A lot can happen in three years. And as I am forced, of late, to contemplate my own mortality, I wonder if my mom would be proud of the post-her me.
It's a scary question.
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Her disappointment was a painful thing to endure for me, even if I did so only rarely.
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My mom broke her hip.
Donald Trump
BERNARD Sanders.
Russia.
Fake news
Susan Sarandon
Wikileak
My mom died
Black Tuesday (8 November)
All of it.
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I was truly hopeless.
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The story of how @PCalith stepped in and heroically saved the day is now well known and is well told often, still.
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When I think about those days, so laden with anxiety and fear, it can become overwhelming. Especially when I consider the boundless generosity, and support I recieved from Twitter.
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Not even a little.
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What a horrible wall to walk into that was. And I've found myself walking into it continually every day since.
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Some days my head barely reaches above the water line, still.
Still.
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The mountains one must climb are numerous and steep.
And few find themselves up to the task.
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Bankruptcy laws.
Worker's rights.
Employment security.
Worker safety.
(List continues...)
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Access to affordable health care.
Access to an affordable, quality education.
Basically any aspect of life that the poor require access to in order to improve their lives has been pulled further from their reach.
It is getting worse everyday.
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Good question.
My mom didn't follow politics, nor did she seek to find her own political voice till the end of her life.
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She saw it too late: politics is personal.
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Hillary. Understands. All. Of. It.
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