Dementia differs from mental deterioration as dusk from dark, but where one begins and the other ends is as much guess as demonstrable fact. When my old mother was losing her wits, some excused her misbehavior on sickness while others insisted she knew “damn well” what she was up to. This debate was complicated by the intermittency of symptoms; some days she was “better than others.”
America is angrily debating the unmistakable cognitive decline of our elected head. Some insist his goofs, lies, threats and quirks are no big deal, even sly moves to fool his foes. Others clamor to remove from authority this danger to our nation and himself. A majority, I fear, shrug, “What can you do about it?”, trusting time to spare them the onus of action.
Some cruelly wish the Nameless One’s incapacity to increase gradually in full view, to incapacitate his adherents. That’s where I find myself, alas. I’ve never felt a scintilla of sympathy for the Nameless One, whom I loathe with all my being, convinced he’s a curse to mankind. That America twice empowered him to lead us may prove the worst mistake in history. I want my compatriots to share my disgust, till we cry out collectively, “Never again!” I revel in the prospect of his cynical and/or pusillanimous sycophants pleading disingenuously, “I had no idea,” as they shuffle toward their deserved demise. I hate hating but I can’t help myself: this vile mutant threatens all I hold dear. I’ve expended too much ink and energy explaining why I feel this – nor will I quit. Sometimes only Evil can illuminate the Good.
Thus, paradoxically, the worse things get, the gladder I, for many of my numbskull fellow Americans still need convincing. Modest election wins in 2028 and 2030 will be insufficient to revive our republic. We need to cleanse ourselves, vomit out our villainy, and begin afresh. Shame on me for speaking so intemperately; deeper shame on those who refrain, reluctant to “rock the boat.”
Responding to calamities kindles moral crises. Should we put “the best face” on facts not to agitate others? Should we shout our fears, at the risk of alienating allies? After a series of messy (but mercifully not fatal) car accidents, my siblings and I debated depriving our mother of the car keys to which she adamantly clung. Finally, I just did it, without awaiting consensus, to prevent the death of innocents and endless liability. No one thanked me, but I’m glad I did.
Is it anti-American to wish the worst for America until awareness dawns? We the people deserve a long painful slog on the Via Dolorosa to repent our mistake. Like parents who, in a hurry, hire a homicidal babysitter, we must suffer forever and never forget. Sometimes only pain educates. As the Nameless One often threatens, we can do things the easy or hard way. We have chosen the hard.
From dementia there is no hope of recovery, but its pace varies. No attentive observer can doubt the direction of the Nameless One’s disorder, but many hope to play out the clock. “Only three more years,” they wince.
No Nostradamus, I can’t predict events, but of direction I’m certain: bad will get worse. Do we wait for more innocents to be killed? Take away the keys? Root for worse to speed our national recovery? Avert our gaze, blaming others for our plight? Fatalistically insist on our impotence, thus ducking responsibility?
“Not everything that is faced can be changed,” wrote James Baldwin, “but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”