Two weeks ago I had a phone call with a friend of the blog and he had challenged me to put out some content before the Open Mic night that I help organize. After he had shared with me some of the stuff he had been working on, I was up to the challenge. Granted this is was in a blissful and optimistic state.

I woke up the next day at around midday and thought about what I would write. Maybe it would be a poem (which I did write later that week but then lost it), maybe I would work on a chapter of that so called ‘book’ that I claim I have (never got to it), or maybe I would write a completely original short story (would the hell do you think you are?). In short: I have not written anything–shocker.

I have effectively lost the challenge that my friend had given me. Seeing as the Open Mic is tomorrow and I have no new content to share I will most likely read some stuff from my blog. And so, I’ve missed a deadline.  A deadline that was about as rigid as a noodle, but a deadline nonetheless.

So I sit in the library. Surrounded by my Constitutional Law book, my Econometrics book, and another thick as a brick Law book and wonder. I wonder about if I really want to pursue what I’m studying or if that is just a means to an end. The end being writing of course. Or if I’m so engrossed in my studies and so itchy to get out in the world and find some security that I will never actually pursue the thing that I day dream about in class–that being writing of course.

This missed ‘deadline’ if you want to call it that is a thorn in my side. It is a badge of dishonor. An opportunity lost, and opportunity to actually put my nose to the grindstone and put something out in time for an Open Mic. Maybe I’ll read this and let everyone know how much a hack I am that I would rather write a piece on missing a deadline than actually write something of substance, or maybe I’ll sit comfortably in my chair and read something that I know people will love. Either way: I still missed my fucking deadline. And I have to deal with that.

Signed,

M

I spent Labor Day of 2017 traveling the American South, primarily a stretch of marshes and swampland called the Low-Country. I made for Savannah, and stopped to see some old estates and cobble stone streets. The Riverfront was a bustle with locals and tourists to celebrate the 4th annual Bacon Fest. I didn’t stay long, I wanted to keep moving. Crossing over the Savannah River and into South Carolina on Highway 17, the pathways start to become shaded by low hanging trees and even lower Spanish Moss. The humidity is so thick you could cut it with an oyster shell. And there’s this smell. It’s pungent, salty, and downright rancid at some intervals. It comes from the pluff mud, the dark marsh soil left behind after the tide recedes. Each island, beach town and state park are only accessible by way of zig-zagging along the low-country coast.

I spent the night in North Charleston at a truck stop so I could shower in the morning and make a fresh start. Alongside these two lane roads and state highways are any number of stereotypical findings. Fruit and veggie stands, maintained by a married couple with nothing but a piece of paper in their hands to beat the excruciating heat. Auto body shops next to scrap yards next to mobile homes next to RVs. I couldn’t figure out where one would work and live out of those four options, but to each their own. Signs that indicated where you could find “Acres For Sale” or “Oyster Shell Recycling” and even “Clean Dirt.” Of course, every few miles you find a gas station and a dollar store and about a dozen churches. For Protestant Christians on the South Carolina coast, there is no shortage of places to go for worship. In between all of this, you discover little soul food dives and adorable corner stores. I made a pit stop at the Carolina Cider Company in Yemassee before I turned to go south toward Beaufort. Artisanal pastries and handcrafted soaps give you something to sniff on while you shop. I took home some Praline Pecans and a jug of Peach Cider. I wasn’t exactly focused, though. I was still digesting what I had been listening to on the radio. NPR had a special hour long discussion about the state of the economy and the American workforce on a program called The Takeaway from WNYC.

I encourage anyone that’s interested to listen to the podcast themselves, but I have taken the liberty of annotating and summarizing the highlights. The economy itself is steady, but not spectacular. The labor market is strong, but productivity in the workforce is weak. Unemployment is still holding firm at about 4.5%, a sign of continuity between Obama and Trump. President Trump can, and frequently does, tout the high marks in the stock market as a sign of economic growth, but the Dow Jones and the Nasdaq do not translate into the real economy. Wages have remained stagnant, with 78% of full time workers saying they live paycheck to paycheck. That number is up from 75% last year. As Congress sets out to do tax reform, it’s important to note that the GOP plan for big tax cuts won’t dramatically increase growth. Tax cuts stimulate the demand side of the equation, and do not necessarily supply a high-paying factory job to blue collar workers in small towns. Furthermore, those factory jobs might well be good for the small town and the locality, but not for the economy.

Next on the docket is some downright frightening facts and figures about post-secondary education. Employers aren’t seeing the necessary technical skills or critical skills in the incoming workforce. One of the guests on the program ascribed that to the fact that the nature of work has changed but the nature of school hasn’t. In fact, she said, “everything has changed” except the established 4 year institutions. Now, community colleges and less selective, regional 4 year colleges are leading the way for the “new traditional” student. By 2018, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, 63% of all jobs will require some post-secondary education. One third of undergraduates are adults, 70% of undergraduates work, 1 in 5 work full-time jobs. Part-time students make up more than one third of undergrads, and most of them are working full time. About 36 million Americans have credits but no credential, most of them carry some form of debt. A full 50% of all undergraduates enter with remediation needs.

