you’ve got less than 24 hours to do your dirty work.

The (not so) funny thing is that you, 2016, you weren’t even close to my worst year. I’ll save that accolade for the Annus Horriblus of 2004-2005, 13 months in which I lost my uncle, my grandfather, and my father in quick succession. Oh, and my oldest son was born with Meningitis. Nothing says suck-ass year like learning your father has terminal cancer followed by wondering if your child is going to live through the night. But well, you were a doozy, 2016. Not only did you steal my favorite actor, you made me question my time left on this Earth by allowing the icons of my youth to shuffle-ball-change off this mortal coil one after the other.

Oh, and then there was all the political stuff.

In June my British husband and I picked our jaws up off the floor as the UK voted to leave the European Union, mere months after we’d finally secured our kids dual citizenship in the misguided expectation all of Europe would be held in those passport pages. In July I watched, with great, gulping sobs, the first American woman receive a major party nomination for president. In November….

Well, we all know how I felt in November.…and December. And possibly how I’ll still feel in January.

Then, a brighter side. In quick succession in November, a duo of writing successes: a big contest win and even bigger accomplishment, securing an agent for my novel. In December, news of a Pushcart Prize nomination. The champagne I’d been saving for a certain occasion (see November), sitting forlorn in the fridge, was put to different use.

**************

When I wake on Sunday morning a new year will have dawned, bright and beautiful. Yet, Alan Rickman will still be dead. Donald Trump will be even closer to being sworn in as he 45th president of the United States of America, LLC, and Teresa May will still be wetting herself trying to figure out how to extricate the UK from Europe. Putin will still be laughing into his vodka, Paul Ryan will still be looking as throat-punchable as ever, women’s reproductive rights will still be under attack.

hangovers

On Sunday, a child will accidentally shoot themselves and die. A woman will be violently raped. Another will be beaten black and blue. A son will overdose on heroin, a daughter will come out as gay and be disowned by her family. A teenage boy will transition to life as a teenage girl and wobble forward on Bambi legs.

On Sunday, life will go on, the step from one year to the next no more than a countdown on the television, the ticking over of the second-hand on the clock. Bombs will still fall. Lovers will swoon. A heart will be broken, an engagement announced. A child will be born, a grandmother will die, couples will say “I do.”

Sunday will be no different from Saturday. January 1st no different from December 31st. It is both humbling and horrifying, the expectation held in that split second–as powerful as the Big Bang, as mundane as  8:43 ticking over to 8:44 on a random Tuesday in March.

I’ve always been a fan of New Year’s Day, the potential bottled up in a fresh new notebook page of a day. The feeling is muted this year. But, I won’t let you steal it from me completely, you son-of-a-bitch of a year.

You won’t be the last mostly shitty year, 2016. I imagine there will be years that seem tame by comparison and others that make this one look like a cake walk. I imagine I will look back at 2016 the same way I look back at pictures of myself in my 30s, laughing at how old I thought I was.

Thanks for the lessons, 2016. I learned a great deal: Don’t apologize for things that don’t need apologizing. Stop justifying. Stop asking politely, because while kid tested and mother approved, it doesn’t work when it comes to things like equality. Oh, and the most suck-ass-iest lesson of all? You can play by all the rules and life is still going to kick you in the teeth like a blue-balled donkey.

END OF THE NEW YEAR S EVE PARTYPerhaps it’s for the best. 2016 added a few layers of midlife fat to my midlife midriff, but it stripped away a few layers as well. Assumptions were shed like so many of Salome’s veils. Naive expectations crashed like so many tumbling bricks. You were the year, if not without a Santa Claus, than in which I felt like the foundation on which I stood crumbled away underneath me. But you were also the year I learned that I can regain my balance on the smallest of precipice, the tiniest bit of standing rock. Hell, there were days I felt like I could grab a broomstick and fly above the fire of my rage if I needed to.

I won’t lie. I’m not sorry to see the ass-end of you. But I’m ending it stronger than I’ve felt in a long time. Fatter, grayer, more short-tempered, but stronger for sure. If I’ve ever doubted my commitments before, my abilities, my intelligence, my voice than you, 2016–you shit-storm of a year, have taught me that I’m louder than I ever thought possible.

Love,
Me

 

A Migrant By Any Other Name is an Expat

ellis-islandMy family and I are migrants.

