Remember when Trump’s refusal to concede was funny?
It wasn’t that long ago. Triumphant celebrations of a return to normalcy echoed through social media and across brunch tables everywhere. The fundamental absurdity of Trump’s election fraud claims seemed tailor-made to the specifically-liberal brand of snark that delights in tittering at the asinine impotence of their enemies over a mimosa or three. It looked good there for a minute, didn’t it? Not the bang of an authoritarian second-term hellscape but the whimper of a press conference in the parking lot of Four Seasons Landscaping.
And then it…
I know more about JD than I ever wanted to.
I know he worked construction. Lives in Vancouver, Washington. I know what his wife looks like angry and what she looks like crying. I know what his breath smells like and what his eyes look like when he decides you’re less than human. I know what his back looks like when you follow him out of a screaming mob.
I didn’t want to know these things, but I do.
On November 14th, I flew to Washington DC to cover the Million MAGA March as a freelance journalist. I spent the…
“I don’t know why I feel I’ve got to tell you this.”
Like most Portland protesters, she’s young and fully committed to fixing the broken world we’ve handed her. Brave enough to take to the streets despite the brutality of Portland Police and federal agents alike. She’s been protesting from the start.
Let’s call her W.
It is early August and I am not doing well. Four hours of sleep is a luxury I barely remember. It’s not nightmares exactly, just a failure to fall asleep and waking up wide-eyed three hours later. Benadryl isn’t working anymore and I’m reluctant…
“My daddy served in the Army, where he lost his right eye
But he flew a flag out in our yard ‘till the day that he died”
Toby Keith’s daddy isn’t the only one. I’m idling on a sun-baked Oregon interstate just south of Portland, surrounded by lifted trucks carrying on the Keith tradition. The light summer breeze makes the countless flags dance in the shimmering heat. Trump 2020. Blue Lives Matter. American. Punisher. Gadsden. Confederate.
This article first appeared in It’s Going Down
In the beginning, we were many. We were thousands. Exploding into the street after watching a video of horror both strange and all-too-familiar: a video of a nine-minute murder, of a killer indifferent to the pleas of the bound man he choked and crushed to death. Broad daylight, on film, unprosecuted. Another police murder. Another black person dead.
As the video circulated, things began to shatter. Hearts. Trust. Restraint. Patience.
This is the script for my YouTube video of the same name. Although this was written to be heard, not read, I know some people would rather read than watch a video, so here you go.
I hate breaking things. I have always hated breaking things. As a child, I never tore open presents: I carefully undid the tape and saved the paper in a box. I never stomped on a sand castle, I never understood the people who did. I refused to break piñatas at parties, and nothing has changed: I currently have, in my possession, a piñata…
Who is Jordan Peterson?
Until June 25th, when I attended a live Peterson talk in Portland, Oregon alongside 2,500 screaming fans, I had never heard or read anything the professor has produced. I have not seen his YouTube lectures. I have not read either of his books.
I’d seen social media conversations, of course, and I’d read articles. A great deal of ink has been spilled on the subject of Jordan Peterson since his book crashed the Amazon’s bestsellers list party.
“Congressman ______’s office, how can I help you?”
This is my summer. I am a congressional intern: a small and life-altering miracle for an aspiring political science major. Sometimes we get to do policy research. Sometimes we do organizational data projects. Always, we process faxes and answer the phone. We represent the congressman as best we can.
Today, in this article, I do not represent the unidentified congressman I intern for. Today, I represent only myself.
“How can I help you?”
Last night I couldn’t sleep. …
Writer, videographer, folklorist of the Portland protest scene. Come, let us walk into the apocalypse together. She/Hers. I’m on Twitter: @LauraJedeed