We think and we think. What would make any difference? Light fires on the runways, says my husband. The landing strips in Greenland, he means. Then the planes couldn’t land. No, I say, they could just bomb.

Minneapolis, too. Somebody’s blurry footage got me going—that skinhead pastor up front, in a daze, and then his skinhead henchmen—bodyguards?—coming up and whispering. Never mind that we’ve got two skinhead sons, ourselves.

(I’m speaking loosely, of course. Our boys are bald, and then they just buzz the rest off. Those church men I saw weren’t all skin, either. They all had hair on top. Their look merely lended to the ominous air.)

People storming in, rowdily scattering the congregation—did that help any? What if those protesters had just gone down the aisle singing, like Jesus was just joining in the service? If they’d sung like these Christians here, We are marching we are marching we are marching oh ohhh we are marching in the light of God, their chirpy goodness spilling over, instead of everybody setting up for a conflagration?

 

But then I realize, no. If the Nazis—because they’re Christians, too—rushed our yard and ringed our house, holding hands, their mouths in lusty circles, bawling This land’s not your land, this land is my land, this land was made for me and me, I would throw a holy fit. I would be repulsed by the depravity. I would dig my heels in even deeper.

People, we are all right.

My husband came home the other evening with the back side of our sign missing. The wind had ripped it right off. Somebody else at the march had picked it up and Cleta’d said, “I’ll hold it.” Then she must’ve taken it home. So there lay our proud bit of handiwork in the morning, on the table, minus the reverse side. If we can manage to get it back, maybe my husband will pin it down better using his staple gun. That’ll make it safer from the wind, I’m thinking. On the other hand, if the wind gets it, good for the wind. Because all we’re doing is blowing smoke, blowing noise, banging gongs and clanging cymbals.

 

You can’t win. That’s what I’m thinking. That Stephen Miller man, shudder. That Pete Hegseth man, shiver. Maybe, in our blind folly, we’ll reduce ourselves to bones and dust, just enough of somebody’s DNA left to start everything going again—the misery, the shame, the purging.

I think maybe nobody wins.

These people in the neighborhood, though. They’re all together anyhow, staying warm. Did you hear them? Did you hear them? Listen.