In Which the Political is Personal and I Swear for the First Time in My Blog.
This morning I woke up, checked my e-mail, and was reminded that I am blessed in so many ways–not the least of which is I have a grandmother who sends me such beauty:
I have been glad that I traveled those nine months with the 29th and got to know and care for those men and their wives. It helped in those awful first years after Da came home. In the first year he went over every battle with me. He didn’t go into details on the horrors, but I think he just could not believe he survived. When we left the Beach he said he finally believed he survived. I knew wives who said it was over and they didn’t want to hear about it. I believed it helped that the loss of friends was personal to me and in a very small way I could grieve with him …World War Two soldiers didn’t talk about depression. They didn’t talk about the war. They went back to school, bought small houses, all with help from the GI Bill …
Enough of this. We have been God Blessed with our daughters, grand-daughters and the fulfillment of those special three. We’ve had great friends, loving family, wonderful trips. And, we’ve had each other, and that has been a beautiful reality …Always remember how precious you are to us.
My Nana and Da can pull at my heart in a way few others can, I don’t think I have to explain to anyone why that is.
Long before my time they made sacrifices that I have benefited from, long after my time our country will continue to benefit from those sacrifices. I have been the beneficiary, my children (“those special three”) have been the beneficiary, our country has been the beneficiary. You know who else has? And here is where the personal becomes political because, in the end, politics is about people and that makes it inherently personal: Mitt Romney has been the beneficiary. And he has the nerve
to dismiss people like my grandparents, members of the greatest generation, as the 47% of folks who won’t vote for him so why should he be arsed to care about them
. You know what, Mitt, you are an American and if you, God help us, become president, you will work for my grandparents and all the rest of the “victims” you can’t be bothered with. Our working class, our poor, our children, our elderly–the key word in that sentence, Mitt, is “our.” OUR, they are ours, they are citizens, they are people who scrape to get by, who don’t make enough money to pay federal taxes, or who, because we do some things right, don’t pay taxes on money they earn in a war zone fighting for their country, or money that they earned because they fought in battles 68 years ago that they were lucky to have survived. You dismiss them, you belittle them, you think they are so repugnant and that they feel “entitled.” Guess what, they are entitled. Entitled to a decent life, to be able to earn enough to not have to worry about feeding their kids, to a helping hand should they need it, and to some damn respect from you.
I was outraged when I watched that Romney video the first time but when I read the e-mail from my Nana this morning it dawned on me that he was talking about them and how fucking dare he. What, dear Mittens, have you done for our country that even begins to touch what my grandparents, and others like them, have done? Nothing. You, you self-righteous ass, are the one who feels that you are entitled. Guess what, you’re not. You are not entitled to be president because everything else has been handed to you, because you have money, because you are not one of those “victims,” not one of those disdained 47%. You pale in comparison to my Da and to my Nana and to others who serve our country in so many ways–soldiers, teachers, firefighters, police officers, those dreaded (ACK!) federal employees, volunteers, and everyone else who knows that there is a country bigger and greater than themselves that needs to be helped along. Come November sixth you will learn, as I think you are now, that the presidency of OUR country does not belong to you. Move on. And don’t let the door hit you in your entitled ass on the way out.