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What to say?
When I try to speak these days, it’s as if my words have been stolen from my throat, and all that is left is a soundless scream. I open my mouth, straining. Nothing comes out. I swallow it all down, hoping it will come back up as something useful. Nothing.
Yes, there are the marches, the protests. I have marched. I have protested. Still.
Then there was last week, a week that felt Grand Guignol even by the standards of these dark days. The bombs. The anti-trans memo. The racially motivated killing of two senior citizens who were grocery shopping. The election of a dangerously far-right extremist in Brazil. The massacre in a Pittsburgh synagogue of worshippers, one of whom, at ninety-seven years old, had been a teenager as the Nazis rose to power. Last week was one of canary-in-the-coal mine anxiety and tragedy produced by the…
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