My gorge rises.

(Gorge isn’t a word I’ve used often. Only latterly, in the nineteenth century, did it come to mean overeat – “I gorged on ice cream” – from its old association with the throat or, by association, with canyons or ravines. A full throat meant a full belly, which may spontaneously regurgitate, i.e., vomit, with disgust.)

My gorge rises at America’s misdirection, daily more nauseating, but so? The world hardly needs another rant. Or might it? No economist, historian, or journalist, I’ve no insights to contribute to our keening chorus; no activist, I’m averse to marching with a crowd or setting myself afire. Yet aren’t we obliged to mourn communally, lend our voice, not keep silent? We sit Shiva, attend wakes, commemorate for a reason – not because these will repair our loss, but to remind ourselves of our shared humanity, that we are not alone and must soldier on. I can’t stomach today’s America – it shames me – to hell with the lot of them! – only I must stomach it, for I cannot escape or pretend indifference. Grieving is a sociable activity, as much for our loved ones as for ourselves. Solidarity of sentiment stiffens all.

My little (toy) sword is words, which I use to poke the surface of experience into what roils beneath. That is my adventure, mission. I dig, spelunk, excavate, probe, unearth nuggets of notions maybe fresh to us both.

So yes, we must rail, flail, bore one another with our laments. Maybe there’s nothing to say – what’s transpiring among our misleaders is unspeakable – yet say we must. I’m guessing captives feel this way – and slaves.

Exhibition of emotion was discreditable in my boyhood home. “Stiff upper lip,” “grin and bear it,” “quit being a crybaby” summarized our emotional instruction. If you couldn’t “control yourself,” off to your room, shut the door, and don’t come out till your eyes were dry. What you did in your room, what you thought, who you were hardly mattered, as long as you “behaved.”

I had to learn to weep. Men didn’t – and wasn’t I a little man? Stoicism has its virtues – it maintains decorum, confronts facts without flinching – but it stultifies the soul. Love weeps. And it is not wrong to love.

I have loved America. I wrote her mash notes, one book-length. Her story inspired, motivated, propelled me like an arrow by its bow. My ideals were lofty too; I would contribute to her glow. As lovers will, I minimized her flaws. Squint-eyed? Bad breath? Selfish? Don’t be silly, such flaws enhanced her charm!

I no longer love America. “She” has turned “it” – and it appalls. My loss feels insufferable. It’s not just the privation of services for the poor and predations by the rich, not just the gleeful abuse of the vulnerable, not just the lying and reckless improvidence: worse than all these is the loss of dream, an impoverishment irreparable. America’s a cruddy gangster like the rest, no shining city on the hill – and the more fool I.

It is not wrong to grieve, but healthful. Misery seeks company. Tears rinse the soul. Expression of conviction steels us for self-sacrifice. Suffering is easier when many are. “What am I to do?” friends ask. My answer: “Whatever you can.” Every gesture contributes, every voice swells the chorus and heartens others. Money, fury, moans… whatever your heart suggests. Startle yourself with your vehemence. No stiff upper lips, no grinning and bearing or hoping for the best. Rage! And then channel your animus into action and more action. Vomit the poison in our nation’s soul.

Let your gorge rise.