So, the age-old thinking that education is a path to a better future regardless of accident of birth or circumstance is quickly dwindling. And yet the structure of Higher-Ed is proving remarkably durable. Institutions are out of step and struggling to rethink students and faculty. The places that are innovative in this regard offer structured programs with the end in mind. At community colleges, these are called guided pathways. The unsung heroes of the American economy are the regional 4 year campuses that are less selective and more realistic, because they recognized early and responded to the critical shift: you can no longer have separate educations for work and educations for life, you need both. The days of going to college and wandering the cafeteria to find oneself are over, and the slowest ones to change their thinking on this are the research institutions, the Big 10 schools. The Michigan States and the U of Ms of the world serve slightly different purposes and depend on slightly different revenue streams, primarily high-dollar private donors for research investment. So they may not have the greatest incentive to change, but the entire college model is changing quickly. Most students are shouldering the debt themselves, many have children of their own. How long do you imagine people with families to feed and bills to pay are going to wait for a tenured professor to find their flash drive?

“Did you want a bag?” A sweet gray haired woman was asking me from behind the counter.

“Yeah” I said under my breath, looking over at the fresh pies that illuminated the case.

“Let me asking you something,” I leaned on the counter with both my elbows. “How’s the economy down here? How’s business been?”

“Well,” she sighed. “It’s usually better during spring and autumn. Cooler weather gives people more reason to take the drive. But to tell the truth, this whole week has been real busy. Not just this morning neither, the past week too…people be in and out all day long. And you know what I think it is?”

She’s leaning toward me now, and took one look around the place before saying “I think it was that hurricane. It wiped out parts of the Gulf that are usual vacation spots. I think people ended up down here because of the flood waters out there.”

I giggled, raised to her my pint of peach cider and said “well, here’s to the high tide.”

Cheers,

Daniel J. Neebes

The heat is inescapable. The traffic is thick and loud. The People in the streets laugh and carry on. The roaches move with freedom along the concrete floors, hiding from any instrument of clean. 

This has been the story of my life in Atlanta, Georgia. I left East Lansing over two months ago to begin a new chapter. My uncle, Anthony (everyone calls him Tony), has put me up in his apartment on a luxurious air mattress and has fed me well. The primary goal of my new venture is to help grow a business from the ground up. Located in the Sweet Auburn Curb Market, our two restaurants occupy the southeast corner. Grindhouse Killer Burgers serves up award winning Burgers and hand-spun milkshakes with unapologetic attitude. A projector on the wall shows B-movies while you wait for your order, either dine-in or carry-out. 

Next door is Three Cities Pizza. During the day you can get it by the slice, with a salad and drink for only 8.50. The business wanes between the hours of 3 and 5; but come the nighttime, we deliver anywhere within a five mile radius. And sometimes farther if I’m not paying attention. The pizza place is for all of those transplants that moved to Atlanta for work, and left behind the pizza they know and love. If you like it thin and foldable, get a New York style. For those that indulge in the thick and round variation, Chicago’s your kind of pie. But for me, my uncle, and anyone that hails from Motown; buttery and crispy crust reminds you of your native home in Detroit. At Three Cities, we want our customers to eat the pizza they grew up with. 

As for me, I’m doing what I can to make and save that cheddar. College is the single most expensive thing I’ve ever dared to invest in. That investment, while never guaranteed to pan out, is only worth a damn once completed. I know that, I truly do. I endeavor to get a bachelors degree, either two years from now or ten. 

The very simple truth is this: I Fucked Up. It happens to everybody, and it happened to me. I make no excuses and offer limited explanations. That does not change the fact that I am smart, talented and bright. Look at what I just did with a pen and paper. I made you hungry. 

I’m hungry too. Hungry for more. 

Buon Appetito, 

Daniel J. Neebes

 

Spin

Spin

Spin

Stop!

That’s not how you win

Why do you grin?

This is serious

Why do you look so delirious?

Aren’t you curious?

You gotta:

Spin

Spin

Spin

Stop!

You’re a rat on a wheel

You’ll run until you squeal

Oh you want a meal?

It’ll cost ya

Oh yes it will

An arm, leg, and a heel

Okay ready?

Spin

Spin

Spin

Stop!

Take a rest, heal

You’ll need your energy

for a sequel

Come on friend

You can do it

You want to be my equal

Well you gotta

Spin

Spin

Spin

Stop!

Almost done now

Don’t fret

It’ll all be over in a sec

Just think of all

the people you gotta protect

Okay ready, set

Spin

Spin

Spin

Stop!

