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This is why you shout racist abuse at black footballers.

You go to football matches and shout racist abuse at black footballers because you have paid your money and so for the next ninety minutes you own every footballer in that stadium,  especially the black ones. You own their strengths and their flaws and everything you know or suspect about their personal lives. For that time, your mouth becomes a firehose of hate. You look at this black man and you think: this is my victim, my ground, my England.

Why is this your England? Because just enough people tell you that this is so. There are plenty of people around you in the crowd who will listen to you roar abuse and who’ll still share a drink and a joke with you at half-time and after the match. In relation to racism, they’ll fall into a few different groups. A few will be just as vocal as you. Others will wish they had the courage to shout as loudly as you do but they won’t, not yet. Others still will have black friends at home but will act as if it’s not their problem – they won’t even report you to the stewards. They will know they are cowards and a few of them will later tell their black friends how awful it was, looking anxiously in their friends’ eyes for some form of forgiveness for their inaction, as if black people are suddenly the fairy godmothers of football.

You think this is your England because you read the most popular newspapers in the country and they agree with you – they agree with you that black footballers, like children, must be seen and not heard, that the second they decide to do anything more than score spectacular goals they become a threat. Those newspapers remind you daily that there is no aspect of criminality to which a black footballer cannot be connected.

You think this is your England because – well, why wouldn’t you? You have a political system whose immigration laws have long discriminated against the exact same social group from whom these black footballers claim heritage. You listen to your radio and one of its prime-time presenters has a history of racism stretching back decades. You watch your television and one of its most high-profile producers once edited the most popular newspaper in the country at a time when it was referring to African men women and children as cockroaches at the very moment that they were drowning in the Mediterranean. You log onto Twitter and you see one of the most-followed presenters rolling his eyes as if you are just some lone wolf of racism and have not been emboldened by the years of hard-boiled bigotry that his media outlet and others have been diligently pumping out.

But you are at this game screaming because, at some level, you are worried that this is not your England, and this stadium is the safest place you can take revenge on black footballers for making you feel this way. These black men are crawling all over your football teams and your TV screens and your culture. If you stop for a moment you will worry about how many people seem to love this England, even with all these black men in its national team – and maybe, to your dismay, that’s even why they love this team more.

The black footballer is within earshot so you call him a black cunt in the hope that your words will land with the force of a whip. You hope the black player will respond there and then, in your mind making a champion out of you, but he does so later, online and at length. Somewhere, in a newsroom or a living room, there are countless others with the same bile in them as you, slightly more confident today than they were yesterday.

You still think this is your England because there are not enough people in your immediate circle, even if they disagree with you, who have the courage to tell you differently. Your England is small, bitter, brutal and fearful, and it always has been. Your England thinks it has black friends but would never allow them to date your sons and daughters. Your England desperately needs one corner of a stadium, one section of an angry crowd, its safe space. You ruled the world and now you can’t even rule a touchline. You can never stop shouting because if you hold your tongue for long enough the appalled silence in the crowd around you will forever remind you of what you have lost.

“Keep Kicking”, a post about Pittsburgh.

You began writing today before 6am – it was the only way you felt you could react to what was happening. You couldn’t sleep, your guts were on fire with the news from Pittsburgh, the attack on the synagogue that left eleven people dead. This thing that is tearing at you is not new. It has been there since the day Trump was elected, an event swiftly following which your sleep promptly dropped from six hours a night down to four. For the first few months that you lost a third of your sleep you denied why it was happening, but then you accepted it – that your body was telling you to be ready. You have rested enough, it was telling you, and given what is coming you have so much work to do.

In the early months after the election of Trump you didn’t know best to do, nobody did – maybe not even Trump himself, delirious with the unexpected thrill of his dangerous new pulpit. All you knew was that you were reminded of that scene from Titanic, the awful pause after the ship, having struck the iceberg, had cracked in half and was perfectly poised above the ocean, prepared to plummet. You had to write, even if the quality of the words that emerged was terrible. You had to write, just as you are writing now. You do this because the very act of motion is resistance, that if you stop kicking you drown.

You bumped into two friends earlier this afternoon. You thanked one of them for his furious Facebook posts about Trump’s latest outrages, and he confessed that he felt they were futile. They weren’t, you told him. Everything matters. Your fury matters. Once you are numb to it, that’s the end. We need to keep feeling. It is not inevitable that the very worst is ahead.

