Sometimes I feel empty.

I am as hollow as the caves where my grandparents and I stood years ago.

My body is damp and silent.

I am carved out and rigid.

Rocks occasionally fall.

Drips are heard from a distance.

Sometimes I feel full.

My body is that old black pot

My dad always uses to make tomato sauce from scratch.

The same ingredients each time, but new just the same.

Filled with spice and warmth

Deliciously bubbling over a hot stove.

 

Sometimes I don’t know how to feel at all.

I am led down a hallway I have not visited before.

All of the doorways look the same.

Fear embraces my body like a distant relative at a family reunion

I don’t quite remember her name, but she’s familiar and important.

 

When I was ten years old, my parents got divorced.

They could not give me a clear reason why they separated.

I slept in my mother’s bed and my father’s bed for two years.

 

When I was eighteen years old, I met the lover that changed me.

He looked at me as if I was the moon and he was the darkness of night.

I kissed him and he carried me to bed like in my favorite film.

 

I am now twenty-one years old, and I am drowning and dancing and stuttering with each word I speak.

My heart is beating.

I know I am alive.

But that is all I know.

-Zoe Bommarito

My week has revolved around guns. It hasn’t been by choice. I haven’t chosen to go to a gun show, or go hunting. It is because I live in the United States.

On June 12th, we remembered the 49 LGBTQ+ people that were murdered in the Orlando Pulse Nightclub shooting a year ago. I remember driving home from Ann Arbor after visiting a friend, crying in the car because I could not imagine the horror those people experienced. The radio host I was listening to was also getting choked up. It was in the news for a couple days, but receded into the bowels of the 24-hours news cycle. Those families have endured unimaginable trauma that the rest of the us did not think about for a whole year.

With this not far from my mind, I met a friend for a drink on June 13th at a bar that I frequent. It is a bar that I had my first legal drink in on my 21st birthday, so it holds some sentimental value. As my friend and I finished up, we walked outside to find a woman calmly calling 911 telling the dispatcher that a man threatened to shoot everyone in the bar following an argument with the person he was with. She said he was allegedly yelling, “You don’t know me! I’ll shoot every fucking person in this place if I have to!” If I have to. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. We left immediately after learning this, but I went on that night like nothing had happened. Just another Tuesday evening.

On June 14th, the day I am writing this, a gunman opened fire on Republican’s practicing for their annual bipartisan baseball game. From what I hear, the week leading up to this game is one of the most fun weeks of the whole summer in D.C. 5 people were injured, some critically. The shooter was a lone gunman who apparently harbored anti-Trump sentiments according to his social media accounts. He used an SKS rifle, an AK variant, and a 9 mm pistol. He was able to cause so much damage in a minimal amount of time. Imagine if Capitol Police had not been there. It would have been open season on our elected officials. Not all those injured are out of the woods yet, and I truly hope they all make a recovery from this terrifying scene.

When I enter any room or establishment, I take stock of where the doors are. I see if the windows are unlocked or accessible to climb out of, or if I would have to break them in the event of an emergency. I look above me to see if someone with a gun could look down and pick me off. I look for hiding spots.

At times when I bring this paranoia up, I am often greeted by the solution of, “Just get your concealed pistol license (CPL).” I am uncomfortable with this idea. I am not uncomfortable by the concept of a CPL in any way, but I am uncomfortable that the solution to combat gun violence and mass shootings is for every person to be strapped at all times. I also know that the likelihood of me taking out a gunman in an active shooter situation would be slim. I do not have the demeanor or stoicism that is required of someone to do so.

I know myself, and I am a runner. I run away from these situations like I just stole something. I was once in an active shooter situation while attending MSU, which turned out to be a false report. When I received a text during class that the building I was in was to secure in place because of an active shooter in the building, I put my things in my bag. Another student and I made eye contact with each other and had a full conversation without saying a word. We calmly exited the classroom and left the building. This was obviously not what we were instructed to do, but we did because we were scared. I knew that I was on the 3rd floor of a building, in a classroom with one door. I knew if I had to jump to escape, I would likely hurt myself badly. I decided to take my chances with a back stairwell and a likeminded friend. My professor was still lecturing when we left. Like it was normal. Like it was just another February day.

I do not have any solutions, but I know I get scared. I get scared because it can happen when I go out to a club with my friends. I get scared because it can happen when I meet a friend for a drink on a Tuesday night. I get scared that it can happen while I am at work. The threat of situations like these will never keep me from living my life, but I will always look around a room for a way out.

 

Signed,

Mary Herman

The following is my version of an autopsy for the 2016 Presidential election. If you have had just about enough of this varietal of Farm-fresh bullshit, please take the opportunity now to save yourself. I will make some of you mad. I will remind most of you how insane the whole thing was to begin with, and it is my fervent hope that by this article’s end, y’all will have a laugh. Although since I am not running for high political office, you probably don’t believe me.

