October 16, 2020

We Came From Her Leg

What’s on my mind? If you missed my Oct. 8 post titled Where Did We Come From?  I hope youll read it before this follow-up.

For one thing, my pal Lorna Blake wrote: “My precocious eldest asked a variation of the same question when she was 5. I dont know what she expected, but after I honestly replied, she said, ‘Thats ridiculous!’ and walked away.” 


For another, the Modern Love section of this morning’s New York Times now offers Modern Love in miniature, featuring reader-submitted stories of no more than 100 words. My favorite?  


We Came From Her Leg, by reader Nancy Shayne:


“I sit in my mother’s bed in Michigan. She asks, ‘How did I make you?’ Her eyes are fresh flowers. Her thin arms are stems. ‘I came from your leg,’ I answer. She has a long scar above her knee from an old accident. When we were young, she convinced my three sisters and me that this was how we were born. I run to the fridge before we continue our game. Nothing is there but a box, her hospice package. Morphine and pills. She has dementia and doesn’t know she’s dying. I do. Brave for love, I walk back in.”


© The New York Times and Nancy Shayne, with commentary by Nicole Parton, 2020

October 12, 2020

The China Syndrome

What’s on my mind? 

My Darling Children:

As you remember, last Christmas you gave me the gift of the New York Times! Amazing, even if all-consuming and hard to keep up (Did you know Joe Biden has just won the Democratic nomination for President?). Because your gift was electronic, I won’t turn into one of those hoarders with stacks of newspapers heaped all around my desk, ha-ha!

You also gave me four exquisite sets of turquoise china and a set of salt and pepper. I fell over in shock! And then I thought: “Four?” Perfect for us and two guests in the kitchen nook, but what about a larger gathering in the dining room? So I bought two more sets. 

And then I thought: “Six sets? What if something gets chipped or broken?” So I bought a seventh. 

And then I thought: “This china would be perfect outside!” Our outdoor tables seat 10. So I bought three more sets. 

And then I thought: “Mugs! Must have mugs!” I bought 10. “Cream and sugar!” I bought a set, and then another, “just in case.” 

And appie bowls! And salad dishes! And cereal bowls! And little bowls for crème brûlée! And a butter dish! And a gravy boat! And a wine cooler! And a water jug! And small platters!

Himself has just surprised me with three big bowls for salads and mashed potatoes. A turkey-sized platter arrives Friday. It’s a sickness. Himself is my beloved enabler.

I had nowhere to put all this china - especially with the turkey platter on its way. So I bought a new china cabinet for the living room. What didn’t fit in it is stored in the china cabinet in the kitchen nook, the main china cabinet in the living room, and the china cabinet in the dining room. 

Christmas is just around the corner. Please give us nothing. We can’t afford it.

xox   Mum

After emailing my kids this note, I thought: “COVID-19!” And felt like a fool - a fool with a very large, very costly set of china. Himself saw this in a different light: “You believe in celebrations! You believe in a future without COVID! You’re a positive person!” A positive person with honkin’ big set of china. As Edith Piaf sang: Je ne regrette rien.

© Nicole Parton, 2020




October 8, 2020

“Where Did We Come From?”

 What’s on my mind? I must be getting doddery because I’ve been thinking about the time my grown children were toddlers. I have three: Roger Leon Parton, born in January, 1971; and twins Samantha and Erin Parton, born in December, 1971. They were precocious; they were adorable. 

Being so close in age, they frequently huddled together, whispering and sharing what little each knew of the world. Erin, younger than Sam by 10 minutes, was often leader of the pack. And so it was that Erin emerged from one of these huddles when all were three years old.


“Mum?” she asked, “where did we come from?”

 

(I remember thinking: “ACK! So soon?" As I’ve said, they were precocious.)


Confronting the question matter-of factly, I sat down as three toddlers stared, awaiting my answer. As I began, I remember forming a circle with the thumb and index finger of my left hand, as well as extending the index finger of my right. 


