Mackenzie Littledale's blog is about whatever might be on her mind, poetry, random thoughts, philosophy and goings-on in South Florida. She has bipolar but seems to be living well enough with it by taking her meds. Repped by Serendipity Literary.
Twitter: @mackenzielitt13
Facebook: @mackenzielittledalewriter
Today was an epic fail mental health day, but if you ask me, it was unavoidable, inevitable.
Once upon a time, I temped for a financial services company in Sales & Marketing of Derivatives on the trading floor of World Financial Center. I won't say which building or which firm. My assignment had started in August 2001 and was scheduled to end on September 11, 2001.
That morning, my niece was extremely adamant that I wake the hell up early and ride the subway with her on our way to work.
There was never an explanation, but it saved my life.
If I'd left home later, there's nothing but a melange of horror stories of where I might have been.
The Concourse.
At Duane Reade in the Concourse picking up my photos (back when film was still used in cameras)
In between the Towers
The footbridge from World Trade Center to World Financial Center
Winter Garden
Who the fuck knows
I arrived early to work and got a blueberry muffin and orange juice. I'd removed my sneakers and put on my ultra high heel black boots. You'd die for weather as glorious as that day. I felt stylish in a black turtleneck and dove grey slacks with a nice break to every step. My hair was braided back into a Yaki ponytail.
I looked amazing.
On trading floors, it's typical to have flat screen TVs playing stock market type stuff, CNBC was on all day.
I was enjoying my muffin when a loud sound, like a semi truck going over a gargantuan pothole, shook my bones and the whole room. The room: double high ceilings, wrapped around the corner of the entire floor. HUGE, in other words.
"What was that?" I heard someone behind me ask.
Since I was a transplant and hadn't lived in the city during the car bomb in the World Trade Center parking garage, I wasn't sensitive to disturbances like this.
Minutes later, a small group gathered at the southern windows. Debris on fire fell in the near distance. Then bodies.
What the hell?
Someone changed the channel on the TV to the news. Something had plowed into North Tower, but the hole looked kinda small on the screen.
We speculated. A drunk pilot of a Cessna maybe?
"Oh, God, my parents are going to worry," I thought, so I called them to set their minds at ease.
"What?" My mom hadn't seen the news, so I had to break it to her, but I didn't know anything for certain, except I was intact and she shouldn't worry.
I continued answering the phone, since that was my job. People asked if we were OK, would NYC recover? I remember clearly saying, "We're New Yorkers. It's a hole in a building. Of course we can fix that. Business as usual."
Second impact. The whole room froze in shock and fear.
"That was no accident." Did I think that, say that, or hear that? I don't know.
"Let's get everyone out of here," I heard my boss say.
"Get the fuck outta there!" I heard in my ear.
What does get the fuck outta there mean? I'm alone. Where am I going? Do I take the elevator? What about my muffin? I don't know. Get the fuck out!
I forgot my glasses.
I forgot to change back into my sneakers.
I put on my denim jacket.
I took the elevator down, but my normal exit would have led me directly to the World Trade Center concourse to the subway, and that was clearly out of the question. I exited a door I'd never been through before to a street I'd never been on before. I faced crowds barely moving. They were too busy looking for a vantage point to see the hole in North Tower. It still seemed so small, but that's an illusion. The smoke was black, the flames shot out several feet.
No one had cell signals. People got angry and frustrated. Of course, they had people to call.
I needed to call my people, too. The last person I'd call would be my mother, because I had no way to assure her that I'd be fine. I had no idea. I think I finished eating my muffin and swallowed the last of my orange juice. A tiny yellow bird with a bleeding wing floundered on the sidewalk, surrounded by shuffling feet. Someone with a backpack paused, noticed the little doomed creature and picked it up gently.
At least one innocent life got saved that day.
My faith in humanity had hope because of that gesture for a helpless bird who had no way of returning the favor.
Police roped off all passageways to the Twin Towers. I overheard that Stuyvesant High was allowing emergency calls. It was my first and only visit to Stuyvesant High. I waited on line and called my niece, who worked in Midtown (for a super fucking cool technology company, I might add).
It surprised me to hear her whole building was being evacuated because the United Arab Emirate Embassy was headquartered in it. Potential target. We had few options. The City shut down the tunnels and bridges. We decided to meet at our cousin's job in (potential target) Times Square.