Let’s see…

November 7, the day before America was to decide the next president, I was on a treadmill. (Hard to believe, I know, but it’s the truth) A slight jog energized the end of my workout routine. I was sweating the good sweat, and on the monitor attached to my machine was live coverage of Hillary Clinton’s last campaign event before the polls opened. She was in Philadelphia in front of a primetime crowd, and joining her on stage was then President Obama, the First Lady, former President Bill Clinton, and Chelsea Clinton. The royalty of the Democratic Party, as it were. Everyone was smiling, waving, and happy to be on the way to victory; all in a good day’s work. I reflected on that moment to my friend Shomari and said something to the effect of: “She’s got it. That was her closing argument, now it’s up to the jury.” We all know the end of that story, so I want to tell you a different one.

Rewind to March 18, 2016. A rowdy St. Patrick’s Day in East Lansing has left the city immobilized and nauseous. Windows fogged and T-shirts stained, the Spartans were rebuilding after one of the most holy and ceremonious holidays in MSU lore. Only ten days earlier, though, the entire state was voting in the Michigan Primary. I cast my first ever ballot for any presidential candidate that day, and I am proud to say I checked the box for Vermont Senator Bernie Sanders. What Sen. Sanders pulled off that night has been described as the single most unexpected result in the 2016 election; except, of course, the ultimate result. That will be revisited. The polls had it all wrong, and Michigan’s open primary system made it harder to predict and thus, more competitive. Iowa was a statistical tie, New Hampshire was Bernie country, and the Super Tuesday states mostly favored Clinton. But in Michigan, the progressive agenda was given new life and provided momentum for Our Revolution to continue all the way until July of 2016. For a point of context, the Sanders Institute – a democratic socialist think tank started by Jane O’Meara and Bernie Sanders – launched officially just a few days ago, precisely one year after the last primary vote was cast. The progressive ideology lives on.

At the time, however, it seemed antithetical to give Bernie a fighting chance. By March 15, there were only three remaining Republican candidates left in the race and the entire conventional wisdom had been obliterated by the audacity of one man and his hair. Hillary’s team was projecting an erre of confidence so dense that it seemed like they were patiently waiting for that crazy old socialist to come inside from the rain. Not because they were concerned for his health and wellbeing, but because he was really cramping their style. A few of those early primary debates between Sanders and Clinton – which were routinely scheduled during NCAA tournaments or season finales of The Bachelor, so it is understandable that you may have missed them – always raised the question of electability. There were questions implying that Hillary Clinton’s vast array of analysis and expertise was so superior to that of Bernie Sanders, it was almost pointless to even have an election at all.

And Michigan changed all of that. So come March 18, I was rather defiant in the face of a true believer in the Democratic Party, and especially the gospel of Secretary Clinton. That evening, there was a conversation had that I will surely never forget. We all gathered around the countertop at my apartment and we set off on a free-wheeling discussion of current affairs that was fueled by drugs and alcohol, and propelled by a multiplicity of cigarettes.

Let me make my bias known: I was raised to think the Clintons were everything bad about politics that had morphed into one anti-Christ couple of Bill and Hillary. As I grew up, I began to see the Clintons doing some good deeds, of which there are many. But in 2016, I really dug in and began noticing a relationship between how the Republicans acted and how the Clintons acted; both essentially being the same. At the dawn of her political age, the young Hillary Rodham was a Goldwater Girl. Liberalized by her education, she met a dashing young law student at Yale named Bill. A southerner and a smooth talker, Bill Clinton was elected president and single handedly put more young black men in prison than Ronald Reagan. Ain’t that somethin’?! Mrs. Clinton, for her part, is cited in a 1996 speech as calling those delinquents that are given only three strikes before they are out of civil society forever, “superpredators,” who need to be brought “to heel.” President Clinton also instituted the Defense of Marriage Act, which defined the union of marriage as only existing between one man and one woman. People change with the times, and I understand that. Which is why it was even more confusing when then Senator Hillary Clinton stood on the floor of the U.S. Senate spouting that same policy only ten years ago. But that was all in the past, I learned. That didn’t matter, I was told. She had changed, and so had the country.

“Think of the alternative,” a friend said to me.

“I am,” I said back. “Donald Trump cannot lose this election. Even if he loses, he still wins. And if he wins, then he just out and out won. She can’t compete with him, it’s impossible. So why not vote for him at that point?”

“Dan…” eyes widened and voice lowered, my friend continued. “Are you really saying you don’t know what the difference between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton would mean for this country?”

“No!” I sniped back. “I’m saying your blindness bothers me. I’m saying that he is playing a whole other ball game and she can’t see it. I’m saying that I, as well as many other Americans, think she broke the law and should be held accountable.”