I then told them their Mummy and Daddy had taken off all their clothes and Daddy had ... and Mummy had ... The straightened index finger of my right hand was now slipping in and out of the thumb-and-index circle I’d created with my left. 


I went on and on ... The egg …! The sperm …! The egg, again! My right index finger moved faster and faster and faster! When I began this story, my toddlers were mesmerized. When I thought to look up from my furiously in-out-in-out finger, all three were sobbing. 


They wanted to know where they’d come from; I’d told them. Why the tears? 


Still the leader of the pack, Erin choked out: “We meant … We meant … Which hospital?”


© NicoleParton, 2020

September 24, 2020

The Crying Season

What’s on my mind? I am not a young woman. I feel young, but when I look in the mirror … Well, I’m not. As a woman in her mid-70s, I’ve entered the Crying Season - that sad time of life when beloved friends of a similar age have become less vigorous, are gradually losing their minds to dementia, or are sick or dying. 

Yesterday, I had the distinct pleasure of speaking to an exceptional man I deeply admire and respect. He is a good man; a kind man; a generous man. He is now 95. He and his also-exceptional wife have been married 72 years - she, at 17, he at 23.


Many years ago, I met the housekeeper who began working for them when she was 15. She retired at 80. That’s the kind of devotion good and kind and generous people inspire. He told me he’s going to shoot for 100, and after that, 105. I hope he succeeds in that aim.


The world is a lesser place when good people exit it, as they’ve started to do in my little life. People die at every age, of course. The Crying Season is universal. But when it intrudes on your life in ever-greater numbers, it assumes a sobering reality.


I was devastated when a friend two decades my senior died of a brain tumor. We’d lost touch; I wasn’t aware she was sick. It’s been three years; I miss her still. When two other older women dropped of the map, I checked the obits to learn they’d died, and said a little prayer. Their regular phone calls offered such pleasure; if only I’d told them, at the time.


A third - who with her many boyfriends and trilling announcement that: “It’s Lil-yeeee!” - was such fun that I sometimes let her motor-mouth for an hour. She disappeared, too. The was no obituary: It took some sleuthing to learn she’d died. A raven-haired,  blue-eyed beauty when she was young, she’d become so stooped she paralleled the floor, yet still attracted men well into her 80s. Her infectious joy inspired love and loyalty. I miss her phone calls, too. 


One of my closest, longest friends requires what is euphemistically called “memory care.” Our lives have been intertwined since we were teenagers. Nothing should come as a surprise in the Crying Season, but sadness still seeps into my bones.


A distant friend, 79 this month, is emotionally ill. Watching him struggle is painful. 


A pragmatic couple dear to my heart recently wrote the most difficult letter of their lives - telling friends of his soon-to-be fulfilled wish for an assisted death: “After 14 years of valiant effort and dedicated support of the medical community, and in our 38th year together and on our wedding anniversary, (he) will reach the end of (his) increasingly excruciating pain. 


“He and I both thank you for the days of his journey when you walked the road with us … So much laughter interspersed with tears and sorrow. So much happiness and wonder! Treasure the memories. They will bring you comfort when you reach your December …”


The Crying Season: It hurts.


© Nicole Parton, 2020

September 19, 2020

Sex Tips for the Old and Restless

What’s on my mind? You probably won’t believe this story, but every word is true.


When I was a young mother, I answered an ad headed: “Want to swing?” It was a curious ad - no names, no addresses, no phone numbers - just a post office box. I really, really, really wanted to learn how to swing, so I wrote to ask the cost, and how my then-husband Alan and I could join a group.


The woman who called in response to my note said she and her husband had been swinging for years. After saying that swinging had perked up their lives, and asking how many nights we were available, she asked if we were energetic.


“We’re always running around!” I said. “We’re ready to swing!”


I invited them over after dinner, saying that by then, our two-year-old son and year-old daughters would be asleep. 


