Why Trump’s Bait-and-Switch Tweets Confuse Americans

By Gary Kimsey

In his use of Twitter, is President Trump performing a classic bait-and-switch scam to confuse Americans?

Well, yes, of course.

Gary Kimsey is a writer and retired marketing specialist. Learn more about him…

“Bait and switch” is a dishonest marketing tactic where consumers (we Americans in this case) are encouraged to believe something about a product (here, the product is Trump). The terrible truth is that the product is vastly different and of significantly less quality than what was promised. It’s often easy to identify a bait-and-switch maneuver. Thus, be wary when someone says, “Believe me”—a favored Trump expression.

I couldn’t help but think about bait-and-switch while watching the March 20 congressional hearing by the House Intelligence Committee. The hearing focused on hacking, Putin, cabinet members’ ties to Russia, and, of course, Trump’s crazy Twitter tweets claiming President Obama wiretapped Trump Tower. (I took the liberty of adding the word “crazy,” by the way, for his accusatory tweets were just that.

I found it interesting that Trump conducted a tweet storm as the hearing was underway. He used the official Twitter account of the President of the United States. More than 1.6 million Americans received the tweets.

These tweets contained partial truths, at best, as well as grossly misinterpreted accounts of what was said in the hearings. Predictably, this was the same fantasy pattern that many of his tweets have followed since the inauguration.

Click here for a fact-check on Trump’s tweets during the congressional hearing.

As a person who spent the last half of his 50-year professional career in marketing, I am well-aware that Trump—the quintessential marketer—fully operates on a certain assumption. Americans, especially those who voted for him, will unquestioningly believe information from such a traditionally respected source as a U.S. president.

Think back to your history and civics classes. Many of us were indoctrinated in high school and college classes to believe certain positions in America are above lying. The presidency is supposedly one of the sacred positions. For my generation of Baby Boomers, this myth of total truthfulness was shattered by Nixon.

Don’t forget to take the short survey at the end of this article.

The problem now is that many Americans don’t peer beyond tweets and eye-catching headlines. As a society, we are victims of 140 characters and information overload. Fake News is a stake aimed at our intellectual heart. We fear Fake News so much that many of us will believe, without questioning, a president who tweets “Fake News” whenever someone disagrees with him, whether it’s individuals, the media or intelligence agencies.

Trump knows our fears and plays upon them by telling us in his tweets—without presenting any evidence—that information from such reliable sources as the FBI is wrong. He also keeps the tweets coming as a way to divert the thoughts of Americans away from other issues—his denial of global warming, defunding Meals on Wheels and Planned Parenthood, appointing to his cabinet inept and incapable billionaire friends rather than experts, and the likely loss of health care for 24 million Americans, to name just a few issues. Rather than draining the swamp, Trump is filling it with moccasins and alligators.

The impacts of bait-and-switch in tweets? Many Americans have learned they are unable to trust the person sitting in the Oval Office. Strife is perpetuated in society and politics, continuing to divide the nation. The Office of the President of the United States—the world’s most powerful position—is belittled in the eyes of Americans, as well as people and governments around the world. Important issues are overshadowed. Democracy is undermined. Confusion reigns.

How do we avoid the bait-and-switch of Trump’s tweets? We must cast our vision beyond what we read in his tweets. Seek out at reliable sources. Fact-check information.

Here are reliable fact-checking sites:

Also look at The 10 Best Fact-checking Sites.

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Bye, Bye, Democrats: Yadda-yadda, Not a Joiner

By Alan Vitello

Whelp…I recently switched my party affiliation from Democrat back to Unaffiliated.

That’s not because I no longer believe in most of the basic, and theoretical, tenets of the Democratic Party. It’s because I have become profoundly disappointed with the party and the way it is run.

Alan Vitello is a writer and an award-winning cartoonist who lives in Colorado. Learn more about Alan…

That, and because of a recent experience I just had. Let me explain:

Several weeks ago, I received an email from OFA, also known as Organizing for Action, formerly known as Organizing for America, which formerly was Obama for America. The email advised that—should I choose to apply—they were looking for “OFA Fellows” (read: “community organizers/activists”).