You had a beautiful day, even though it is hard to remember that. You visited one dear friend to celebrate her wedding to a wonderful man, and then saw another on her brief return to the city. Both of them are flourishing, doing better than they have ever done. Yet when you woke this morning, you didn’t think of either of them, but of Pittsburgh, and of the hurricane of hatred that Trump continues to unleash.

Your sleep patterns have improved these days, because you have become better at ignoring Trump, of not allowing him to ruin your day, even though the horror of what he is doing often settles across the skies like nuclear winter. But Pittsburgh has happened and the lack of sleep is back. You remember people writing that talk of white supremacy was exaggerated, that the Democrats were crying wolf over the terrors to follow his election, you even remember one friend airily remarking that the Trump presidency, restrained by America’s formidable institutions, would be a quiet one. You remember reminding people, as had countless others, that the toxic levels of anti-Semitism being pumped into the atmosphere would one day thaw some long-frozen and rage-filled plains, allowing ancient viruses to arise from them anew. You and those countless others gain little comfort from having roared these warnings, because this was never a game, never a sixth-form debate where the winner takes home a silver trophy and is treated to a three-course dinner. Like climate change itself, the crisis of extremism, long denied, has always been existential.

Yet there is some comfort – not much, but some. There is comfort because you know that hatred of this nature is predictable, and that the success of this hatred is not guaranteed. You watched from New York with pride as, in your adopted city of Berlin, a quarter of a million people took to the streets to protest not only against the rise of the far Right but crucially in favour of progress and hope. You commiserated with friends from Brazil as they looked ahead in fear to the possible election of Bolsonaro, a man offering ominously simple solutions to complex social problems, but at the same time you marvelled at what fine people they were, and you gained even greater resolve to make the world better for them however you could. We have to celebrate the wins, you tell your friends whenever you bump into them in the street, and we have to celebrate the small things. Everything matters! Everything matters – the briefest act of kindness, the gentle eye contact with the homeless stranger, the channelling of pain into hopeful art, the warmth in the hug when you welcome or say farewell to anyone beloved. Everything matters, even the stream of consciousness I am typing now. Maybe the paths forward aren’t clear, maybe we are still forming a vision of the future where as many people as possible can enjoy health and happiness, and maybe dry land often seems nowhere in sight. But, in the meantime, we need to keep kicking.

My new post, on Redfish and Russia Today.

I feel sick, but most of all I feel naive.
 
Last week I spent a wonderful couple of hours in the company of a film crew, who interviewed me at length for a documentary they were making about xenophobia and austerity in the UK. A few days later, I was thankfully informed by Oz Katerji, an investigative journalist, that this company – Redfish, based in Berlin – was a wholly-owned subsidiary of Russia Today.
Charlie Davis of The Daily Beast had discovered this after some exhaustive reporting, and Katerji sent me a link from the article where Davis had published his findings
 
I didn’t quite retch when I found out, but my stomach certainly lurched. Yes, the referral came through a dear friend, but it is ultimately my own fault. I should have done my own due diligence – and a simple Google search would have revealed the above article.
 
Here’s the thing about the programme to which I contributed: I think that the topic is a vital one, and I think that the presenter did an excellent job of examining the issues in our conversation. I just don’t believe that Russia Today, given their stance on refugees, are honest brokers. In fact, I think that they are the opposite. Just the other day, they ran an opinion piece asking the Canadian government not to resettle Syrian refugees, on the grounds that they were either “potential terrorists or supporters of terrorists”. The article is here.
 
Yes, I know that Russia Today serve up entertaining segments about sport and other entertainment. But I object so strongly to their general political mission that, had I known of their involvement in this documentary, I would have declined the opportunity to appear.
 
I am very careful with the media appearances that I make, for three main reasons. First, I think it is very important not to become a talking-head, and become the “go-to guy” when it comes to talking about, say, racism in public life. I think that type of status as the “community leader” is very unhelpful. It implies one person speaks for a diverse group of people, which is dangerous. Secondly – though this might be hard for some to imagine! – I would quickly get sick of the sound of my own voice. But thirdly – and most importantly – I do not want to lend legitimacy to certain platforms. Though those organisations to whom I give interviews certainly have their flaws, the crucial difference is that they are not wholly owned by authoritarian states who jail and murder activists and journalists. (If you are not familiar with the following names – Natalya Estemirova, Anna Politkovskaya, Sergei Magnitsky – please Google them.) I do not know that I have always got the balance of my media appearances right in the past, but it is something I have come to care about deeply. The thought of my views being aired on Russia Today is deeply upsetting on a personal level and deeply worrying on a professional one.
 
