It’s nearly impossible to hold onto perspective.
Donald Trump — the painfully sub-sub-par, hate-filled, resentful cretin who has the uncanny ability to make one month feel like a thousand days — has coated perspective in a obscenely thick layer of Crisco. The harder we try to grasp it, the more likely it is to jet out of our hands.
Our institutions have failed us, and we in turn have failed ourselves.
One supposes that the full trappings of power can make a thing sound reasonable, that if something unpalatable is rolled out in stages, the citizenry takes that time to accept the revised status quo. And if one supposes that, they suppose right.
Let’s not lionize ourselves here – we’ve allowed it to happen. We’ve accepted revisions the status quo, told ourselves that’s how things are now.
The prevailing narrative about resistance has been so much wind. Non-violent protest, bereft of the menace of force, is reliant on symbolism to do its heavy lifting. Here we are, it says. Here is a mass of our bodies, united in purpose. We who deviate are not alone. But what happens when the immediacy of the shock fades, when the threatened uprising fails to substantially materialize?
By degrees, we adjust to the new reality. We don’t like it, but we object to it the same way we object to payroll taxes and traffic. The window of possibility contracts, and we turn our focus from the heart of the problem to its outer edges. We strategize on how to make an unpleasant situation more bearable.
The resistance has become the acceptance.