Every Good Morning

 

During especially awful news days, I keep reminding myself of specific Shakespeare plays and their commentary on our own time, and recently of Act IV of King Lear when Edgar see his father cruelly blinded and abandoned in the wilderness. He says, “And worse I may be yet: the worst is not so long as we can say ‘This is the worst.” The one day Judiciary hearing for Kavanaugh and Ford felt like the worst exhibition yet (not act!) of this endless Presidency.

If Kavanaugh had appeared calm and sorrowful, controlled and sincere, he might have pulled off the act, but he was appealing to only one person, the hysteric in the White House. If he won him, the maniacs who will vote for Trump no matter what he says or does (the majority of the Republican Party) would be sure to follow the shepherd.

So, Kavanaugh came out in a fit of sputtering, weeping self-pity, indulged in condescension to Senator Klobucher, cranked out ideological nonsense regarding the Clintons as the ones behind his troubles, lied about Yearbook references, gave in to all his rich boy arrogance. What a clear portrayal of the dying America he wishes to perpetuate, that kingdom of rich, reactionary whiteness, where, if necessary,  everyone else can daily scramble out of their favelas for whatever dabs and scraps might be left.

Above that day’s spectacle sat Trump, that ‘grab em by the pussy’ shell of a human being, both the catalyst of and the apotheosis of the relentless rightward swing of the Republican Party over the last 38 years. There he reigns, surrounded by a coterie of amoral savants gifted only with the creativity to lie so often the lies form waves that drown out the ability of many to even momentarily pause and think about what corruption to which they might be contributing.

Those miserable Republicans in the Senate, cowards and bootlickers, more than a few calculating sociopaths, want Kavanaugh because they believe that with his magic capacity to be utterly soulless he will keep their machine whirring for 30 years to come.

What hubris. What blindness.

As if those five men on the Court will stop what is inevitable, as if they can hold back the rising of the seas, the implacable heat already building, the great migrations to come and the incandescent fury of those they have relegated to serfdom. But especially the anger of those women who in Christine Blasey Ford saw themselves, saw their moments of fear, of constant vigilance, of their experiences of catcalling and dismissive words and leers, and worst of all, sometimes memories of a deep and abiding horror that was inflicted upon them. What they have left are the resulting awful dreams and insomnia, and their resilience and their refusal to return to the ancient silence and obedience once demanded of them.

In contrast to Kavanaugh, Ford withstood the incomprehensible pressure of that day with a measure of grace, concentration and courage that are rare. We should count ourselves fortunate that we could witness it. In the dregs of these grinding days of worse news heaped upon bad news, Christine Ford is that singular figure, an ordinary person transformed in the crucible into a hero.