Some people would say that I am an idealistic fool for turning down some of the media platforms that I have. Those platforms, after all, often mean more visibility and with it the possibility of vastly better earnings – speaking gigs, consultancy fees, and so on. There are some days – when I can’t send a relative a few thousand pounds to help with that operation or those couple of months of rent – that I agree with those people. I have turned down huge amounts of both exposure and money from people I have suspected to be unscrupulous. Why have I done this? Because, so far as I am conscious and not consumed by desperation, I don’t want to contribute to a worse world, and I think that we are being ushered into such a world by Russia Today.
 
Why am I telling you this? To learn from my example, really: to remind myself, and to remind you, that we have a choice. We don’t always have to say yes when someone puts a microphone under our nose. I don’t judge those of you who do – God knows that writing can be a precarious and thankless life, and if you have people who depend on you financially then it can be hard to reject that camera or that paycheque. Wherever possible, though, we should try to step away. Let’s do our homework, and find out for whose regimes or fiefdoms we may be the unwitting mouthpiece. Let’s at least know who we are working for, and make our judgements accordingly. Because if we are to be held accountable for ignorance and bigotry – as we should be! – then, at the very least, that ignorance and bigotry should knowingly be our own.

Black Panther: an emotional response.

So (no spoilers!) I watched Black Panther last night. My God. I’m not going to write a review, because I’m relatively late to see the film and a thousand majestic dissections have already appeared online. Instead I will only write a hopefully brief emotional response, since that’s the only thing I can add that might be somewhat fresh.

My favourite football player, in visceral terms, is probably George Weah. Not because he was the finest of all time – even though he had qualities which put him firmly among the greats. But because what Weah achieved on the field, where he was the most elegant blend of grace, power, speed and balance, was merely a fraction of what he achieved beyond it. Weah, a proud citizen of Liberia (a country with its own extraordinary place in world history) was one of the first male African footballers to stand at the very front of the world stage, and he was utterly apologetic when he did so. Weah was a man many of us could recognise; tall, dark-skinned, we could have seen him at the barber shop, he could have been an uncle. And yet there he was, gliding across our screens. He looked like us, spoke like us, and so we started to swagger like him.

Watching Black Panther felt like seeing George Weah at his peak. Visually magnificent, thrillingly unpredictable, with duel after beautiful duel against elite opposition. The land of Wakanda itself? A glorious vista of the old and the new. And the women were just as I knew them. In them, I saw my relatives: unfathomably strong and supportive, amazingly courageous at every turn, humbly and patiently building a better world each day. How they persevere through all the exhaustion, I will never know.

Will there be critiques of this film? Absolutely. I look forward to reading them, and after some time I may attempt one of my own. For now, though, I am especially thankful I saw this film in Black History Month, because it feels like a milestone of its own. After the movie, I sat with a friend of a friend who had come to the movie with us; an African-American woman, born in the early Sixties, who well remembered the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King (and, with a further poignant nod to Black history, was closely one of the world’s greatest basketball players). She was overwhelmed at the representation of African-Americans on screen, particularly the women, and rightly so. All I could think was: this movie was excitingly broad in its appeal, and yet was also uniquely for her. Black Panther felt both intensely personal and at the same time universal in its appeal, which in my view is one of the pathways to great art.

As for me, it reminded me what a privilege it is to be an artist, and to wake up daily with the chance to create something, anything, which might give hope to anyone. This film not only reminded me but wholly convinced me of the importance of optimistic, forward-thinking art. For that alone, it is a masterpiece.

My cold take on that new Nike ad.

So, about that Nike advert, which was greeted with widespread ecstasy on social media when it was released last week. Some might say it was “just a commercial” – and, in one sense, it was. From one perspective, it was merely a three-minute celebration of some of the capital’s finest artists and athletes, a uniquely emotive seduction of the wallets of London’s young. From another point of view, though, it was particularly powerful. So many young Londoners, when watching this short film, reacted with an online euphoria that I hadn’t witnessed since the opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympics. So many of them felt seen, and understood. Notwithstanding the passionate critiques made by several on Twitter – namely, that people of South Asian heritage were underrepresented in this commercial – it was a piece of work that struck a cultural touchstone.

