100% Endurance
Donald has been president for 26 hours and has signed 26 executive orders. They range from the absurd—you know, DOGE (Department Of Government Efficiency) and the “Gulf of America”—to the bewildering—I didn’t know our American federal civic architecture beautification needs were so critical it merited executive order within hours of swearing in—to the devastating—leaving the Paris climate agreement, the World Health Organization, pardoning 1,600 people convicted of the U.S. Capitol riots (with discernment, obviously), and so much more.
The hateful, heinous American president came careening into office with a Bazooka full of executive orders aimed at the most vulnerable people in our communities, stuffing his deranged words into our mouths as his fellow Americans, and I’ll tell you, I cannot spit them out fast enough.
I’m especially angry at Donald for signing an action ending birthright citizenship for children born to parents without legal status. Already 18 states have sued Donald’s administration for jackassery. Okay, fine, for being unconstitutional, but we all know they’re thinking it.
I am especially angry at Donald for that order because as an infant, I came to this country under asylum; so, I know intimately how this will hurt our fellow Americans and their children. I grew up excelling in my American life, but doing so under the pall of being “illegal.” Illegal refers to something that is forbidden and criminal. 9-month-old me, tiny forbidden criminal. 10-year-old me, curious forbidden criminal. 16-year-old me, sarcastic forbidden criminal. Finally, 18-year-old me, dissatisfied permanent resident, given all the humanity of a Sharpie. But at least I wasn’t a forbidden criminal anymore.
When I became a naturalized citizen in 2019, I wrote:
“I don't think I've ever been more disappointed with this country than I have been since Donald was elected, and I've lived here for 32 years. If I become a citizen while he's in office, which I hope will be the case, it will hurt me deeply. I will feel like I have joined him, joined the Americans who believe in him, and who, without hyperbole, almost assuredly hate me. It's vaguely masochistic.”
As Donald’s second presidency skulked toward us, the people in my sphere who did not vote for him often looked to the marathon as metaphor for how we would survive. We’ve been under unflagging duress before (cue: we’re back). We’ve been bombarded in equal parts by the insidious and the idiotic (also returned). So now that he’s officially reinstalled, let’s start the very long race and finish it, if hobbling.
The marathon certainly fits the “vaguely masochistic” part but is, ultimately, inaccurate because it implies an eventual celebratory moment when the mental and physical toughness we’d cultivated to be finishers would no longer be needed. It implies we will reach relief, reprieve, rest and that the events we’ve suffered will no longer hurt us because we’ll be done. It implies that many of the cruelest decisions Donald and his administration apathetically dole out will one day, in fact, not impact us at all. All of which is just critically untrue—so many of the despicable moments in our American history, no amount time and change will alleviate, like when children were separated from their asylum-seeking parents, some never reunited, some lost entirely, all traumatized. Yes, we did that in 2017.
I’m still so angry and disappointed in who we are as people and as a country, and I am not resting or relieved or reprieved. I am guilty and gutted, no matter how much I disclaimed him as my president then, disclaim him as my president now.
