Here’s what I think about Trump’s illegal attack on Venezuela:
We’re on a bus, and someone has handed the keys and the driver’s seat over to a demented, mean-spirited, vengeful five-year-old who doesn’t know how to drive and won’t listen to anyone who does. He’s careening down the highway, going in the wrong direction, smashing into parked cars and running down anyone who crosses him. He’s doing untold damage to all kinds of bystanders, and who knows if we can stop him before he runs the whole thing over a cliff. Meanwhile, we’re yelling loudly and hanging off the back, dragging our feet on the ground, trying to create enough friction to slow the thing down. Sometimes it works, somewhat. So today I went down to the demonstration—the first one since my knee surgery six weeks ago. That’s why you find me in my usual position—trailing behind at the back of the march. But there. If you’re mad, show up. Call your senators and representatives, do all those things that seem futile in the moment but in the agregate, create friction. Resistance. It will grow. In spite of this draconian attempt at distraction, the Epstein files won’t go away. Groceries and housing will still be overpriced—health care will now be out of reach for many. We will turn this bus around—so make some noise! Puncture a tire or two. And most of all, dare to envision where you really want the bus to go!
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This post has been syndicated from Starhawk’s Substack, where it was published under this address.