I headed on foot (in those boots and turtleneck) up the West Side Highway with hundreds or thousands of other all-of-a-sudden pedestrians. Literally an endless stream of emergency vehicles, bumper to bumper, came from the opposite direction TOWARDS the towers. I loved them all. Checking out the plates, I saw New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts. I loved them so deeply, my chest ached for them. Every single one.
Did I mention the weather? Hot, dry, gorgeous.
I arrived at a pier, so I rested. A beige cloud started swallowing North Tower, and I WOULD NOT ACCEPT THAT SOUTH TOWER WAS FALLING.
Back in motion, I passed a pushcart and needed water. I waited on line and heard the man charge $5 for a bottle of water. I can't say whether that's price gouging, but he was taking a risk by being there, and for fuck's sake, I had $5 on me. I looked downtown just in time to see the needle of North Tower slide from the sky and get engulfed again in smoke, ash and dust. And blood, but that was an anguishing mental image, not something my eyes saw.
"Oh, my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God." I lost all capacity for any other words in the English language. There was nothing else I knew how to say. Those emergency responders went down there to save people and they're getting fucking crushed.
The tall man ahead of me on line turned around to face me, like in my face face me. "WHAT?!"
I looked at him. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God." I looked back downtown.
He looked, too.
I bought my water and kept going, stopping to remove my boots. At Chelsea Piers, I waited for a bus - any bus - maybe a crosstown bus to get to 6th Avenue, and I could transfer from there until I fucking got to fucking Times Square.
I overheard a man say "Thumbs, fingers."
I overheard a man say, "They got the Pentagon," and I wondered where I'd been hiding that I didn't know the Pentagon had been attacked. It didn't occur to me that he meant that same day.
Exiting the bus at 6th Avenue, I saw my bank branch! "Oh, what if I have to stay the night in the City? What if there's another attack? What if it's the apocalypse? What if (etc.) and only cash is accepted? I'd better get some. Right. Fucking. NOW!"
While waiting for another bus to continue moving toward Times Square, police and ambulances raced up 6th Avenue, dust still rolling off their tops. I think I may have been around 28th Street by this time, and the volume of dust and ash it would take to still roll off a vehicle from the World Trade Center boggled my brain.
Meanwhile, shoppers shopped, diners dined, laughers laughed. Surreal. Aggravating. Infuriating. How DARE anyone carry on as if the Towers haven't just fallen to rubble? Couldn't they see down 6th Avenue and notice a conspicuous absence of epic proportion?????
I bought a pair of sneakers on the street. They didn't fit quite right, and the guy didn't have change for a $20. Sure he didn't. Whatever. $20, $3 it made no difference.
I can't remember if I got on another bus or not, but sooner or later, I reached my cousin's job. They'd offered to let employees stay to eat, stay to spend the night, whatever they needed. The city was on lock down. My niece, our cousin, and I all had sandwiches and watched news on the TV.
A FUCKING FULL SIZE COMMERCIAL PLANE?! THAT'S WHAT HIT THE DAMN TOWERS?? Who would? Why would? Who could? Now what? Oh my God!
I couldn't believe what I was seeing on the TV.
We stayed there for a few hours, until the island opened up around 4:00pm. From that point, the day disappears from my memory. Crushed under the weight.
I used to order grande French Roast or Italian Roast, until I started saving money by buying the grinds and brewing at home.
2. What does your workstation look like?
I don't work in an office. It looks an awful lot like a place to relax. Can't say more, but I bust my ass there.
3. Favorite food?
Cheeseburger medium rare. Homemade salad (I do make a kick ass salad). Lasagna is near the top of the list.
4. Favorite author?
Absolute favorite of all time is Ken Follette's historical fiction!
5. What do you think of open relationships?
I'm sure they work for some, but I secretly harbor the wish to be a man's one and only.
6. What is your favorite video game?
I used to dig Centipede and Galaga
7. Guilty Pleasure Food?
I don't feel guilty about chocolate
8. Favorite movie?
The Harry Potter series, Memoirs of a Geisha, and The Matrix Trilogy are in my top 5.
9. Favorite book?
For personal development: 7 Habits of Highly Effective People
For entertainment: Pillars of the Earth
10. Twitter or Instagram?
Twitter! What's Instagram?
