Le Corage

For one week in 1986, Dan Rather concluded his newscasts by looking at the camera and saying a single word: Courage. He abruptly ended the practice, likely due in part to the ridicule rained down upon him. Though that was nearly forty years ago and I don’t recall having witnessed it firsthand, at some point I came across the story and tossed it upon the Mountain of Trivia that exists in my head. 

My subconscious dug this up recently with no active participation on the part of my conscious mind. Like pulling a particularly apt Tarot card that speaks clearly to a querent’s concerns, I did not need to do a deep dive to figure out the meaning of this resurfaced memory. I’m conjuring Mr. Rather’s long ago, short-lived suggestion because I need some reassurance right now. 

I truly wanted to not write about Election Day. There’s more than enough noise on the topic pummeling us every day from all directions. But over the past week, as I’ve observed my physical being conduct itself in particular ways—which is to say trauma responses to the political climate—I decided to overrule my own vow in case you’re miserable, too, and would like some company.

Several mornings recently, my body has awakened entirely too early, feeling wide awake if not refreshed. This is hyper-vigilance, a key component of my PTSD, a perpetual heightened awareness that insists there is danger at every turn and I am absolutely not allowed to rest because if I do, something really really bad is going to happen.

Then, yesterday, I began cleaning. I cannot overemphasize how out of character housekeeping is for me. While it’s true I keep things at a manageable level of chaos, never letting the place slide into filth, rare are the occasions the house receives tidying beyond a whore’s bath. As I swept—even going for hard to reach corners—and mopped (having first put all the chairs up on the tables), I realized almost immediately what was happening. In Doom Nesting, I was seeking out a situation I could control in a world that seems increasingly out of control. I might not be able to single handedly restore women’s bodily autonomy and the right to the kind of safe and legal abortion in Texas that saved my life in 1997, but I sure as shooting am going to sweep up every last bit of scattered kibble.

As for my doorknobs, I pity them. Because my OCD, which is never in remission, gets really bad when I feel stress. These days, it is not uncommon for me to check the locks a dozen times before I leave for work. Sometimes, I’ll be a mile on my way to work before I have to turn around and drive back to the ranch to confirm that I did, indeed, shut and bolt the gate. 

Observing my mounting fear—because no matter what happens on Tuesday, Wednesday promises to commence a never ending shit show that will open the floodgates of hell further and prompt even greater polarization—I try to soothe myself. I also try to understand why in the fuck anyone would support a violent racist rapist. It seems utterly beyond comprehension. But, in fact, and to my tremendous sorrow and embarrassment, it doesn’t take me long at all to realize what I have in common with the MAGA contingent. For I, too, have lived too often in Blind Allegiance and Complete Denial, prostrate at the feet of one narcissist or another.

Revealing the details of the worst of these monsters necessitates revisiting a time in my life that I have mostly blocked. The short version is that in 2015, a friend of a friend asked me out and I agreed and in no time at all, despite this dude coming wrapped in enough red flags to shroud the Eiffel Tower, I stepped into it with him. Over the course of our on-again, off-again fifteen-month situationship, he cheated, lied, stockpiled illegal gun parts, smoked meth on the downlow and, worst of all by my accounts, twice sexually assaulted me. 

And yet, I persisted. Like Ptolemy wrongly justifying his geocentric astronomy theories, I made every excuse and then some for that guy, refusing to see the proof right in front of me. Even when he hit me in the face, I found workarounds to reason staying with him. I engaged in utterly humiliating behavior that I will go to my grave regretting. (It is my sincere hope he goes to his grave first, so I can feel the same relief I felt when, earlier this year, I learned that my violent first ex-husband had, thank you baby Jesus, dropped over dead of a heart attack.)

So when I am about to boil over with rage at how anyone, let alone allegedly half of the country, could support the Orange Asshole, I slow myself down. I consider what existed inside of me that inspired my own championing of more than one despicable man over the years. And, of course, it all goes back to the start, to having been raised by a violent narcissistic “father” who thought nothing of hitting me in the face. Imprinting on my mother’s subservience to this wicked man did not serve me well. Though I would become an adult who excelled in my career, my friendships, my creativity and my positive contributions to community, I seemed unable to escape the pattern of being lured into relationships with men that were not simply “the wrong fit,” but posed grave danger to my mind, body, and most especially my spirit.

It literally took me a half-century, ten shit tons of therapy, and a desire to never again be sexually assaulted to finally, at very long last, see the pattern, break the pattern, forge a new path. But until I got there? Even my friends begging me to get a grip as they watched me suffer couldn’t help. In fact, often enough this inspired defiance. I would stick with whichever guy it was treating me like shit, I would show the naysayers how wrong they were. Just like the MAGA people stand by their despicable man.

