It is unfair that Donald Trump is President of the United States. It is unfair that the cult of celebrity is worshipped over intelligence and compassion. It is unfair that idiocracy rules. It is unfair that the US Congress is more like a frat house of right wing morons than a congregation of citizens who would really like our country to thrive and welcome all. It is unfair that POTUS can get away with abusing women with no consequences whatsoever. This exercise has given me license to rant. I feel like I’ve been duped in a way. I never thought the United States would turn into such a deplorable farce that makes the parody film Idiocracy seem like Masterpiece Theatre. I grew up in a household that viewed a vote for a candidate or an issue as a vote for the common good. Never vote selfish. Yet the little girl, my sister, who shared my bedroom, grew up to vote for Donald Trump. She is a Republican who always votes selfish. How did the scales of justice get so out of whack? I have two courses of action with this national situation. One is to yell at the TV. The other is to withdraw from the insanity and do my work because I feel all the political involvement I’ve done at a local level has had zero impact. It is unfair to me that what I have been told in school, taught by my parents has not come to pass. I was taught to play fair, that cheaters never prosper but sadly today that is not true. So how do I deal with this global unfairness? I stay grateful for my life, living local in a bubble. Otherwise the national situation exacerbates my infectious agitation and saddens me that I am more powerless than I ever imagined. It feels good to write this all down, spit it out. I don’t want to be the horse with blinders but that may be the only way to navigate this insane world. When will fairness be restored to this once fair land? Maybe when people chose to become involved citizens and not leave the business of governing up to frat boys and corrupt political parties. I am so torn between caring and not caring. I veer away from involvement because it eats at my core, makes me feel more powerless than I really am. Maybe my next assignment to myself should be to write how I can feel more powerful. I remember during the Vietnam War protest I dodged eggs thrown at my head and wore a blue T-shirt with a big red fist silkscreened on my back. A professor laughed at me and said, “What is the use of June Sobel with a fist on her back?” I wondered about it, too but it wasn’t until I saw Born on the Fourth of July years later than I felt proud of my fist, that I nudged the unfairness of a ridiculous war. Maybe my small voice united with others turned the tide of justice.