I applied. Passed. Had the phone interview. Passed. Spent four hours on a recent Saturday at an OFA orientation. I left a bit perplexed at the lack of specificity given to what, exactly, I and 40 other selected people would be doing.

Then, I sat through a two-hour webinar on March 8, followed on March 13 by an hour-and-a-half conference call with my “local group.”

It reminded me an awful lot of the disastrous and distasteful semester I spent on the student council during my senior year in high school: “Hey! Let’s pick the colors for homecoming, then we’ll put on a musical in Old Man Murphy’s barn to save the steel mill!”

What the…?

Don’t believe me? Well, read on: An OFA group in Boulder wanted to have a “Teach In.” What the…is a teach in? This is 2017, not 1969! Our local OFA manager LOVED the idea.

An observation about myself surfaced in my thoughts, something I’ve pondered other times in my life: I am not a rah-rah, praise Jesus, Can-I-Have-an-Amen! kind of person. In fact, I kind of hate when I have been in situations where I am expected to behave like a rah-rah, praise Jesus, Can-I-Have-an-Amen! kind of person.

The times I have been in such situations (and you’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now), all (ALL!) ended up with a bad taste in my mouth: teaching religious ed (and being a “proclaimer”) at our (former) Catholic church; being a Cub Scout leader; and my time as a union steward…all of these episodes asked me to open my skull, remove my brain and simply parrot the party line.

Nope. No can do.

It also became clear to me during the March 13 conference call that I was probably the only participant (of a dozen or so) who did not think Barack Obama was the single best president these ol’ United States of America has ever had. I don’t think that, at all.

It also became clear that—under the guise of the usual, liberal, let’s all respect-each-others’ opinions, yadda-yadda-yadda pablum—that the fix was in.

We were supposed to conference to offer our suggestions on what our first OFA-group community outreach capstone project was to be. Each of us was to offer an idea; then we would vote. But it didn’t go that way. Our appointed OFA manager first asked a person she knew from before what HIS idea was. Then she decided his was A GREAT idea. And that was that. Everybody else was just along for the ride.

Harrrummpphhh!

I’m not a guy who will allow his opinion to be subsumed into group think just because I am told to. Nope. It’s the editorialist/journalist and Mary and Joseph Vitello (my sensible parents) in me.

One of the many reasons I loved coaching soccer (and stuck with it fall, winter, spring,  and summer for eight years)—besides great kids and their great families—is that Arvada Edge (the soccer league in Arvada, Colo.) left me alone to run the team as I saw fit. They offered advice when I asked. They offered a few coaching seminars. More than anything, they let me coach. They let me figure it out. I never had to stand up for a praise Jesus (or Pele) even once.

Let’s face it, there’s a lesson for Democrats to learn here.

And a good lesson for me: I am just NOT a joiner. Nor a lover of yadda-yadda-yadda pablum. I still have a brain in my skull, so I’ve still got that goin’ for me.

How a young lady celebrated International Women’s Day

By Lucy Bowman

My birthday, March 8, falls on a special day—International Women’s Day. This year I celebrated my 14th birthday with family members by visiting the Colorado State Capitol Building in downtown Denver.

This article’s author, Lucy Bowman, an 8th-grade student in the Denver area, pauses during her visit to the Colorado Capitol. As with most marchers on International Women’s Day, she wore a knitted hat, which has become the symbol of protest around the world.

In the Senate, we were guests of Sen. John Kefalas of Fort Collins. He was very helpful in explaining to me everything that was happening on the floor of the Senate.

One bill discussed was a re-definition of an aspect of marijuana laws. I had expected something like this to be voted down by one side or the other, but there seemed to be bipartisan support for this industry-friendly bill.

The broad support for this bill became shocking to me when I learned that 11 senators, all men, later voted against a measure in support of more women appearing on corporate boards. This was announced around noon, and soundly booed, as we and a few hundred other people were preparing to march around the Capitol building in support of International Women’s Day.

After leaving the Senate floor, I went to the House of Representatives as a guest of Rep. Joann Ginal, also of Fort Collins. The discussions were all interesting and I liked seeing the democratic process in action. It was really inspiring to see Rep. Ginal and so many other women in jobs which play such a huge part in how our government is run.

