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Facing The Chaos Of Life As We Approach Election 2020

Peter Goodman

  Commentary: Writing a column requires maintaining, at least briefly, illusions that one understands something that matters and that one can shape that understanding into an effective, engaging communication.

I can’t manage that this morning.

 

There’s plenty that’s true and worth saying: Joanne Ferrary is a dedicated, caring, incredibly diligent public servant and Isabella Solis seems mostly devoted to Isabella Solis. Xochitl Torres-Small, a smart and moderately progressive young woman representing a sprawling, varied district, is hearing progressives say she’s too nice to gas and oil and gun owners and conservatives say she’s the second coming of Karl Marx.

Still, I feel paralyzed. By awareness that many more than usual are dying. By the vast weight of misinformation and disinformation on the Internet. By the rancor of contemporary political discourse. By amazement that we’ve elected a narcissistic conman to the Presidency, that he’s trampling on our democracy, and that good and decent people smile on him, or shout “Hillary Clinton’s worse!” or “look at Hunter Biden!”

Life feels schizophrenic. We are both more isolated (most of us, physically) and far less so (the isolation, compounded by nervousness and extra time, drives us to spend longer periods on “social media.”

Some are racked by grief for loved ones taken by this pandemic, while others shout about our personal freedom to spurn masks and infect whomever we infect. Some are fighting boredom and others fighting exhaustion from working feverishly in hospitals or meat-packing plants. Some of us are glad that large numbers of whites may finally understand the toll it takes on a person to be black in this country, while others are infuriated that too few express outrage at killings of police officers. (Can’t I hope for better understanding, demand that we face our racism, yet also deplore ANY unjustified killings?)

I feel the dissonance between the dispiriting rancor of Internet communications and the warmth of some more personal communications. While I recognize the threat Donald Trump is to our democracy, and the viciousness of some Republican policies, and feel that our country could be at an important turning point, I can’t manage to hate the Trumpists I know.

I play pickeball with several Trumpists. “I see you’re still writing columns to piss people off,” one said recently when he returned from traveling. “Hey, one thing,” I urged another Thursday, “Don’t vote!” Mostly we acknowledge our differences with a laugh and play ball. Discussions do happen, without anyone convincing anyone of much, but with one notable exception they’re amicable. Still, sometimes, as I’m praising a great shot by my partner, my mind recalls he’s part of the threat.

That one fellow Las Crucen believes George Soros funds Antifa, doesn’t keep me from feeling and expressing sorrow for his loss of a family-member to drugs. Another funds political candidates I oppose, but I’m sorry the pandemic has caused him to close a business I sometimes patronized.

Thursday an acquaintance I greatly respect, a lawman’s lawman, remarked that he truly liked and respected our current sheriff, Kim Stewart, adding: “She’s got good people in good positions, and knows her people. She and I don’t agree on political things, but I love her. She’s honest and she’s police.”

I particularly enjoyed our conversation, and appreciated his ability to work with others despite political disagreements.

Yet it’s schizophrenic. Those deep divisions ain’t going away. Which enhances the importance of talking across the canyon to each other. With mutual respect.