11. Desktop or laptop?
Laptop
12. Best advice you’ve ever received?
Take it all in stride (Thank you Scott)
They can't eat you (Thank you Woody)
13. What project are you working on right now?
Nothing. Work is all consuming. In Sept, I'll go over my beta readers' notes and see what changes my manuscript calls for. I have a secret career-related project, and notes for two short stories. I have feedback on an essay, so I'll go through that to tighten it up and seek publishing in literary journals.
14. Favorite color?
Purple, and red, and black.
15. Did you get good grades in school?
Up until high school
16. Dream job?
That's part of my secret career related project. That plus fiction writing.
17. Play any sports?
Does typing at my laptop count?
18. Do you have a degree?
No
19. Nationality?
USA
20. What is your favorite kind of blog post?
I've enjoyed topics on taking care of mental health, ongoing stories, tips on writing craft. It has to be real, either heartfelt or thoughtful
21. What do you like to collect?
books, coffee mugs and magnets
22. Describe yourself in three words?
Short, fat, philosophical
23. If you were a rapper what would your stage name be?
Lost in Thought or maybe Mental Maze
24. Who is the last person you DMed?
(HI JOAN) Mackenzie Littledale! Here’s a shout out to Mack!
Last DM in Twitter was to Diego Lomax when I started drafting this. Now, Phebe Lawson
25. What’s on top of your wish list right now?
To move into an apartment with a yard and a washer/dryer.
26. Sorting house?
Gryffindor
27. How many tattoos do you have?
Zero
28. What are you most grateful for this year?
So grateful to have money for the food I enjoy, to provide a home for myself and my cat, a super busy promo period at work that I can count on, an upcoming vacation to Atlanta, making new friends on Twitter, feedback from beta readers (overall so far "great manuscript")
29. What’s the best thing that’s happened to you this month?
I took myself and my mom for a little mini spa day and the look on her face was priceless.
30. What’s the best thing that’s happened to you today?
I have the day off work. I went to a different therapist and the session was really good. I actually woke up rested this morning.
31. What’s the best thing ever?
Chocolate, cats, purple and falling in love.
32. Favorite season?
Fall, but I'm not up north anymore.
33. Favorite holiday?
Thanksgiving. It's nice to hear what people are thankful for, and gratitude heals all wounds.
34. What fictional character do you relate to the most?
Hermione Granger. My hair is kind of wild and bushy, and I never hesitated to put my hand up first if I thought I knew the answer to a question. It was refreshing to see a super smart female in a position to help out and not be ridiculed for braininess.
35. Do you like surprises?
Only pleasant surprises.
36. What’s the biggest surprise you’ve ever had?
When my niece announced she was pregnant.
37. Which surprise made you cry.
I can't remember the last time I cried. I'm gonna have to say the ending of Avengers: Infinity Wars
Plus, there are some inspirational moments on Twitter, like a writer named a character after me. That touched me deeply.
38. What’s the best surprise you’ve given someone else?
I took my mom for her first facial and she couldn't get over how pleasant it feels to be pampered and treated like royalty. Honoring the divine feminine in ourselves is the best gift I could give any woman.
39. Do you like muffins?
Sure
40. Do you cook often?
Never. Hate it.
41. What’s your favourite dessert?
The one I can get my hands on fastest!
42. Is there a dessert you don’t like?
Anything with cooked raisins.
43. Cake or pie?
I want both.
44. What’s your least favorite food?
I won't eat off a plate that has anchovies on it
Really Joan? I like sardines.
45. What’s your favorite condiment?
Mayonaise
46. It’s 4am on a random Saturday. What are you eating?
Reese's peanut butter cups
47. If you could teach a college class, what would it be called?
I'm actually creating a course (not college level) for newbies in my profession. Beyond that, it's a secret writing project
48. Best animated film?
Inside Out
49. What has a guy said or done to impress you?
Hmm. Some punk tried to pick me up with potato chips in his mouth. It left a negative impression.
50. Best thing to do on a first date?
Dinner and movies. I'd probably marry someone who took me to a Rage Room or jet skiing on a first date.
51. Worst thing to do on a first date?
Rest his hands on my legs like we know each other like that
52. What’s the best pick up line?
I've been enjoying your writing and I'd like to take you out, anywhere you'd like to go.
53. Best comic book character?
I'm not a fan of comic books
.
54. Name three things which can always be found in your purse.
Whatever's in there is breaking my shoulder. It feels like gold bullion and I'd love to get my hands on it.