Lucy with her mother, Shawn Bowman (left), and Rep. Ginal at the Colorado Capitol.

When the female representatives left the room, as a form of protest, they were greeted back by their male counterparts, saying that this job couldn’t be done without them.

Another highlight of the day was when my own House Representative, Jessie Danielson of Golden, stood at the microphone on the House floor. She told the group about me, mentioning that it was my birthday and how I was celebrating International Women’s Day by missing school for the day and wearing red to support the protest.

The International Women’s Day protest marches that took place around the world focused on the theme of Be Bold for Change. Learn more…

I think it’s important to protest because it shows that you really think about an issue, so to finish the day I joined the march around the Capitol.

A family event: Lucy, her grandfather John Gascoyne and aunt Marti Foxhoven participated in the International Women’s Day march in Denver.

The march was the perfect end to a great birthday and it was nice to spend this day with my Grandpa, his friend Mary, my aunt Marti, and my mom, Shawn, all of whom had joined the protest march with me.

 

Photos by Mary Ray, Fort Collins, Colo., and a thank you to her.

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The Lost SEAL

By David Adamson

Expect no Hollywood reprise of Zero Dark Thirty following the death of Chief Petty Officer William “Ryan” Owens, a 36-year-old Navy SEAL killed in action in Yemen on Jan. 29, 2017. President Trump’s explanation for what happened: “They lost Ryan.” The raid on a terrorist compound did not go according to plan. There were civilian casualties, some children, and the target escaped.

Days afterward, President Trump experienced the awful symbolic duty of being Commander-in-Chief as he stood with gravitas on the tarmac at Dover Air Force Base, watching a military detail remove Ryan’s flag-draped coffin from the cavernous fuselage of a C-17 transport. No doubt this was on his mind when he recently spoke to a joint session of Congress and promised, “We will never forget Ryan!” and everyone present rose from their seats in bipartisan cheering.

For once, Trump spoke at least a half truth. He may never forget Ryan, as he should not because he approved the raid. But sadly, except for his family, old high school buddies, community members, and fellow SEALs, the vast majority of around 319 million Americans will forget Ryan.

SEAL William “Ryan” Owens was the recipient of two Bronze Star Medals, the Global War on Terrorism Service Medal, and nine other distinguished medals. He was killed January 29 during a raid in Yemen, the first American combatant to die during the term of the current president.

Since the Vietnam era, the military has become hermetically sealed. Dinnertime frontline war footage of our wounded and dead, served up by the three major networks, eroded popular support for the war. Ever since, our military has restricted access to combat by selectively “embedding” journalists and exerting tight controls on what can be filmed, photographed, or reported.

Today less than one percent of Americans serve in our all-volunteer force. Many Americans don’t know any Middle East veterans, much less about their lives as soldiers overseas. Consequently, they also don’t understand why this military generation has the highest rates of suicide, divorce, drug abuse, spousal abuse, unemployment, and homelessness of any in our long history of wars.

To minimize U.S. casualties many combat actions are undertaken by elite, small special operations units like Navy SEALs. The demanding and dangerous nature of their work depends on secrecy and the element of surprise. Few journalists could physically endure SEAL missions as it’s not unusual to be dropped by helicopter miles from a target, trek to it carrying 100 pounds of arms and equipment, engage in combat, then trek back for extraction, sometimes hauling the dead and wounded.

After the bin Laden mission, SEALs were as revered as Jedi

A couple years ago, I had the opportunity to spend time with some retired SEALs whose careers spanned Vietnam to the War on Terror. After the SEALs’ successful mission to eliminate Osama bin Laden, they were revered as Jedi’s. I was curious to find out what these elite soldiers are actually like.

The one I was most curious about was the youngest of them, a retired commander in his early forties. He had just been out of the service for a few weeks when I met him, ending 20 years of service, most of the last 10 in the Middle East. Call him Jim, not his real name (SEALs have a tradition of keeping a low profile; American Sniper-type tell-alls are rare).