“Honestly,” the friend shot the fatal blow, “I don’t care if she broke the law.”

Our discussion ended about then. To help illustrate the picture for you, this was just after tears were shed but just before we started taking off our jewelry. I was devastated. The democratic process had boiled down to a flawed and pathetic candidate that had her supporters out in the world defending nefarious behavior and frantically babbling “She’s gonna win” until they were blue in the face. Bernie Sanders ultimately suffered defeat in the Democratic nomination, but not before instilling progressive values in the body and soul of a new generation. The moment Sanders and Clinton stood on the same stage in front of the banner that said “Stronger Together,” I cracked open a beer. I knew what I had to do, but I really didn’t want to do it. I began listening to many people, resigning myself to gain a wider perspective. I grabbed a copy of Hard Choices, a memoir by Hillary Rodham Clinton from her tenure as Secretary of State, and read it to try to be sure that we were literally on the same page. I analyzed polling data, I encouraged people to get involved with the issues and see where they lined up and go from there. Pillars of the national security community supported Clinton, prominent republicans were switching teams to Clinton, and even George W. Bush did not openly support Trump.

Speaking of George W. Bush, arguably the last GOP president, he did not vote for Trump. That much is certain. But, he also did not vote for Clinton, a Bush spokesperson confirmed. Apparently, the former president either didn’t mark a ballot at all, or he left the top section blank. This approach to the November 8, 2016 presidential election was not uncommon and caused a staggered result that defied all the numbers and gave birth to the Presidency of Donald Trump. I do not mean to shame anyone that voted this way, that is your business. Although, I am about to depict an unfortunate pattern that led people to believe Hillary Clinton really did have it all along, and why she ultimately did not.

Eric Gerson:  supports Bernie Sanders in primary, declares it an easy D to vote for Clinton in the general election. Studying in Hungary at the time, his absentee ballot arrives and he fills it out only to realize that it would not make it in time even if he did send it in.

Mitch Timmerman: supports Bernie Sanders in primary, has serious doubts about Clinton in the general election, but declares her the lesser of two evils. Studying in France at the time, his absentee ballot arrives. He votes Clinton, correctly addresses the envelope, and drops into the French mailbox where it is lost forever. His ballot never made it to East Lansing.

Houston Smith: supports Bernie Sanders in primary, wavers occasionally on who he would support in the general election. Ultimately deciding to vote for Clinton, he goes to the polling place in East Lansing and casts his ballot on Election Day. After a tabulation error, his ballot is invalid and he has to get back in line to vote again. So frustrated at his clumsiness and apparent illiteracy, he goes forth on a more self-destructive route. On his second time through, he votes for Gary Johnson.

Shomari Tate: supports Bernie Sanders in primary, has serious doubts about Clinton in the general election, but states that the most progressive platform was on the Democratic ticket. Votes absentee for Clinton and pays to have his ballot overnight delivered to his hometown of Grand Rapids by the filing deadline. He checks the tracking number two weeks ago; his ballot was never delivered.

In a stunning turn of irony and comedy that is usually reserved for a Broadway show, I end up being the only one of my fellow “Bernie Bros” to actually cast a ballot in the name of Hillary Clinton, and I am the one who couldn’t stand the bitch. I should note that my younger brother also voted for Clinton. And I should also note that all of the people mentioned above did as well, it just didn’t count. Now chaos reigns supreme and our collective imaginations have truly been tested with just how unstable the whole thing can get.

If there is any single message that should be derived from this revelation, it is simply this; make it count. I did not write all of this to say I Told You SO! I do not think Hillary Clinton is as bad as Donald Trump, and I did not say as much during the campaign. And I remain a true believer in democracy because I can live with my decision. I know I made the right one for me.

Hillary Clinton came out a month ago and said something so asinine that I hesitated to think she was not under the influence of a drug. She said, “If the election been held on October 27, I’d be your president.” I found myself asking the following question: how comfortable does your fat butt have to be in that reclining chair to suggest to a nation of tortured souls living in a constant state of fear that if God himself could have changed the seasons sooner, only then would it have worked out in your favor? She basically said, “Sorry America, if I had been awoken from my nap at a reasonable hour, I could have stopped the raging fire from engulfing the living room and spreading to the garage.”

The entire nation knew when Election Day was. Everybody could see that big X on the calendar. Donald Trump was about to go back to being the Celebrity Apprentice and we were going to have a woman as president. And then, she fucked up the end game. At fourth and one, she took the sac. If it’s a horserace, her jockey fell off the stallion and was dragged through the dirt. She showed up drunk to her own surprise party.

If Mrs. Clinton really can’t stomach her failure, then I hope she gets to read this one day to see how much effort I have put into it.

In Solidarity,

Daniel J. Neebes