55. Favorite drink?
Non alcoholic: water, peach iced tea, Coke
Alcoholic: Cosmopolitan, Moscato, Bacardi and Coke, pina colada.
56. If you could play a historical character in a movie who would it be?
Michelle Obama
57. Kittens or puppies?
Why choose?
58. Favorite sushi roll?
Salmon roll, no avocado
59. What lipstick do you use?
L'Oreal
60. What foundation do you use?
None
61. Blow dry or air dry?
I let the salon work that out
62. Who is your fashion icon?
I haven't paid attention in ages!
63. Favorite Disney character?
Riley in Inside Out
64. What are you doing tomorrow?
Writing my daily vss365, Bravewrite and vsspoem on Twitter, then working
65. Movie you laughed the hardest through?
The Hangover and Super Bad.
66. Movie that made you cry?
Immortal Beloved
67. If you could sing a duet with anybody, who would you choose?
I'd spare the world that disaster
68. If your life was a song what would the title be?
For several months, I was so freaking stressed out that the only way I could calm down enough to fall asleep was to imagine winning Powerball. The jackpot was outrageous and imagining what I'd do with the wins was fun. A bit too much fun.
Remember the Mirror of Aristed in the first Harry Potter? Yeah, man, I'd just sit and stare and waste away the rest of my life with my fantasy jackpot.
I imagined winning every single night at bedtime until I wrote down what I'd do.
Did you know that 80% of lottery winners worldwide file bankruptcy within 5 years of winning? It's true! Google it, but wait until after you finish reading this, if you don't mind.
I don't want my loved ones (or myself) to wind up on that list of poor bastards, so I decided, if I win, my favored beneficiaries have to learn how to manage their finances. At the time, the jackpot hovered around $1 billion 💰🤑, so I can only imagine my loved ones turning into money leeches (not how I want their behavior toward me to become). Let's face it, if I had a virtually unlimited source of funds to tap, I'd tap it. So would they.
In my bedtime imaginings, I devised a weekend party with my loved ones, and at the end of one night, I'd sit them down in a conference room. The first go-round, I'd give them all a token amount, like $5,000. They would have to follow my rules for one year, and if they do, I'd double the money to $10,000. If they don't follow all the rules, I'd cut the money in half to $2500.
After the first year, I'd give them a new goal, with the same rules. At the end of year two, I'd double the money again to $20,000. Again, if they break a rule, the money gets cut in half.
Anyone who reaches $640,000 would get the added optional rule of sharing their money, and the rules, with someone they trust. However, if the new person breaks a rule, both of them get their stipend cut in half. If all of them follow the rules, I'd double their money to $1.28 million.
See how wealth and knowledge can multiply?
What are the rules?
Save 10%,
Contribute the maximum amount allowed by law to a retirement account,
Don't ask me for an additional nickel.
Seriously, those are the only rules.
And they're so simple and so unforgiving that I bet not everyone would follow them.
Why did I even write this post? Because someone on twitter asked a question that made me remember. Her open-invitation question was "What's an ethical way to give away $5 million?"
Comments welcome. Feel free to argue with me.
Thanks for jogging my memory Dr. Tara!
Be well and have a magical day!
Mackenzie
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Follow me on Twitter @mackenzielitt13
Even more than writing itself, what gives me deliriously supreme satisfaction is helping writers tap into their strength to overcome writers block. Writers block is a bitch, and that is the damn truth.
Writers block feels more like being locked inside a mausoleum. Hey, I'm not dead! I don't belong in here! I'm alive! I'm alive!
Sports champions tell us our only real competition is yesterday's version of our best self.
We have to outwit and out-maneuver our inner demons almost daily. This should really be easy for writers because demons speak our language. We taught it to them.
We empower them with an endless bank of images that scare the living daylights out of us.
We stock their vocabulary arsenal with the exact phrases that shut us down and force us into hiding.
Our fearful demons say we're not good enough, we're stupid, we're boring, no one loves us or what we do or what we have to say. What can we do?
We fight back. Just about every word has an opposite, so we fight their fire with water. We fight their fear with bravery. We fight their hate with love. We fight their apathy with feeling. We fight their barbed words with reassurance.
You see where this is going, yes?