Jim was a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy with an advanced degree in international affairs. He was quiet, modest, of average height, wore a trimmed beard, and was fit looking. You would never pick him out if he were standing in a line to purchase movie tickets with his lovely wife and kids.

Jim wasn’t much for small talk, but we were able to connect when he heard I had moved from Colorado. He said that early in his career he had trained for a mission in Bosnia up in the Collegiate Range west of Buena Vista, Colo. He smiled remembering when the chopper dropped him and a group of other San Diego-based SEALS into waist-deep powdered snow on an unknown ridge.

Most civilians are clueless

Over the few months I spent weekly time with him, I always had questions. He would answer patiently, but I sensed Jim thought most civilians, including me, were clueless and lacked interest in or knowledge of the Middle East or the lives of soldiers serving there.

The older SEALs were curious, too. Sometimes I’d hear scraps of cryptic conversation as he and his shipmates (that’s what they called each other) talked about missions, those that went “kinetic” (their word for violent) like one where they breached a door and were met by an armed “bad guy,” so for some reason the lead SEAL rammed the barrel of his rifle into the man’s eye socket, instead of shooting him. Or the time an Army medic accompanying the SEALs got caught out in the open when an RPG exploded and Jim had to pull him behind a wall, the look on the medic’s face when he regained consciousness, bleeding from his ears and nose, and realized he was alive, but deaf. These snippets were always short, matter of fact, with no trace of braggadocio.

I asked Jim how he learned to function amidst the violence and chaos. He said you don’t ever get used to it, but suggested I read Lt. Col. Grossman’s On Combat and On Killing, as he did during his training.

I asked if he believed the U.S. still needs to be there—the public is tiring of wars. His answer was terse: if we don’t get them there, they’ll come after us here as they did on 9/11. I expected a more elaborate geopolitical analysis, but that was the gist of it.

How does this end?

I asked how does this end? He said you will never understand the greater Middle East until you know the difference between a Shia and a Sunni and the nations dominated by each. The violence will not end any time soon, and will get worse and spread. Turns out, he was prophetic.

How is your knowledge about Islam? Take the quiz at the end of this article.

What do you think—can members of Congress, who vote on the defense budget, identify the location of the countries in the Middle East? For that matter, can you? Click here to test your knowledge.

Jim was looking for work. Fishing or paddle boarding, even going to the local shooting range, didn’t offer much of a thrill to a frogman. He had applied for various corporate jobs, but got no interviews. He tried with the state police, but was turned down. One of the older SEALs asked him why.  Jim surmised that during the interview they asked about any problem areas he perceived with the police and public. He said police departments had become too militarized, especially the tactical squads with armored personnel carriers and carrying very-high-powered assault weapons.

I suggested with his degree and experience he should teach at the local community college. But he said no chance, I’m not politically correct—I don’t like Muslims. He said he’s a Christian, but that’s how he felt after what he witnessed.

I never saw him again after that summer ended. I heard from one of his shipmates that eventually he got a job with the local police department. However, that didn’t last long. Something was missing just handing out tickets and arresting drunks.

Jim ended up going to work for a private contractor providing security to state department facilities in the Middle East. He’s overseas half the year. The work is dangerous (remember Benghazi), but the pay is much better than being a cop (or, for that matter, a SEAL).

Now whenever I hear of attacks on U.S. facilities in Iraq, I pause and think of Jim.

Results disastrous in terms of lives and money

I also thought of Jim when President Trump proposed a $50-billion increase in defense spending. We already spend more on defense than all the other great military powers in the world combined. We’ve always had a militaristic and interventionist streak, but it went ballistic after 9/11. The result has been disastrous in terms of lives (our soldiers, bad guys, and orders of magnitude more innocent civilians) and money.

If you really appreciate the courage, dedication, and sacrifice of our soldiers—as I do—you also need to be very skeptical of anyone who advocates solving international problems with force.

The writer of this article, David Adamson, has worked in high technology and health care. He’s the author of Walking the High Tech High Wire and The Wellness Club. He’s written hundreds of blogs on politics and fitness.