So while I watch polls telling me that fully half of the nation feels devout enthusiasm for a sociopath wannabe dictator, I try to not succumb to hatred. Pity, on the other hand, is in abundance. Because if they get what they think they want, all of us are going to have to deal with the fallout of the collective face punch that awaits us. 

I try to shift my focus to hope and positivity which, considering how much I love a good challenge, should excite me. It doesn’t. Still, I grasp wildly. I pull up on my mental screen the meme of Mister Rogers reminding us to “Look for the helpers.” And, as noted, I hear Dan Rather’s voice in my head. 

Courage comes from the Latin root cor— which means heart. Then the French got their hands on the Latin and gifted us the expression le corage in the early 14th century. The original gist of le corage was less about, say, jumping off literal or metaphorical cliffs, and more about inhabiting and expressing one’s heart. To do things courageously in the original sense might be better interpreted as heartfelt or wholeheartedly than with great bravery. 

These days, living a heartfelt life can actually require bravery. I learned that the very hardest of ways when I lived in Shitville and, for the crime of being my own person, was subjected to a seven-month, nonstop parade of insults—beginning with an actual city permitted parade headed up by a MAGA city council member and his cunt wife and attended by many in their little golf carts, the purpose being to drive me out of town. These haters stopped at nothing— boycotting my businesses and literally threatening to kill me, which was brought to my attention by the police chief who, despite my protests, insisted on providing me with police protection. 

For my part, I did my best to carry on, live by my heart, hosting events—art openings, jazz brunches—that were free and open to all comers regardless of race, creed, color, sexual orientation or even political affiliation. But the MAGAs weren’t having it, beating me down day after day after motherfucking day, making sitting on my own porch a terrifying proposition, until finally I sold my beloved house and moved, and spent the whole of a year recovering psychologically from the despicable abuse doled out by these alleged Christians. 

Surely it’s traumatic flashbacks to this unwanted up close and personal experience with the Garbage Man’s sycophants that’s fueling my increasing panic in the face of election results which, regardless of outcome, promise a grander scale tumult of the personal variety I received in Shitville. It feels like we’re all going to have to duck and cover on the regular, fearful and suspicious of our neighbors at every turn, as the old Divide and Conquer Routine favored by all narcissists and executed with terrifying “success” by The Felon continues to tear us apart. 

I suspect, among other things, my housekeeping skills are about to improve exponentially, my doorknobs are going to fall off, and my ability to sleep eight hours at night will disappear entirely. But as I’m zombie-ing my way around the house with my mop and my Fabuloso at the ready, I am going to invoke Mr. Rather’s one-word mantra, and I am going to survive.

Courage, y’all. 

Please vote. Thank you. 

NOTES:

No idea what’s going on with Substack these days, but I would like to welcome my gazillion new followers and all of you new subscribers, too. And thanks to all of you for showing up and reading. It feels so good to connect. Please, if you are a free subscriber and are able, bump up to a monthly subscription—$5 per month and it sure adds up and helps me keep the ranch rolling. If you can’t swing $5 per month, you can still help by sharing this with others. One-time tips also gladly accepted via Venmo: @spike-gillespie. If you donate $10 I’ll send you an e-copy of my new novel, Grok This, Bitch. If you send me $30, I’ll ship you a print copy. It’s very funny, I promise. You can read the first chapter right here. 

My next FREE Writing Workshop at Hampton Branch Library is on WEDNESDAY Nov 6, 5:30-7:30 pm. Usually we meet on Tuesdays but Election Day requires us to wait a day. Spaces are limited and always fill up, so if you want to attend, please CLICK THIS LINK to reserve your spot. It’s going to be a safe, loving, supportive place to gather. 

I know it seems like winter might not ever get here but December isn’t so far away. Despite being a godless heathen, I still volunteer on Thursdays at the Central Presbyterian Church, feeding and clothing Austin’s downtown homeless population. If you have adult clothes, shoes, bedding, and/or toiletries you’d like to donate please let me know and we can make a pickup/drop-off plan. Very often we run low on men’s jeans and shoes. Thank you. 

BONUS READING ASSIGNMENT!

I have in the past recommended Jason Stanford’s substack The Experiment, which is always brilliant and thought provoking and inspired me to start my own substack. I met Jason many years ago when he and his lovely wife hired me to perform their wedding. He also co-authored a wonderful book called Forget The Alamo, a NYT bestseller I highly recommend. This week, to my delight, Jason wrote about Dode Levenson and Gretchen Barton, the geniuses behind the ad giving evangelical white women permission to vote for Kamala. As it happens, I briefly dated Dode in 1995. (It didn’t work out in large part because Dode is incredibly kind and thoughtful and I was definitely not ready for that in my pre-therapy thirties.) You can read Jason’s fascinating piece about the making of the ad right here.