I’m not writing about politics today because Democrats are nothing if not predictable. Following Biden’s disastrous debate with Beelzebub, my fellow party members are lining up to fistfight…each other.
We are not each other’s enemy.
Donald Trump is our enemy. The murder of cowards (hat tip, Mary Raffaele) in the GOP are our enemy. Those insufferable two-bit conservative lawyers on the Supreme Court are everyone’s enemy. Everyone just doesn’t realize it yet.
This does not prevent Democrats from imploding. Because we practice nothing if not learned helplessness, the best we can do is hiss at each other’s ideas, in the most passive aggressive way possible: snarky memes.
I just can’t do politics today.
I’ll rally. I’ll get back to writing what I think. But not today. Instead of politics, there’s another terrible, pressing problem: I need to buy a dress.
There was a time in my life during which I owned eight evening dresses.
I was always flitting off to a wedding in Spain, or a party in the Hamptons, or occasionally the opera. A friend once called and asked to borrow a dress to wear to a rock star’s wedding. I’ve seen photos of my dress having a wonderful time dancing with celebrities.
Eight evening dresses. Whose glamorous life was I living?
I cannot believe how much a person can change in a lifetime. I am now a hermit. I am a creature of habit, a fashion monk. I wear the same three outfits all the time.
Once I realized I’m most comfortable in a uniform, my life changed. I haven’t checked luggage in twenty years, except for that time I took my niece shopping in Paris.
Suddenly it was easy to get rid of all those evening dresses and every other thing I never wore. I purged and purged my closets. My niece got my Size Two Betsey Johnson hot pants. The Vietnam Veterans got my Size Sixteens.
I still have a few sentimental clothes hanging in the closet. In the final purge, they will go into the attic.
It makes me deliriously happy to think of my spare, empty closet. Space is my greatest luxury.
Learned helplessness
noun
PSYCHIATRY
a condition in which a person has a sense of powerlessness, arising from a traumatic event or persistent failure to succeed. It is thought to be one of the underlying causes of depression.
The GOP are dreadful They took away our bodily autonomy. They stacked the Supreme Court. They elected Trump. They chose him to run again. They’re trying to make a Christian nation when we are clearly directed to have separation of church and state. They’re banning books and sticking up the Ten Commandments in schools where teachers are struggling to teach kids to read.
It doesn’t matter if he wins or loses, he does what he wants.
It doesn’t matter, because now they have the Supreme Court.
It doesn’t matter, because they’re coming for us.
Oh no, Project 2025, it’s the end of the world.
We’re doomed. There’s nothing to be done.
Excuse me: I say bullshit.
We are the party of Bella Abzug. We are the party of Shirley Chisolm. You can’t discount Texas if you remember Ann Richards was once its governor.
Project 2025 is terrible. Why don’t we have our own Project 2025 terrifying the GOP?
Their platform is white guys making all the money, white women staying at home, white children reading the Bible and pretending dinosaurs romped with Noah; and everyone else can die.
Suffice to say, I think we can do better than that. Do we want these three guys charting the course of our nation?
Hell, no.
I no longer go to fancy places if I can help it. I don’t go anywhere if I can help it.
However, there is an event on the horizon, and this event is my stepson’s wedding in September. It’s in the evening. The dress is formal, and the bride has asked for length in our dresses.
I must buy an evening dress. This is much more difficult than it sounds.
Why are we playing Already Defeated? Are you kidding me? Have we looked at the competition?
The GOP should be in utter shambles right now.
Ted Cruz? Lindsey Graham? Central Casting’s model for frat boy rapists everywhere, Matt Gaetz? That loathsome redneck Marjorie Taylor Greene?
Are you telling me we can’t come up with rhetoric to fight this bunch of fools?
THROW THE PUNCHES AT THEM.
Americans want solutions to the world’s environmental crisis. We want healthcare that doesn’t break us. We would like our bodily autonomy back, yesterday. We would very much like the government to stay out of all healthcare decisions, particularly concerning our trans kids.
Why do Democrats have so much self-loathing, instead of focusing on what we can do? Instead of rallying?
Because we want to be popular. We want to be comfortable.
Larry Kramer was not a popular guy. Larry Kramer saved lives.
Our short-sightedness kills me. We’re serving a large plate of American mediocrity when we should be dishing up five-star innovation and daring.
It is inexcusable that there was no answer to the overturn of Roe vs. Wade, especially because we had advance warning about the decision. Roe fell when Democrats had control of the legislature and presidency.
My bodily autonomy is worth drastic measures. It’s worth expanding the Supreme Court.
And for Black voters, what was the reward for giving Biden the nomination? His refusal to do more for the failed voting rights bill in 2021.
I’m not pretending we don’t need to improve. We’ve got to get better not just for the survival of our party, but our nation.
Yes, I’m criticizing criticism. Yes, I’m contradicting myself.
Two opposing ideas exist at once. That’s life.
I have very specific requirements for the dress.
1) Nothing that looks like mother of the bride.
2) Nothing which tries to upstage the mother of the bride.
3) I don’t like my arms anymore, so sleeveless is out.
4) But I can wear cold shoulder or bateau neck.
5) It must be elegant.
6) Without being old lady.
7) Nothing with long sleeves because it’ll be too hot when I dance.
8) Something I can dance in.
9) No cheap fabric.
10) No slits up to the whazoo.
11) Nothing which requires a special bra.
12) I refuse to wear Spanx.