At this stage, I had to take a step back and ask myself what was happening here. After all, we’d seen this before, this arrival of an optimistic new dawn and a brutal aftermath. Collective joy about the brilliance of the 2012 Paralympics didn’t stop the British Government from driving through a series of severe benefits cuts for people with disabilities. Nike has given us a timely reminder of how much young Londoners love their city – but, in truth, how much does their city love them back?

I don’t mean to be a party pooper. Really, I don’t. I’m based in Germany now, but having lived for many years in Hackney, Finsbury Park, Leyton, Brick Lane, Walthamstow, the Isle of Dogs and Croydon, this city and its surroundings are in my soul. It’s just that, overall, I think that London takes its young people for granted. In her recent report, “London’s lost youth services”, the Green Party politician Sian Berry observed that between 2011/12 and 2016/17 “the average council in London has cut its youth service budget by nearly £1 million – an average of 36 per cent”. Moreover, she notes that cuts of an average of 25 per cent are planned for the following year.

Elsewhere, the outlook seems equally grim. By the start of 2016, it was estimated that around 40 per cent of London’s live music venues, many of them important places for young people not only to go out but to cut their teeth as performers, had closed down. Seeing Giggs in that Nike advert, too, I was reminded that many of London’s rappers and grime artists have not only survived but thrived despite the city’s authorities, not because of them. Just a few ago, we saw the removal of the infamous Form 696, a police risk assessment procedure which for twelve years was used to cancel countless shows across London’s black – sorry, urban – music scene.

I think that Nike advert is significant because it shows us how much young Londoners have made a fightback against such considerable odds. Look how many of them, typified by the magnificent Little Simz, have looked at the difficulty of their circumstances and somehow made a huge success of them. But not everyone – in fact, almost no-one – is as gifted as Little Simz. The grind is brutal, and it shouldn’t be. Travelling around Europe, I am frequently struck by how much cheaper other cities are by comparison. London is a town where house prices are seemingly rising at the speed of sea levels, and where most young people can only look to home ownership as the vainest of dreams. (On bleak days, I wonder if some wealthy developers would be happiest if the city were one giant and pristine high-rise estate, surrounded by an immaculate lawn marked “NO BALL GAMES”.)

If London truly wants to encourage the youthful creativity so lauded by Nike, then it needs to subsidise it. It needs to provide a generation with far cheaper housing and robust contracts to protect them from rapacious private landlords. It needs to ensure that a simple journey from Zone 3 to Zone 1 isn’t financially daunting. It needs to prove to young Londoners from working-class backgrounds that they will be utterly welcome not only in its brochures and on its billboards but in its boardrooms.

Every week, it seems, I see a new article bemoaning the laziness of millennials – how they don’t work hard enough, don’t save enough, how they are ungrateful for what they have. How they are far too demanding. As I write this, though, I am preparing to teach a week of creative writing to a class of wonderful young Londoners – a group as nervous as they are determined, as gentle as they are inventive – and I am reminded that they are not nearly demanding enough. London must demonstrate that it deserves these people. I only hope that it accepts the challenge.

A tribute to Ian Toothill, a truly beautiful human being.

Ian Toothill climbed Mount Everest while he had terminal cancer – and that wasn’t the most impressive thing about him. Not even close. He was a truly beautiful human being – how strange it is to refer to him in the past tense – and for all his spirit of adventure, which was extraordinary, his greatest quality by far was his kindness.

I don’t know much about climbing Everest, and I don’t wish to find out. I get nervous enough looking out over a fifth-floor balcony in a stiff breeze. All I know about climbing that beast of a landmark, a feat which Ian presumably found no more difficult than a brisk walk, was that it was probably a journey far less painful and terrifying than the one Ian faced in hospital these last few months. Yes, we would all visit him: but every night, visiting hours would end, and he would be alone with the journey, ascending to the bleakest of summits.

Ian was – is – remarkable. The BBC, reporting on his death – the Everest feat, undertaken for charity, had won him widespread acclaim in the media – mentioned that he was childless and unmarried, a dispassionate description that might have implied he had no family. But like the footballer Cyrille Regis, who also passed away this week, I have rarely seen someone so loved. He was universally admired. His gifts as a musician were considerable, as I learned when he played bass for one of my previous bands. More importantly, he was what a man, what any human, should aspire to be – gentle, empathetic, compassionate. The only time I ever saw him upset in those last few weeks was when discussion focused too much upon the latest antics of the current American president, whose cruelty and narcissism could not be any further from who Ian was.

