I am ashamed – aghast – mortified. From the first I expected the worst and every day’s worse than expected. Parents of school shooters must feel this way, disgraced forever by their relation. Is this what my generation will be known for? That we returned the Nameless One to power and permitted him to inflame the earth to inflate his glory?

We would look away – if we could, argue our innocence – if we could, but we cannot: this is our result, our doing. One generation fled tyranny to a New World; another invented a new form of government and risked all to introduce it; another expanded it from sea to shining sea; another prevented its dismemberment; another made the world safe for democracy (or tried to); another licked the Depression; another Hitler. And we?

The televised ambush of Ukraine’s beleaguered President makes me want to… I dare not say – but you get the idea. Mine is not a different point of view, a political strategy one can debate. Mine is revulsion from evil, an evil even worse than the school shooter’s, for it endangers millions, maybe billions, and upends the human experiment, perhaps forever. This administration, from first to last, is a war crime. And – to rub salt in the wound – they gloat about it. “This will make great TV,” the smug Nameless One is reported to have bragged.

Enough words – pellets potent as snowflakes! Enough tears. What is to be done? We cannot wait for an election in 2026: what guarantee one will be held, where the count is true? We surely cannot wait for 2028 to rectify our mistake. The Nameless One’s thugs know that. A project so perverse cannot long rely on popular support. They are acting fast, so must we. But what might we do, each so weak? The answer is simple: whatever we can.

When your house is burning down, you act fast, you do not pause to ponder. Do you doubt our house is burning? Inconvenience, hardship, equivocation don’t deter us when we smell the smoke. We save what we can – the baby, the dog, our photos – and consign the rest to dust. It’s a terrible shame, this fire – but death is worse.

I roar. That is my futile specialty. One voice – so what? – grumpy Gramps having a bad day. But a million voices – or a hundred million? Already the Nameless One’s flunkies are opting for secrecy, slamming the door against truth to “control the message,” but they can’t, not for long, if all risk saying what they see.

We organize. A protest of a few hundred – no big deal. Of millions? That gets attention. Something is going on – to quote Faulkner, “Get into the wagon or get out of the goddamn way!” It’s not easy admitting error – but if everyone who voted for these bozos got bamboozled, can you blame us?

We boycott. This gets tricky. The plutocrats’ tentacles are everywhere. But we can try. Hit the Nameless One’s enablers in their hearts – I mean, their wallets. I canceled my Washington Post subscription – with regret – so did 75,000 others last week – but Amazon is trickier. For all but food and frills, it’s become our store. For sure, no Teslas!

We spend money – which we’d rather keep – or spend elsewhere. How can I send money to Ukraine – I am so ashamed!

We scare the bejeezus out of our political class. To hell with moderation or excuses, fight! Fight ugly. Do or die.