13) Clean lines.
14) Bronze or gold shades only.
15) No bows.
If I weren’t so depressed because of learned helplessness, I’d write about the pawn shop.
I’ve been dying to write about it since it happened a month ago. But I know if I do, plenty of Democrats will be furious. I’d give up comfortability and popularity.
Okay, fine. Here’s the abridged version:
It’s the end of May, and I’m in a pawn shop in Virginia on the recently renamed Emancipation Highway. It was still called the Jefferson Davis Highway until 2022.
Jefferson Davis, in case you don’t know, was the president of the Confederate States of America.
A man walks into the pawn shop. He is so tall he could easily be a retired NBA player.
I will never understand how he knew I was a Democrat, but he knew. Perhaps he detected a whiff of learned helplessness.
It is important to know he was a Black man, a few years older than I. He was the only Black man in the place, which was run by a heavily bearded young white guy on what was until recently a highway named after the head of the Confederacy.
As he walked in, the tall man waves at the guy behind the counter. The guy behind the counter says, I’ll be right with you, and goes in back. Then tall guy walks up to me, bends down (he really was very tall) and whispers,
“I’m here for the unified Reich.” He grins wildly.
Oh, what in the name of cornbread hell, I say to myself. Just smile and nod your head.
He continues in a loud whisper:
“That’s what he said…the unified Reich! He actually said that!”
Then I understand he’s talking about Donald Trump.
Except Trump didn’t say it, exactly. He didn’t speak the words, but the written phrase did appear in a video he posted on social media. When it was pointed out it’s flat-out Nazi talk, it was removed.
My tall friend and I then have the kind of conversation about Trump two Democrats will have, in a pawn shop in Virginia.
A couple of minutes later, the guy behind the counter comes out from the bowels of the shop with a semi-automatic assault rifle, and says,
“Here you go, sir!” with a smile on his face. He hands my new friend his new purchase. It’s got a strap on it, and my friend puts it over his shoulder.
Guns are a real bargain down there.
Because he is tall, and is still speaking animatedly, the barrel of the gun is kind of jumping around. To my great alarm, the barrel occasionally points in my face. I take a step back and duck. I treat all guns like they’re loaded.
My friend gets ready to leave. He has his weaponry, and I now understand the point of his purchase. He is ready to fight back against the unified Reich.
“I am not hunting anyone down. But when they come for us, I’m ready. I’m not firing the first shot, but I tell you what, I’m firing the last shot.”
I believe him.
“You have a good day,” he concludes.
“You too, take care,” I say.
Well, well. Isn’t this interesting. No learned helplessness here.
I know. Shame on me for even suggesting Democrats buy guns to fight the unified Reich. I should have faith that the next time the Capitol is stormed by people carrying Confederate flags, we can scare them aways with mean memes.
I do have one reliable cocktail dress that I’ve worn since the beginning of time. It’s champagne, beaded, and brushes the knee. Dropped waist. Very 1920s flapper girl. I wore it in April to my young cousin’s wedding. The last time I’d worn it was to his sister’s wedding in 2013.
I may not be able to wear it again. It’s on its last legs. More and more beads drop off with every event. It’s getting kind of shabby.
But it’s served me well.
Just because something has served me well doesn’t mean it’s right for now. The length is wrong, and its beauty is fading.
I need a new dress.
Sometimes I mull over this question: how do we maintain the integrity of the Second Amendment, while making our nation safer against gun violence?
There is a solution: take guns out of the hands of the most dangerous people in society and arm the responsible amongst us. It would wipe out almost all violent crime.
Every woman in the United States gets firearms training and a gun. Every man in the United States loses his right to carry one and will go to federal prison if he’s convicted of carrying one.
The statistics on violent crime are clear: men are responsible for most of it: about 79%. They’ve proven they’re irresponsible gun owners, with 85% of gun-related crime attributed to them.
Don’t make me bring up that bear again.
Now, of course there are valid reasons for a man to own a gun. If he works on a ranch, maybe he gets one. I’m also not opposed to men having access to them during hunting season.
Perhaps they can have one if a woman is willing to be his gun sponsor. She has ultimate authority over whether he’s responsible enough to use it.
No more government enabling of men’s violence.
It’s a practical solution to much of what ails us. Let’s not knock it till we’ve tried.
I find the perfect dress. It is available only in Size Four.
I find the perfect dress. Sadly, it has no back.
I find the perfect dress. It’s only $5,000.00.
You know, you’d think the weight of the world rested on just how perfect this dress must be. The reality is virtually no one will remember what I wear to this wedding.
Sometimes I lose touch with my insignificance. It’s not all about me.
I can tell you all is not lost. I can tell you it’s possible for Democrats to unite and feel the euphoria of hope.
I can tell you this because I was at Barack Obama’s inauguration in 2009. I stood for seven hours, supporting the seventy-year-old aunt who invited me because she had an extra ticket. I cheered in the cold January sunshine. I’ll never forget how it felt.
We are not helpless. We’ve just got to screw our courage to the sticking post and fight the enemies of democracy, not each other.
There is no perfect dress.
Great essay, Elizabeth. I shared it with my DIL, my son, and a friend who is a very active Dem in Baltimore.
Oh, and since I hate fireworks and parades (well, the ones Iowans think you are unpatriotic if you don’t bounce out of your bag chair every fucking time another flag goes by) I am staying home tonight and tomorrow and will pretend I am your personal shopper.