In 1926, Charles F. Lummis, a city editor for the Los Angeles Times, historian, and city librarian at the Los Angeles Public Library, wrote, “Most of us know as much of history as a pig does of lipsticks”. Over time, the metaphor morphed to “putting lipstick on a pig”, meaning to falsely pretty something up so as to disguise its ugliness (apologies to all adorable pigs).
It also reminds me of Juliet’s frustrated expression at realizing that the only thing standing in the way of her love for Romeo was his name. The two young lovers belonged to rival families engaged in a serious feud which would certainly doom their epic romance. “What’s in a name?” Juliet asks. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
What’s in a name, indeed. No matter what you call it, the truth will out.
So much of what we read in the press about the mounting horrors, illegal acts, budget slashing and familiar sins of the current white house resident make the phrase “toned down” seem like a joke. As a remedy, therefore, I am asking everyone to call these despicable acts by their proper names—names that honestly label the chapped lips of the pigs, and the stink beneath the rose-wash.
Concentration Camps. The places that immigrants are snatched off our streets and sent, without the ability to communicate or have their day in court and without notice to their families. In these places, conditions are so bad, members of Congress are bound and hauled away to prevent them from entering and inspecting. Our uber-polite press refers to these hell holes as Detention Centers.
Murder. In dismantling US AID, as well as twisting arms for the passage of the Big Ugly Medicaid Slashing Budget, Trump, Kennedy and Musk doomed at least 20 thousand Americans, and almost 20 million of the world’s sickest and poorest people, to death, as a result of the termination of AIDS prevention meds, vaccinations, vital medicine, food, water and other basic necessities of life. Call it what it is. Homicide.
Gulags. Remote prisons in other countries to which immigrants are deported, without representation or care, to serve indefinite sentences out of the sight and, the despots hope, far from the attention of the American people. In El Salvador, the gulag is named the Center For The Confinement of Terrorism, as though it is merely an abstract concept, and not a living, breathing, human, who is stuffed into cramped living spaces with little food or water and no communication, medical care, or recourse.
Pogroms. For people like my grandparents, who fled pogroms in Ukraine in 1910, witnessing today’s terror-generating raids and seeing masked thugs slam people to the ground, chase helpless workers through fields, and wrench their shoulders practically out of their sockets in order to hog-tie their hands, would be chillingly familiar. They would also recall a distant echo of smashed shop windows in seeing a horde of bullies breaking car windows to drag a struggling onlooker out of his car simply for filming their illegal acts. He is hog-tied and shoved into an unmarked van.
Junta. A militarized group serving a strongman, seizing power and using illegal means to govern a country. As in Myanmar or Niger, the military back-ups are masked and savage, unfettered by law or decency.
Let us name it for what it is, and stop “pussy-footing” around (treading lightly to defray harm away from ourselves).
Fake It Til You Make It
Fake it til you make it may seem similar to actively covering up a negative image, but is, in reality, quite different. It has come to mean, in modern times, the optimistic steps taken to manifest something into reality simply by acting as though it already exists. Think “Whistle A Happy Tune,” from The King and I.
The idea that you could think something into existence has, in the past, sparked controversy. First identified as a Biblical reference gleaned from various thoughts strewn within the Gospel of Mark, the concept of “Name It and Claim It” has recently fallen into some disfavor, characterized as nothing but a baseless justification for accruing wealth. It made a brief comeback as “The Power of Positive Thinking” by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, but has only recently caught on, in a positive light, as a reaction to feelings of helplessness and hopelessness engendered by the many assaults on our morals, ethics, and beloved country, by Trump.
This idea is powering a growing movement of pushback and resistance against the oval office resident and his trove of golden calves, (found both on the shelves of his office and in the other Cabinet, the one with all the scary clowns).
Since the takeover of this country by the My America Greed Association (MAGA), hopelessness and helplessness have fought to gain an emotional perch with us, fed by the plethora of news swamping every single electronic device we own. How can we combat this? It seems so powerful, so inevitable.
We wake up every morning, like author Anne Lamott, with a gaggle of selves crowded at the end of our beds, yacking about what a disappointment we are, how we need to hide from the world and how powerless and behind we already are on the day. What can we possibly do?
Fortunately, we are beginning to understand that our everyday small acts, writ large, will turn the tide. A handful of us, showing up and being loud, on a streetcorner in Culver City, is but a sliver of the multi-millions turning against a government which has turned against us. We are deciding to believe that we can make a difference and we will fake it til we make it.
We take heart from thousands of homemade signs waved at honking cars, from the stories of neighbors who “accidentally” block the exit of ICE thugs who are kidnapping our nannies, our gardeners, and the guy who dries our car at the car wash.
We do a kindness for a stranger, sort food at a food bank, give someone a ride who is afraid to sit at a bus stop, and feel a lift of joy, of belonging. Again, to quote Anne Lamott, “In the smallest moments of taking in beauty, in actively being people of goodness and mercy, we are saved.” And more, we become an act of resistance.
I think of it as adding my stick to the growing pile of those of us devoted to ending the nightmare. As we saw in Paris, a pile of sticks can block an army. American Bastille Day anyone? One Day More, with joy, community and a sense of relief?
It’s time to muscle our way back into governance, act as though we can take our country back, and, just like Capt. Jean Luc Picard, make it so.
Sheila