I could hardly wait to find out where to take lessons and get the right clothing! I wanted one of those red-checked dresses; Alan wanted a string tie. We honestly believed “swingers” were square dancers. Wrong-o.


Shortly before the swingers arrived, son Roger - who’d nodded off in our bed - trained his personal fire hose on the mattress. At the very moment the swingers rang the bell, Alan was dragging the mattress from the bedroom to the back porch, to air it out. When the swingers rang the bell, he dropped the wet and pee-stinky mattress on the living room floor.


Several things happened at once. Still convinced swingers were square dancers, Alan and I had no idea that hauling out the mattress signaled an eagerness to swing. The swingers looked at the mattress. The swingers looked at us. 


Their jaws hanging open like Howdy Doody’s, they made a swift allemande left, and were gone.


We thought they wanted to square dance. They thought we wanted to Hop on Pop. And on Mom, too. 


© Nicole Parton, 2020

September 1, 2020

The Invisible Trampoline

What’s on my mind? I was staring out the window when I saw something curious: Two bunnies on an invisible trampoline, each bouncing straight up in the air, as if they were on springs.


Boing! went the first as the second bunny watched. Boing! went the second as the first looked on. Boing! went the first, again. Boing! went the second. And so it went.


“What are those rabbits doing now?” I thought. Because they’re always up to something. Boing! Boing! Boing! Up-down-up-down-up-down.


I didn’t understand until one bunny flashed behind the other to smell its bum. Then I figured it out.


Boing! is the prelude to bonk! A nooner. The good ol’ rumpy-pumpy. Up-down-up-down-up-down means up-down-up-down-up-down. That these bunnies are so brazen and open and public about … (I’ll spell it out; pre-schoolers could be listening) ... S-E-X amazes me.


I’d expect this kind of behavior in Vegas, but on our staid little island? If those bunnies aren’t careful, the next thing they’ll know is that one of them might just get knocked up.


© Nicole Parton, 2020

August 31, 2020

“Oh, Hell, You’re Not a ... ”

What’s on my mind? Last week, the local paper reported two cougars openly stalking prey in our village-that-calls-itself-a-town. When one killed a miniature pony in its pen, residents feared for their children and small pets.


Also last week, the paper ran a story that a woman down the island had crouched on her unlit porch beside what she thought was the neighbor’s dog: “How did you get back here? You’d better go home now … I’m not going to let you in. Then it turned its head and I said: ‘Oh, hell, you’re not a dog.’ ”


*   *   *


This week, on a street near our house, Himself and I came upon a wispy clump of fuzz, some tiny bones flecked with blood, and the detached leg of a rabbit. Its head, internal organs, and other three legs were gone.  


The symmetry of the backbone seemed oddly undisturbed, as though the rabbit had peeled off its fur coat to expose the efficiently organized bones that until recently had served its small body well. 


I remembered something I’d read after the death of the pony: “A cougar goes about its feeding with almost surgical precision.” And here, in the exacting proof of that statement, lay the rabbit’s remains in perfect, tidy arrangement.


A cougar with cubs once stalked my daughter, who was then an environmental conservation officer. The experience was so unnerving that not only did she quit her job, but she moved to the other side of the country.


I once knew a woman stalked by a cougar while on horseback. Her nervous horse saved her by pooping - a delicacy the cougar couldn’t resist - after which the big cat lost interest. 


Himself and I once saw a cougar on a trail where families walked with toddlers and unleashed dogs. Dashing from one family to the next, we were roundly ignored as we tried to warn the young families of impending danger ahead.


*   *   *


One day ago, on a wilderness trail far from our house, Himself and I were engaged in conversation about - wouldn’t you know it? - cougars, when I heard a loud, deep-throated growl in the underbrush, perhaps 100 ft. away. 


Frozen in terror, I asked: “Did you hear that?” 


“What?” He had not.


