#evil republicans

[secularsasquatch]

[afriblaq]

[angelx1992]

[jasminedrawsshit]

Every time a republican uses the term "woke" i die a little on the inside

[posttexasstressdisorder]

[thegrwth]

Trump’s Amerika

Source:

https://www.aljazeera.com/amp/gallery/2021/1/6/in-pictures-trump-supporters-gather-near-white-house

In Pictures: Pro-trump mob storms US Capitol building

Supporters of US President Donald Trump breach Capitol building as Congress met to confirm Joe Biden’s election victory.

[chrysoberylcrow]

Can't eat a house

Can't eat utilities

Can't eat gas

Can't eat an education

Can't eat clothes without holes

Can't eat a car

...but after all that is paid for, we have so much disposable income in America, right fellow 99%!?

[tiasmusings]

I Was a Refugee

I will leave you, before the election, with this. It's something I've been trying to figure out how to say this whole election season, ever since Syrian refugees became a national political issue.

I was a refugee.

My home was destroyed. Not by war or genocide, but my home was destroyed and I was set adrift, not knowing whether I would have a roof over my head, where I would end up living, when I would be able to work or play or do anything but try, desperately, to survive.

My experience was easier than most who can say that. I never did go a night without food or shelter, though there were a few I thought I might. I didn't have to board a dingy, leaky boat to cross a sea or lake or great raging river, or handle travel across a militarized border. Nobody hunted me down for my beliefs. But I was a refugee.

And I heard the things refugees hear. Outlets in Texas and California talking about the dangers of the refugees coming in from the Gulf and from New Orleans. That they would bring murder and rape and theft to Dallas, to Houston, to Los Angeles. They weren't talking about me - I'm white. But, at the same time... they kinda were talking about me.

They were definitely talking about my friends and people I knew and people I'd watched play music in Jackson Square or bought burgers from at New Orleans Hamburger and Seafood Company or chicken from at Popeye's. People I'd seen in my day to day life. People I'd gone to school with.

And they kinda were talking about me.

I was, after all, a refugee.

I wanted to be safe. I wanted a place to rest my head, a place I knew my sick mother would be able to get her meds refilled and see doctors. I wanted food, gasoline, shelter, a bed, a power outlet.

I was at the mercy of those around me. Some of them treated me in a way that made clear that they knew I was at their mercy. Many people were immensely kind. People I wouldn't have expected. The Honda dealership in Merrilville, Indiana did much-needed work on my car for free. A game store in Hobart, along with some of its regulars, gave me enough cards that I could take my mind off my worries by playing Magic for the first time in years. Those cards and the kindness shown by some of the people I met kept me sane.

But I was called worthless by an uncle, thrown out alongside my mother by an aunt. At a church, I got judgement at a time when I urgently needed grace. Those who I would think would be called most strongly to kindness were cruelest.

I got judgement from people I barely interacted with, too. I parked at a store and a passer-by saw my Louisiana license plates and immediately started to demand to know why I thought I deserved tens of thousands of dollars in his taxes - he was quite adamant, HIS TAXES - because I was enough of a fucking moron to live in "a giant fucking punch bowl."

He followed me to the store. Only stopped when a greeter glared at him.

Wal-Mart's greeters are vastly undervalued.

The tens of thousands of dollars in HIS TAXES I got amounted to enough to buy a plane ticket to California - one-way - when I moved west, and to replace my broken computer when I got there with one I built very much on the cheap.

I was a refugee, once. I was frightened and worried. I stopped every hundred miles between Coushatta, Louisiana and Lake Station, Indiana for gas, because most of the gas stations, even a week after Katrina, were out of gas. Those that were not had vastly marked up their prices.

I still worry. I still dream that I will wake up tomorrow and find that I no longer have the security I have now. That something has gone wrong, and my home is no longer my home. I have those dreams less now than I did ten years ago, less than I did five years ago. But I still have them.

I didn't have them after the fire. I didn't have them after the eviction. But I've had them since Katrina, because I didn't just lose my house in Katrina. I lost my home.

I'll have them the rest of my life.

I was a refugee once.

And there is a special place in Hell for Donald Trump, for the Senate and House and state-level politicians, for the pundits and the opinion journalists, for everyone who stokes the fear that makes being a refugee even more frightening, painful, and dangerous than it already is.

I was a refugee once, and when my ballot arrived, I voted for Hillary Clinton.

Because I know.