Okay, get off

Look around

Now you’re on top

I felt powerful, once…

and then, I didn’t.

 

I’m not sure if it was the act itself that did it

or so much as the loss of control that came after.

 

I felt powerful, once…

and then I forgot to eat and sleep

for almost an entire year,

running my body

and myself

into the ground.

 

I felt powerful, once….

until the times that

I had to pull into a parking lot

and turn off the car because the tears were

falling from my eyes

too thickly for me to see as I drove.

 

I felt powerful, once…

and then I felt small at 1 am,

sobbing, because my body sometimes forgets

that it doesn’t have to

fight, freeze, or flee from the person I love.

 

I felt powerful, once…

and now, I don’t.

 

-xxx

“Hello, hello, hello. Yes, yes, everyone, please, please. Oh you are too gracious, thank you for coming out tonight, please take a seat”

*Applause fades and a spotlight beams onto WILB on stage*

“Well here I am, and once again: I’m sorry I’ve been away. You know time really gets away from you when you’re living in a dystopia. One day you’re pouring through thousands of tweets trying to decipher the meaning of covfefe; the next you’re fighting back the urge to seriously fuck up your life because the threat of nuclear annihilation is too real and ever present. But then again, as a college student you will do and wish for just about anything to avoid finals.

“But, that’s where all my time is dedicated to: college. That booze soaked train, smelling of vomit, b-o, fear, and the occasional Taco Bell quesadilla. The train also only moves in one direction and to one destination: Anxietyville.

‘It’s the best time of your life though!’ Says every 40-50 year old man that hates their wife and would do anything to get their shit-head kid out of their house.

‘Timmy! Stop smoking weed in the basement, goddamnit.

‘But dad, you said it was okay’

‘No, I said it was okay only if you invited me and told mom it was her asshole boyfriend that was selling you this week ass grass. Did I ever tell you about the grass we smoked back when I was in college? Hot damn, what a great time’

Sorry for the tangent and back to our regularly scheduled program: In all honesty though, the past half year has been completely bonkers.

In January/late December, I arrived back into the United States by way of France and found it to be operating under the supervision of a 70 year-old infant and his band of ne’er-do-wells.

If that wasn’t enough torture, I found out that my past self signed my present self up for 4 8:30 AM classes (lots of numbers and word play but stay focused folks–it gets crazier). Needless to say that I was tired and ready for a nap everyday after noon.

But that’s what I’ve been up to, that and-

*A loud beeping sound begins to emanate from the gallery, getting louder and louder with each passing second*

Ladies and Gentlemen I thought we made it perfectly clear that no cell phones were allowed during the performance. Please shut-

*The WILB is cut off mid sentence by the piercing noise and the state and red drape backdrop disappear*

The same WILB wakes up in bed and rolls over to shut off the alarm clock. WILB sits up in bed and slumps over putting face in hand–wishing to go back to sleep, even for a moment.

The red numbers on the alarm clock cut through the darkness and declare: 6:00 AM.

Getting up from the bed reluctantly, WILB dresses and mumbles: “ugh time for work”

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

By: Ewurama Appiagyei-Dankah

It’s easy to take some things for granted, like the health of your family members. This is especially true of parents, who, to their children, seem to have an air of invincibility about them. In their infinite wisdom and care, they seem immortal—at least, that’s how my parents felt to me while I was younger than I am now. And then, slowly, over the course of months, that illusion came crashing down around me and my family. Far too early, given her age, I was forced to contend with the mortality of my mother—my rock, the woman I love who seems infinitely energetic, and a woman who is amorous to the point where it is almost overwhelming. She carted me around to my various extracurricular activities—she tolerated my incessant flow of questions, and she always took care of me in the most loving way. My mother, my world. Seeing her in a hospital bed, hardly able to recognize me, and contending with the thought of losing her was almost too much to bear; seeing her in that setting made me realize that as much as it may have seemed to me, she is not immortal.

No, she is not immortal, but what she is, is a fighter. I think her recovery can be attributed in part to God and (largely) in part to the amazing fortitude she possesses. She is smart, insightful, and analytical in ways I can only hope I will someday be. She loves, deeply. She inspires me every single day to be the best version of myself: to treat others with compassion and grace—to support the ones I care about however I can—to love, fiercely and without abandon. She fought the illnesses that held her down and came out triumphant. She still fights now, and my family fights along her, trying to give the depth of support she always gives to the rest of us. She gave me her fighting spirit, and the world. So here’s to you, mom—thank you for being the warm, gracious, and loving person that you are. Thank you for being yourself, unabashedly—thank you for your passion for people, the care with which you cook, and the love that underlies every interaction you have with everyone who encounters you. You are a miracle of a person, and I love you dearly!

 

Love,

Sunshine