“A cougar!  Himself looked skeptical. 


We saw nothing - typical of cougars - but the growl’s intensity was unmistakable. We started retracing our steps to leave the trail.


A lone jogger pumped past. “I have to warn her!” I said.


Despite our previous, failed experience in trying to warn others, the jogger stopped and listened. “You saw it?” she asked. “I didn’t see it,” I said. “I heard it. You’re running ... You’re alone … It’ll come after you.” 


She shrugged and continued running. Two or three minutes later, we saw her again, now running past us. “Changed my mind!”  she yelled. 


A man zipped past us, heading for the trail’s end. Briefly stopping, he asked: “You the woman who seen the cougar?” The jogger must have told him.


“I didn’t see it. I heard …” 


“I’m gettin’ outta here while the gettin’s good.” Which he did, tout-de-suite


We met a threesome on the trail - a young man and woman and an elderly, skinny woman. As the couple charged off in the direction of the growl, the skinny woman hobbled behind, unable to keep up. 


“Stop!” I called. “I heard a cougar …”  


“We know! A guy running out of the woods told us!  He said it attacked you!” 


“It didn’t attack me! I didn’t even see it, but I heard …” 


No attack? They lost interest. But they still wanted to see the cougar. The skinny woman trembled, afraid of what lay ahead. 


If I couldn’t appeal to their reason, I’d appeal to her fear. 


“Cougars always attack the weakest in the group!” I shouted to the couple’s retreating backs. 


Like a sacrificial lamb suddenly rescued, the skinny woman mew-mewled: “The newspaper said it killed a poh-nee.” Their bravado erased by guilt, the young couple sidled back, asking: “Really? The paper said that?” 


“Ripped the pony to shreds,” I lied. “Nothing left but a line of bones along its back.” 


I thought of the rabbit’s orderly backbone; my friend with the pooping horse; my daughter’s justified fear of the stalking cougar; our futile warnings to families with toddlers and free-ranging dogs.


“What did the cougar sound like?” I gave the threesome my deepest and best growl - so impressive that they decided not to meet the cougar, after all. 


“Do you think I should call the paper?” I later asked Himself.


“But you didn’t see anything,” he said. 


True enough. I’d heard growling. Nothing more. I thought what the woman crouched on the porch had said after she talked to the dog-slash-cougar: “Oh, hell, you’re not a dog.” 


I imagined myself crouched in the underbrush, hearing that loud, deep growl. I imagined the animal drawing closer, and seeing its (huh?) collar and flapping tail. I imagined myself saying: “Oh, hell, you’re not a cougar.”


© Nicole Parton, 2020

August 29, 2020

Cocktail Sausage Fingers

What’s on my mind? 


Shhhhh! I shouldn’t post this. I should focus on fluffy white clouds and cotton candy and all things happy and nice. US President Donald Trump doesn’t make me happy. He’s not nice. Unfortunately, Twitter won’t allow me to say that ...  


• On Effing Morons

• One Small Voice: Why @FisherParton Matters


... so I’ll say it here, in the mildest of terms. Now-retired Vanity Fair editor-in-chief  Graydon Carter on several occasions has described Trump as a “short fingered vulgarian. The sneers and jeers dogged Trump more than 20 years, but no one’s laughing now. One of those fat little fingers may well push the nuclear button. 


Donald Trump is a threat to democracy and to global stability - yada-yada-yada. You know the arguments. You’re sick of them - as am I. 


When you’re leery of the President, the Administration, the Justice Department, the willingness of the Republican-controlled Senate to speak up, and the political neutrality of the Supreme Court, who do you trust? The humorists, that’s who. 


You may think of Cocktail Sausage Fingers as an appetizer. Quite the opposite. The very thought of them is unappetizing, if not the recipe for disaster the past four years have shown. I first blogged about Cocktail Sausage Fingers in 2016, after British comedian John Oliver’s skewering of then-candidate Trump.  