We need to confront the reality that Americans live now in a perpetual fog of war created by their political leaders, the chickenhawks in both parties, striking macho poses in front of the TV cameras. They are actually consumed with fear, and thus vulnerable to the relentless pressure of military-industrial complex lobbyists, apocalyptic religious zealots, and fair knee-jerk patriots.

To do so doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate our soldiers, simply we demand to know the why, what, when, how and where of our defense policies before deploying them to godawful places where Americans are hated.

Ryan Owens joined more than 6,000 other U.S. soldiers killed in the Middle East since 9/11. Due to insidious mission creep, our fatality reports now include losses in Yemen and Syria. I’d wager the majority of people in Congress—who vote on the defense budget—would not be able to identify either country on a map of the Middle East if the countries were not labeled. Neither could their constituents, I suspect.

The financial support for our growing defense misadventures resides with Congress, the very people who rose to cheer Ryan’s shaken widow, a mother of four children. Appropriately, the cheering lasted over two minutes, a record for such tributes. However, there was something hollow and superficial about it, like it was a convenient, carefully staged photo-op.

Prior to voting on more defense spending, a more fitting tribute, and reality check, would be for every member of Congress to drive from the Capitol Building over the Potomac to Arlington National Cemetery. It’s only about 15 minutes away.

Amidst the endless rows of white marble tombstones, they’ll arrive at Grave 11483 in Section 60. There they’ll find Ryan.

 

Test your knowledge: 

“I want to stab him in the testicles a million times”

By Mary Roberts 

“What do you think we are? Cattle?”

I’m caught in a tight scree of human flesh, all pretending we aren’t pressed up against each other’s bodies — fleshy, rib thin, and somewhere in-between. Boston’s old subway cars weren’t meant to hold this many people. The cattle remark is in my head. I can’t say it. I’m afraid I’ll stutter or people would laugh at me.

That’s when it happens.

Before the 2016 presidential election, Mary Roberts wrote about real estate, her Irish Catholic childhood in Boston and the 13 dogs that have defined the chapters of her life. Now, she writes to say, “Wake up, people!” Learn more about Mary.

Someone reaches from behind me and slides his hand down the front on my pants. Both of my hands are gripping the overhead strap and my legs are parted to steady myself from the stops and starts of the jolting train.

“Hey!” I let go of the strap with my left arm and squeeze it between two of my neighbors but the hand is gone before I can grab it. It is 1970. I am 19. I burn in shame.

I had returned home after one year of college in New York. Home was Needham, a small town 10 miles west of Boston. Long island, N.Y., was not where I wanted to be. I didn’t know where I wanted to be. I had no plan or ambition, except to star in Broadway musicals but I was afraid to speak and couldn’t sing. I had also broken my kneecap twice in high school. My one year as a drama major ended in disaster when I couldn’t manage the role as Marat Sade’s mother. And she was a stutterer.

Mom’s friend got me a job in Medical Records at Children’s Hospital and I went to night school at Boston College. From the hospital, I took the Green Line to the BC stop. Three hours later, I’d head home to the Newton Highlands stop where I would take a bus to Needham Square. I didn’t drive and we didn’t have a car anyway, so the MBTA was my constant companion, riding its street cars and buses four times a day.

“I won’t do this anymore.”

I hated the way men looked at me when I’d make my way through the construction sites that littered the streets and sidewalks along the way. I’d veer out to the road followed by the whistles and calls for blow jobs from the guys with hard hats. I wore glasses, no makeup and baggy turtlenecks with the mandatory skirts but it didn’t matter. I was young.

After the subway incident, I went in to the manager’s office and told her I was done. “I can’t do this anymore,” I told her, “I won’t do this anymore.”

Two weeks later, on New Year’s Eve, 1970, I was on an airplane with my sister who was headed back to Colorado State University after Christmas break. She and I were never the best friends we should have been, only 18 months apart, but it was better than spending the rest of my life terrified of crowds and the subway. I was already unable to drive after a traumatizing car accident. A good sturdy bike would get me where I needed to go in Colorado.

“A bloated, orange-tinted mass of pulpy flesh”

Forty plus years later and Donald Trump is caught saying ‘grab them by the pussy’ and I am outraged. More than outraged.