At the very least, doubt the voice of doubt. When self doubt says, "You don't know what you're doing. Nobody is gonna read your shit. There are better books on the bookstore shelves. Who are you to compete?" Doubt that right back. "What if I figure out what I'm doing? What if I find a blog or book or PDF from a writer who's been in this same position? What if 1000 people want to read exactly what I write? Maybe there are better books, but better is subjective. (Seriously even Stephen King has detractors, right?) What if somebody is going to think my book is better? I want to compete! Maybe I'm a white belt now, but if I just keep at it, I can reach green and brown and black. Maybe my first attempt won't win, but I'm gonna cross that damn finish line."
Tap into a superhero's fortitude and superpowers, and imagine those powers as your own. The Arts provide so many shining examples of protagonists (realistic or futuristic, your choice).
Writers do this in words. We must become pain. We must inflict pain on FEAR. The bogeyman better hear me coming and run like hell. We must become verbally muscular to develop resilience.
Is life really assaulting us or is life throwing too many situations at once? When we're begging to know why life is "doing this to me", it creates a way forward to change to the question to "Why is life doing this for me?"
Life hands out shit and gold. It isn't evenly dispersed. Gold is rare. Shit is common. However, even in the right hands, shit can be transformed into manure and fertilizer and keep the planet fertile and healthy.
Do not be stopped. Not here. Not now. Feel alone? Call a friend. Feel like being alone, decline the invitations. Do whatever you need to get through this moment and keep your eyes on the prize.
I am on writing hiatus because work is kicking my ass, but the promotion period at work is coming to a close at month end, and Writerly Mackenzie will have ample time and inspiration to hit the laptop with a vengeance. With a fucking VENGEANCE.
The topic was writing is supposed to be hard as fuck. If it were easy, the reward would mean nothing. Typing "the end" would feel like any other day, any other occasion. Wrestling with self doubt, jinx, doom, and inner critic makes finding confidence feel like the special occasion it is. Digging deep inside your mind, imagination and the dictionary makes crafting the perfect sentence feel like victory! It IS victory.
Dear writer, all art is partially self-portrait, so that superhero and protagonist in your story is tapping into your inner - what? Fortitude, cleverness, resilience, insight, wisdom, patience? You have inner something. The only way to develop it is to USE it.
What DO you have going for you? What ARE you good at?
Tap THAT.
There are so many virtues to choose from. Can you be patient with yourself as the ideas percolate in your cranium? Can you write 10 poems in a day while your manuscript sits it out a couple innings? Do you see 50 variations of green in a park? Can you write about that? Are you resilient, fast, strong, tenacious, resourceful, funny, thoughtful, persuasive? You can tap into anything inside you to keep going. And, honest to God, if you can't find what you need within yourself right now, reach out to a friend who encourages you. Cry it out.
I'll leave you with this: When you're tired, rest. But do not quit. Do not fucking quit.
Make your OWN day magical today. Why not? You deserve to encourage yourself, too.
Dammit, I'm all emotional right now.
I'm gonna cross that finish line too.
On my way to work, I was in the left hand lane and an endless line of cars was parallel parked. I saw something moving under the back end of car. It was shapeless and unrecognizable until a human head and shoulders and back became clear. It was a man getting into position to inspect under the car.
With traffic coming only inches from his head!
Aside from sheer stupidity, I had to wonder what would compel a man to take such a huge risk with his life.
The writing exercise is to write a story based on an image from real life or TV. That was real life and it'll be the basis of a short story.
So far, I like my notes on it, but I do need to interview some people from Ecuador and Guatemala to make it authentic. Ecuador will be easy since I know at least one person who escaped. Guatemala might not be. Writing about immigrants from two different countries may turn into too much backstory for something so short, but I can decide later.
Flash forward to my post of my favorite scene in my WIP - Joe and Michelle visiting a cemetery - that got over 500 views, and I'm pretty excited about the future prospects of my writing career.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for following. Thank you for the comments and feedback.
Writing is really a journey, one letter at a time.
I've had this conversation a couple times with writers who struggle with mental health challenges. It's not limited to creatives. It's not limited to minds under duress.
SELF DOUBT takes up residency in the human mind. Every human mind. The question then, is how much real estate do we let Self Doubt take up rent free?
The conversation goes something like this:
Me: Okay, you're a writer. When you hear the voice of Self Doubt (or Inner Critic), what does she look like?