More commonly we are referred to as expats. This is despite the fact that upon closer inspection, we actually meet the criteria of migrant workers more closely. Yet expat is how we identify ourselves as well as those we know. I suspect it has a lot to do with the color of our skin, our education levels, and our very bland middle-class-ness.

The fact is, we are foreigners living in a foreign land. Legally we’re allowed to be here until my husband’s contract expires. Prior to June, he and my children would have had EU rights to stay past that time, but well…then Brexit went and happened and overnight my kids lost the right to live, work, and reside in 27 different countries. I’m sure my children’s thank you note for that is in the mail….

For all intents and purposes, we are immigrants. Though it’s likely we’ll return to the United States one day, we have no immediate plans to do so. But because we are white and prosperous we’re generally not considered that kind of immigrant. If we brought up to those in the UK who voted Leave or those in the US who voted Trump that we are the very immigrants they voted against, I suspect many would be horrified.

We are not who they were voting against.

I guess we’re the good kind of immigrant.

I’m not sure why. The jobs my husband gets or any other ‘expat’ gets are jobs that could be given to citizens of whatever country we are in. The job my British husband did in America could have been filled by an American. In fact, from an economic standpoint I would argue that a farm laborer is far more important to the day to day lives of most Americans and Britons.

I would also argue that most won’t see or appreciate that. They only see different. They see other. 

Anti-immigration rhetoric is nothing new. The idea of someone ‘else’ swooping in and taking what, by some imagined right, belongs to you. It’s the same rhetoric that led to the rise of the KKK in the US–spread a few whispers that the big, black man is coming for your pretty white wife. It’s the same rhetoric which led to the rise of Hitler– the Jews are coming for your money. And it’s the same rhetoric that is gaining volume not only in the US, but all over Europe–you would have so much more if it weren’t for the dirty immigrants coming in and taking your jobs.

travel-visa

We are those immigrants coming in to take those jobs. So is the family of every ‘expat’ I know. We can convince ourselves that it is because there isn’t a deep enough pool of local talent, but at the end of the day, that’s all a lot of hooey. Countries could invest in education in order to increase that pool of local talent, but they don’t. It’s easier and more economical in the short-term to hire foreigners.

Farm owners could hire locals to pick and harvest fruit. But they don’t. Because they’d have to pay them higher wages and their profit margins would decrease. Food prices would increase. It’s easier and more economical to hire migrant workers.

No one blames the companies. No one blames the corporations. We blame the folks doing the jobs–but the truth is, some folks shoulder more than their fair share of that blame. Part of it is race, part socio-economic, and a big part is perception.

Why should my white husband be considered an expat and a Romanian care worker in the UK an immigrant? Why is a Mexican laborer called a migrant and an oil executive an expat? I’m guessing that your average British couple who retire to the Algarve to soak up the sun in their golden years don’t refer to themselves as immigrants. Though that’s exactly what they are.

Immigrant is a term reserved for everyone other than us, everyone who may not look like us or act like us or have the same value system or identity.

At the end of the day, if you are working for an Embassy in another country, you are a migrant worker. If you are a CEO of working overseas, you are a migrant worker. If you think your income level, the importance of your job, or color of you skin makes you any different from the Romanian woman caring for your granny, the Polish builder who gives you a better deal on your decorating or the Mexican waitress taking your order, then you are part of the problem.

My family’s migrant journey is approved. We reside here legally by the grace of the Danish government. And the harsh truth is that it is pretty damn easy for us to get that approval. Our multi-layers of privilege makes it easy for us to travel from country to country, job to job. And yet many, many of the folks who are being targeted in the US, in the UK, in Europe are there legally as well.

But because they don’t look like they should be there, they have a bulls-eye on their back.

When my husband first came to the US, he did so on a tourist visa. We followed the rules. He never over stayed his visa, he got a job which offered him a working visa, something that many in the upcoming US administration are against. After we were married in 2001, we were advised by immigration officials not to apply for green card status. Right now he is still entitled to a green-card, but who knows how those regulations will change in the upcoming years? I guess nowadays it’s just your bad luck if you fall in love with someone who doesn’t come from the same country, right?

migrantWho am I kidding? We’re white, and we have money. My husband is the good kind of immigrant. Another layer of privilege.

How we identify ourselves and others plays a major part in our perceptions. Those perceptions inform our decisions, our actions. It’s always harder to look closely at our own reflections than it  is to look at those around us. But when we don’t, we fail, rather spectacularly at times, to recognize that for the most part, there aren’t as many differences as we think.