I am indignant, incensed, I am horrified. In my dreams, I want to stab him in the heart and testicles a million times then write my name — and the names of all women who have been assaulted, grabbed, diminished, denigrated — in his blood as it slowly leaves his body, leaving a bloated, orange-tinted mass off pulpy flesh and pockmarked bone. Again, fantasies in my dream land, not for advocating violence against a president or anyone.

Does such a dream make me a terrorist? Did I break the law by entertaining fantasies of hurting the president?

I don’t harbor those fantasies because I disagree with his policies (which I do) or think that he is a disgrace as a president and a human being (which I do). I harbor those fantasies because he is a predator and a sexual bully. Every woman knows what that is and the women who voted for him have neatly compartmentalized that fact somewhere in their emotional body where it will fester and eventually destroy them.

“Was I that fragile?”

At 65 years of age, I now understand that I left Boston because someone grabbed me by the pussy. I left behind the love of my life, the ocean, my mother, the home I was raised in and the New England I still yearn for—just because an asshole grabbed me and I felt powerless and ashamed and scared that it would happen again.

Was I that fragile? Was I that sorry-ass wimp of a girl? Without the backbone to give the construction guys the finger and yell ‘fuck you’ back at them? Without the courage to call out ‘help’ in the subway car? Yes, I was.

Years later, I hug my dogs tight when I hear the President’s voice over the radio. I’m already considering a replacement for the third dog I just lost to a painful disease. Two is good but three — three is impenetrable.

Click on “Follow” at the top of the right column to receive posts from Writers With No Borders by email.

“I want to stab him in the testicles a million times”

By Mary Roberts 

“What do you think we are? Cattle?”

I’m caught in a tight scree of human flesh, all pretending we aren’t pressed up against each other’s bodies — fleshy, rib thin, and somewhere in-between. Boston’s old subway cars weren’t meant to hold this many people. The cattle remark is in my head. I can’t say it. I’m afraid I’ll stutter or people would laugh at me.

That’s when it happens.

Before the 2016 presidential election, Mary Roberts wrote about real estate, her Irish Catholic childhood in Boston and the 13 dogs that have defined the chapters of her life. Now, she writes to say, “Wake up, people!” Learn more about Mary.

Someone reaches from behind me and slides his hand down the front on my pants. Both of my hands are gripping the overhead strap and my legs are parted to steady myself from the stops and starts of the jolting train.

“Hey!” I let go of the strap with my left arm and squeeze it between two of my neighbors but the hand is gone before I can grab it. It is 1970. I am 19. I burn in shame.

I had returned home after one year of college in New York. Home was Needham, a small town 10 miles west of Boston. Long island, N.Y., was not where I wanted to be. I didn’t know where I wanted to be. I had no plan or ambition, except to star in Broadway musicals but I was afraid to speak and couldn’t sing. I had also broken my kneecap twice in high school. My one year as a drama major ended in disaster when I couldn’t manage the role as Marat Sade’s mother. And she was a stutterer.

Mom’s friend got me a job in Medical Records at Children’s Hospital and I went to night school at Boston College. From the hospital, I took the Green Line to the BC stop. Three hours later, I’d head home to the Newton Highlands stop where I would take a bus to Needham Square. I didn’t drive and we didn’t have a car anyway, so the MBTA was my constant companion, riding its street cars and buses four times a day.

“I won’t do this anymore.”

I hated the way men looked at me when I’d make my way through the construction sites that littered the streets and sidewalks along the way. I’d veer out to the road followed by the whistles and calls for blow jobs from the guys with hard hats. I wore glasses, no makeup and baggy turtlenecks with the mandatory skirts but it didn’t matter. I was young.

After the subway incident, I went in to the manager’s office and told her I was done. “I can’t do this anymore,” I told her, “I won’t do this anymore.”

Two weeks later, on New Year’s Eve, 1970, I was on an airplane with my sister who was headed back to Colorado State University after Christmas break. She and I were never the best friends we should have been, only 18 months apart, but it was better than spending the rest of my life terrified of crowds and the subway. I was already unable to drive after a traumatizing car accident. A good sturdy bike would get me where I needed to go in Colorado.