Other writer describes Self Doubt as herself, but elderly, schtooped over, wrinkly, raspy voice, maybe even cataracts in her eyes, demeaning, belittling.
Photo: Shutterstock
Me: Excellent, you see her. If you go forward, Self Doubt says that's wrong. If you go to the right, she says that's wrong. If you go to the left, she criticizes that move too. If you stop and loop back, she doubts that too. What does Self Doubt want?
Other writer: I don't know. For me to stay right here?
Me: Exactly. Self Doubt is a miserable old has-been whose sole purpose is to DOUBT YOU, no matter what you do or which direction you choose. She feeds on your joy and confidence. If you listen to Self Doubt (or Inner Critic), you sit still, life passes you by and you become HER. Your vision winds up diminishing. Your back bends over. Your joints ache with every move. You shrivel up and life a half life.
Other writer: Oh my God!
Me: I've been in those dark lonely places with Self Doubt's voice. And sooner or later, I realized, hey, I'm ALIVE. I'm not ready to be buried under all this negativity.
Other writer: GIRL
Me: She's keeping you from writing, so let's just be where you're at right now. You need to get around SELF DOUBT the obstacle so you can get past her and get back to your writing. Make Self Doubt a character or monster or villain. What does she eat, since she's so evil? How does she smell? What does she wear? Write a protagonist to defeat her. Write a story where Self Doubt the villain gets what's coming to her, then go back to your writing project.
Other writer: Hangs up on me immediately and gets to it!
I fucking love this.
Back to the real estate in your psyche devoted to Self Doubt. Don't let that bitch squatter live extravagantly in your head at the expense of your joy and happiness. Shrink it down to size and let the real estate for your Self Confidence expand, lavishly.
It's not for me to tell a writer why she writes. If she wants to be published or writes for her own enjoyment, the decision either way is solid and she validates it on her own terms.
For many years, I wrote for my own pleasure.
That changed.
I now write privately for my pleasure but also in hopes of being published.
Fiction-wise, one of my #vss365 stories got accepted for inclusion in an upcoming anthology! Two wins for me!
I have a poem under consideration right now for an astrology related anthology and they should give word soon.
The MC of This Darkness is Mine, "Michelle Delphinia" wrote a compelling essay with a psychological and spiritual interpretation of The Wizard of Oz and The Wiz. I'm seeking a home for this essay in a university literary journal.
Before my short story can win a competition, I have to submit it. Before I submit it, I have to write it.
This is the writer's life. Not to be envied, and not to be taken lightly. We are a bit crazy, often solitary, but always searching for that word. Even though English is made up of roughly 40,000 words, sometimes even English leaves us flat, and we have to borrow from other languages for the perfect conveyance of meaning or feeling.
Since writing has been tremendously therapeutic for me, I want to press on. A webinar I listened to on writing short stories said one way to use them is to experiment with new genres and to introduce my writing to an audience.
That's exciting!
I'm going to try my hand at writing a short story about Emma, a recent widow who is forced to financially support herself, but she develops a physical condition that makes her chosen profession almost impossible. However, when she's working, she's restored (in a sense) but in a most uncomfortable and ironic way.
Writing is even more important to me than therapy. It's a way to experience the world and reduce it to words. Can words do that?
Staying on top of my bipolar means finding meaningful challenges to stay engaged in the business of life. And taking my meds nightly. Can't forget that. Writing can be lonely, which makes it well suited for loners. Sort of. Loners can't just observe humanity, but interact with people, know people, love people, talk with people. Sometimes that awkwardness makes for great stories.
I have no way of knowing whether my social on/off switch is the way it is because of the bipolar, or if it's hereditary. My mom is something of a wallflower, while my father was charismatic and outgoing. I get the dubious distinction of being shy at times and being extroverted at other times. I have not yet found a way to control this. Perhaps I can write a character who can, and then learn from her.
I'm keenly interested in knowing what writing means to you. Please describe in the comments. How does it help you navigate your real life?
Today is the USA's 243rd birthday as a free sovereign nation. That sounds great, except for the barbarians guarding our southern border and occupying 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
All the ideals we claim to stand for have to mean something. They have to be for PEOPLE, regardless of skin color and all the other exemptions.
Caging children like animals is disgusting.
What is liberty? How do you claim to stand for it when you only mean liberty for certain classes and colors of people? Just how fucking revolting do you have to be?