Ian was so considerate. In December, when I said I would visit him in hospital, he said I didn’t need to pop in for more than ten minutes – he didn’t want to take up too much of my time on my return to the city. He was wrong, of course; I could have talked to him all night. During that visit, he was the very soul of warmth, even as his health was deteriorating all the while. I don’t know how he managed to summon such positivity in the face of a fate so, so unfair. He was only 48. I would have expected and understood him if he had withdrawn into himself – and I suspect that, privately, he had several of those moments. Overall, though, I think he was furiously determined to wring every last moment of joy from this world before he left it.

Ian had something you don’t see often enough in a world this brutal: he had the courage to love. Not just his friends, or his partners, but life itself. His last gift to me, one of so many, is a message I will forever treasure.

A few years ago a close friend of mine, Nick Eziefula, once gave me a simple and vital piece of advice that I have lived by ever since he delivered it. Nick said: if you think of someone, contact them. I thought of Ian last week, when consuming the very latest of my beloved sweet treats in a Berlin cafe. So I dropped him a line, and he replied:

“Enjoy every single moment, you are living! Not doing deals, not worrying about making loadsa money, and what everyone else is doing, just “being”. It sounds beautiful. I have spent hours in cafes, escaping, dreaming, realising what I have to be grateful for… even getting excited planning impossible climbing/charity Everest climbs on there 😊. Enjoy x”

Enjoy. That was last Wednesday, when his already severe condition was getting steadily worse, though there was no sign of that in his words. It was the last time I heard from him, and is an instruction both vital and inspiring. Enjoy. I will, my dear friend. I will.

 

On #MeToo and my article on a crisis in masculinity: an excellent critique I received last night.

I received an excellent critique last night, following the publication of my piece about Harvey Weinstein and a crisis in masculinity. The message arrived on Facebook, and I have copied and pasted it below with the author’s permission.

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Hey Musa, long time, I hope Berlin is treating you well, and and sorry to get in touch with you in this way and about this thing, but… the Me Too stuff has me furious for a ton of different reasons, and I kinda felt like since you have a significant platform through your blog, this might have been one of those moments where you could’ve offered that to a woman. I’m sure it wasn’t your intention, but I’ve seen a dozen ‘woke’ men get clap clap clap today and it’s complicated because I’m not saying ‘don’t demonstrate alliance’, but I’m not sure getting accolades, intended or not, is what is needed. I’m having a go at you because you have a larger platform than the rest, but ALL have got more comments/likes/whatever than the women I know who’ve bravely shared experiences of trauma as a result of this bullshit Hollywood engendered meme. Anyway. I hate all of it – seeing the raw hurt from the women, and the tiredness we all feel, and the cheers for the ‘good guys’. So you got picked on. My bad there. Hope life is good, I am glad these conversations are happening. I’m just really pissed off it took mainly rich white normatively beautiful women fingering a rich successful dude to make them happen, and that it’s mainly men who are getting attention as a result. Peace! xxx


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Following my friend’s suggestion, if any women want to share their experiences under the #MeToo hashtag they can do so using my blog at http://www.okwonga.com/. They don’t only have to share their stories, they can share however they are feeling about the hashtag too.

They would be welcome to do so under their own names or anonymously. Anonymity might be an attractive option – there might be women who would really appreciate the catharsis of just typing out some of the trauma and posting it there. Women who can’t speak out for legal reasons or because the situation is ongoing and just want somewhere to flush out some of the pain. As my friend points out, I have a sizeable public platform and it would be good to make it available for women who would like to use it and who might need it.

I have a female administrator, Andrea Scheibler, to whom I am paying a fee, so that women do not have to concede their privacy in order to post on my blog. Please send her a private message on Facebook if you have a story you would like to share.

The only thing I would need is that identifying details of the perpetrators were not revealed (lawsuits, argh) but otherwise I would be more than happy for that.

 

For the middle-class Trump voter, this must be glorious.

As a middle-class Trump voter this must be glorious. You’ve got your regular income from your job and possibly your buy-to-let, and your liberal neighbours and colleagues are going wild with despair or fury. You’re quietly delighted – this is the time of your life, isn’t it? Being, as you are, comfortable enough to sit back and watch the bonfire. It probably feels as Great as the good old days your grandparents talked about. Trump promised this, and he has absolutely delivered.