“A bloated, orange-tinted mass of pulpy flesh”

Forty plus years later and Donald Trump is caught saying ‘grab them by the pussy’ and I am outraged. More than outraged.

I am indignant, incensed, I am horrified. In my dreams, I want to stab him in the heart and testicles a million times then write my name — and the names of all women who have been assaulted, grabbed, diminished, denigrated — in his blood as it slowly leaves his body, leaving a bloated, orange-tinted mass off pulpy flesh and pockmarked bone. Again, fantasies in my dream land, not for advocating violence against a president or anyone.

Does such a dream make me a terrorist? Did I break the law by entertaining fantasies of hurting the president?

I don’t harbor those fantasies because I disagree with his policies (which I do) or think that he is a disgrace as a president and a human being (which I do). I harbor those fantasies because he is a predator and a sexual bully. Every woman knows what that is and the women who voted for him have neatly compartmentalized that fact somewhere in their emotional body where it will fester and eventually destroy them.

“Was I that fragile?”

At 65 years of age, I now understand that I left Boston because someone grabbed me by the pussy. I left behind the love of my life, the ocean, my mother, the home I was raised in and the New England I still yearn for—just because an asshole grabbed me and I felt powerless and ashamed and scared that it would happen again.

Was I that fragile? Was I that sorry-ass wimp of a girl? Without the backbone to give the construction guys the finger and yell ‘fuck you’ back at them? Without the courage to call out ‘help’ in the subway car? Yes, I was.

Years later, I hug my dogs tight when I hear the President’s voice over the radio. I’m already considering a replacement for the third dog I just lost to a painful disease. Two is good but three — three is impenetrable.

Click on “Follow” at the top of the right column to receive posts from Writers With No Borders by email.

Recklessly gambling with our children’s future

By Alan Apt

The Webster dictionary definition of Conservative and Conservator is someone who will be a protector or guardian and will tend to preserve established traditions.

Alan Apt is a modest person who downplays his many accomplishments as a writer, environmentalist, politician, and volunteer. Learn more about Alan.

The truly conservative Republican Parties of Teddy Roosevelt, Richard Nixon, and even Ronald Reagan supported the preservation of public lands and the protection of our air and water.

The current GOP attacks on public land, and on the protection of clean air and water redefines the party as radicals who are disregarding established values. Too many fossil fuel state Democrats are also following suit. They are ignoring 70 to 80 percent of all Americans, including Republicans, who support public lands and environmental rules.

Ninety-seven percent of climate scientists say the climate is changing rapidly because of enormous increases in atmospheric carbon in the 19th and 20th centuries. Even if you believe it is part of a natural cycle, it should not be difficult to agree with scientists who say that human pollution is accelerating the unprecedented rate of change.

Former Republican officials from the Reagan and Bush administrations, George Schultz and Howard Baker, have begged Congress and Trump to implement a carbon tax on industry to slow emissions—and then give the taxes back to taxpayers—while rolling back Obama’s regulations on carbon emissions.

The Republican Congress simply wants to roll back the Obama emission measures on coal, slowing the transition to cleaner fuels.

Would a true conservative gamble with the future of our climate, coastlines, water supply, and ability to grow enough food?

I think most true conservatives are not gamblers, but would at least hedge their bets by backing badly needed clean energy jobs and the training to make them accessible to out-of-work coal miners and oil drillers. One in five new jobs is created by wind and solar energy.

Wall Street is also betraying our future by continuing to disproportionately fund fossil fuels, instead of renewable energy and the millions of more jobs that could be created.

Most unbiased scientists say we are recklessly gambling with our children’s and grandchildren’s future. They remind us how a non-partisan effort saved the ozone layer by banning damaging chemicals. A healthy clean-energy, job-abundant economy could make true conservatives out of all of us.

###

What can we do? Here are important steps to take:

  • Become active in the Sierra ClubWilderness Society, Earthjustice, and other organizations concerned about the environment.
  • Learn more. Here are articles to start with:  TimeEsquire; and Scientific American.
  • Speak out. Visit, call and write your U.S. representatives and senators, and encourage your friends to do the same. Earthjustice and other organizations have websites where help is available for making phone calls and writing letters.