The YouTube below contains a reference to Cocktail Sausage Fingers - comedian Oliver’s code for “short fingered vulgarian.” Watching the “fingers segment of Oliver’s show takes 20 min. Trust me ... You’ll be riveted to the screen. To me, the time whizzed by so fast that it felt like 2 min.


I hope you’ll hear and watch every word of Oliver’s show. I hope you’ll share it with your family and friends. I hope you’ll think about it long after you’ve seen it. I hope you’ll realize that - despite their entertainment value - Trump’s Cocktail Sausage Fingers are nothing to laugh about, because the fate of the world is in those grubby little hands. 


Donald Trump: Last Week Tonight with John Oliver (HBO)


© Nicole Parton, 2020

August 21, 2020

Missing in Action: Words

What’s on my mind? Grammar.


“How fun is this?” A smart, mature 50-year-old actually said that, the other day. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The word “much” seems to have fallen out of vogue: “It was so fun!” Another blow to lingua franca; another win for gibberish. Pity.


It’s one thing to say: “I love you so …” and quite another to end it with “much.” The first suggests pathos and longing; the second, volume.


“I love you so … (sniff! sniff!) 


“I love you so much!” Wow! 


Speaking of love, the most personal word I know has gone walkabout. 


“I” has dropped out of favor, demoting romance to “Love y-o-o-o-u!”  No matter how sincere the thought, “I” makes it more so. 


Even “Hi!” and “Hello!” are vanishing. 


People now sidle up to one another, COVID-wary, a little unsure. 


“Hey!” says one. “Hey!” grunts the other.


For now, that’s all I have to say. I have so work to do. 


© Nicole Parton, 2020

August 20, 2020

The Unraveling of America

What’s on my mind? Read on:


“In a dark season of pestilence, COVID has reduced to tatters the illusion of American exceptionalism. At the height of the crisis, with more than 2,000 dying each day, Americans found themselves members of a failed state, ruled by a dysfunctional and incompetent government largely responsible for death rates that added a tragic coda to America’s claim to supremacy in the world.”


Rolling Stone Magazine, Aug. 6, 2020


Thus, as part of a stunning analysis of the disintegration of the American Dream, does Canadian-Colombian anthropologist Wade Davis observe the intersections of history, the COVID pandemic, and the view of today’s America from within and without. The article is called The Unraveling of America. You should read it.


In point after point after point, Davis unveils a portrait of a broken America: 


“COVID-19 didn’t lay America low; it simply revealed what had long been forsaken. As the crisis unfolded, with another American dying every minute of every day, a country that once turned out fighter planes by the hour could not manage to produce the paper masks or cotton swabs essential for tracking the disease. The nation that defeated smallpox and polio, and led the world for generations in medical innovation and discovery, was reduced to a laughing stock as a buffoon of a president advocated the use of household disinfectants as a treatment for a disease that intellectually he could not begin to understand ... 


“Americans have not done themselves any favors. Their political process made possible the ascendancy to the highest office in the land a national disgrace, a demagogue as morally and ethically compromised as a person can be. As a British writer quipped, ‘(T)here have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid’.”


Of US President Donald Trump, Davis writes: “... (T)his dark troll of a man celebrates malice for all, and charity for none ... Odious as he may be, Trump is less the cause of America’s decline than a product of its descent. As they stare into the mirror and perceive only the myth of their exceptionalism, Americans remain almost bizarrely incapable of seeing what has actually become of their country. The republic that defined the free flow of information as the life blood of democracy, today ranks 45th among nations when it comes to press freedom. 


“In a land that once welcomed the huddled masses of the world, more people today favor building a wall along the southern border than supporting health care and protection for the undocumented mothers and children arriving in desperation at its doors. In a complete abandonment of the collective good, U.S. laws define freedom as an individual’s inalienable right to own a personal arsenal of weaponry, a natural entitlement that trumps even the safety of children; in the past decade alone 346 American students and teachers have been shot on school grounds ...