What has surprised you, though, is how thrilling the sensation has been. The hurt on the face of your fellow worker when Trump aims another cannon at their existence produces a surge of euphoria in you, almost erotic. And Trump is relentless, isn’t he? You knew he’d be this bad, or this good, but you never knew the hits would be so constant, almost daily, and you’re addicted. It’s worse and therefore better than you’d hoped. By the time he’s done, whether that’s months or years from now, he’ll have shattered the happiness of millions of people you don’t know, and – more importantly – the happiness of dozens you do.

What’s been more enjoyable, so far? The fearless words of a gay acquaintance, beneath whose defiance you detect that she is drained by it all? Or seeing that anxious black family on the school run the morning after Charlottesville? How deeply have you drunk of their terror? You’ll vote for him again, of course you will. Because each day has been a victory – for you, each social interaction with those you loathe is a zero-sum game, where their pain must directly result in your pleasure. This is the greatness you craved, and now it is manifest; for you, as fervent as you are furtive, this is the true American Dream.

The far-right AfD have won 13.5% of the German vote. What to do next?

So the AfD, a far-right party, have become the third-largest party in Germany, with 13.5% of the vote. They are the true winners of this election. They ran a campaign that was often chaotic, and always characterised by racist, explicitly Nazi rhetoric. Not neo-Nazi, really; Nazi. Millions of German citizens looked at all that they represented, and thought, “yes, I’ll have some of that”.
 
Despite all this, I am pretty calm about the news. It’s not a shock to me. It’s disappointing, I’ll admit that, because it shows that too many people have refused to heed the warnings of how bad the AfD will be for this society as a whole. Too many people think that the AfD are fine so long as they do unspeakable things to non-white people. We saw this with Trump, we saw this in the UK, we saw this in Holland and Austria and beyond. After a while, you build up something of an immunity to it. I was saying to a friend the other day that it’s a little like when your ears pop on the plane – you become accustomed to the new pressure.
 
13.5%, that’s a lot of people. Still, it’s a confirmation rather than a surprise. If it affects anything in the immediate future, it will be the speed and the focus that I give to the projects that I most care about; it will be the time and the care that I give to people in greatest need, both those I know and those I do not. I have said many times before that I find racism irritating, frustrating and hateful in the extreme because I am too busy trying to make a life for myself. So I’m going to do the same thing I did when Trump was elected – get my head down, and go for it. It’s the only approach that’s ever worked against racism, and it’s the only approach that ever will.

Passing #Trumpcare: the Republican Party’s historic day of shame.

The Republican Party hates women. As an institution it absolutely despises them. This is, to me, abundantly clear. I am not saying anything particularly new or nuanced here, I am merely writing this to register and record my fury alongside the millions of those horrified by the passage of President Trump’s healthcare bill. The bill, as noted by the MSNBC journalist Chris Hayes, “cuts about a trillion dollars in funding for healthcare while cutting taxes for the top 2% by about the same amount”. Not only does it do that, it classifies domestic violence and sexual assault as pre-existing conditions – meaning that those, overwhelmingly women, who have endured these offences will have to pay more for their insurance.

This Bill is not only perverse, greedy, and grubby; it is vicious, bigoted, cruel and disgusting. It is an endlessly squalid piece of legislation and it is again clear that the only reason Trump pledged to drain the swamp was to refill it with yet more toxic effluent. The only thing that may surprise Trump may be the fervour with which his party, in which he so long cast himself as the outsider, has so thoroughly embraced his most misogynistic excesses. This Bill is doubtlesssupported by a whole host of people who will go home to their partners and families and tell themselves around their generously-laden dinner tables that they did a good thing today. What they have done instead is to demonstrate far beyond any ambiguity just what the modern Republican Party is about. When I think of them, I think of the James Baldwin quote from “Stranger in the Village”, where he states that “people who shut their eyes to reality simply invite their own destruction, and anyone who insists on remaining in a state on innocence long after that innocence is dead turns himself into a monster.”  In my view, those who have voted through this bill have turned themselves into monsters.  And should Trump last four years in office, should he be re-elected – because, even now, there are still millions largely content with the job that he is doing – he would have to go a very long way, as would the government he leads, to conjure a more shameful day than this.

 

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To resist this Bill, and to aid those who are doing so, then thanks to @Iron_Spike’s account on Twitter there are some excellent strategies at the following links:

https://twitter.com/toastasaurus/status/827584227893968900

https://twitter.com/Iron_Spike/status/860198492341506048

https://twitter.com/Iron_Spike/status/860198872634847234

As @Iron_Spike so perfectly states: “Don’t forget how you feel right now. Make them regret every second of this.