“How can the rest of the world expect America to lead on global threats — climate change, the extinction crisis, pandemics — when the country no longer has a sense of benign purpose, or collective well-being, even within its own national community? Flag-wrapped patriotism is no substitute for compassion; anger and hostility no match for love. Those who flock to beaches, bars, and political rallies, putting their fellow citizens at risk, are not exercising freedom; they are displaying, as one commentator has noted, the weakness of a people who lack both the stoicism to endure the pandemic and the fortitude to defeat it. Leading their charge is Donald Trump, a bone spur warrior, a liar and a fraud, a grotesque caricature of a strong man, with the backbone of a bully.”


If you don’t have the time to read this outstanding piece, make the time: The Unraveling of America .


https://www.rollingstone.com/politics/political-commentary/covid-19-end-of-american-era-wade-davis-1038206/


© Nicole Parton, 2020; excerpts © Wade Davis and Rolling Stone, 2020

August 19, 2020

Standin’ on Guard - Fer M’ Man

What’s on my mind? My son loves his Mama. That’s good, because I love him, too. A few days ago, my son warned me of a news report that locals on the island where we live have sighted at least one cougar. Tell me something I don’t know. A news story quoted a neighbor that: 


It’s stalking our street, it’s stalking our neighbourhood and it’s not going away. We’re used to cougars here, we have cougars coming through all the time.”


After an aside that a cougar had killed and eaten a local cat, one woman said: “It was pretty upsetting so we’ve been kind of worried about our little chihuahuas.”


Chihuahuas? Hah! Those damn cougars are stalking bigger prey. 


This island is full of cougars. One’s even been patrolling our street, always on the look out. Many’s the time I’ve told Himself to: “Run, you fool! Run!” as I stand my ground, snarling: “BACK OFF, BITCH!” 


Plenty of retirees live here. Those effin’ cougars are sittin’ pretty - and I and every other woman in this village keeps a close watch. 


Unfortunately, what we elderly women lack in muscle, we make up for in flab. So when a cougar moves in for the attack, it’s hard to snatch back what’s ours.  


We of the unmuscular, flabby persuasion see cougars every day! Even as they purr and smile with their big, white teeth. we’re guarded as they approach. Every unmuscular, flabby woman in this village knows how to spot the tell-tale signs of a cougar in our midst - the high heels; the makeup on their calves to camouflage their varicose veins; the fake lashes flapping in time to their Botoxed lips.


Our little island is chock-a-block with widowers. Cougars can smell a newly minted widower a mile away. Once a cougar isolates the weakest from the herd, she thinks she can move in. We unmuscular, flabby types (with cows where our calves used to be) fret over who to trust in a tryst … Husband? Cougar?  Husband? Cougar? Husband? 


I never worry about Himself. I know how to fashion a pretty good lassoo. I rope him in by the neck, and we’re all good. If truth be told, I don’t even need to rope him in by the neck or any other body part ... He’s m’ lovin’ man. 


Some neighbor snapped a fuzzy photo of a cougar in his garden. This is the shot he took:



We unmuscular, flabby women know a cougar when we see one, and that’s no cougar, honey. That’s Bigfoot.


© Nicole Parton, 2020

August 17, 2020

One Small Voice: Why @FisherParton Matters

Important Note: My computer-savvy son agrees that I will likely never receive Twitter’s promised appeal. He advised me to change my password and try to receive Twitter’s confirmation code on a different cell phone. I did that; Twitter automatically deleted my “offensive” Trump tweet, and I’ve returned to Twitter. 


He and others agree the tweet did not constitute “hateful conduct.” His logical supposition is that because I retweeted my comments three times, the tweet triggered an algorithm that locked my Twitter account. All’s well that ends well, I suppose, even if (in my view) Twitter’s action infringes on freedom of speech - Nicole Parton 


What’s on my mind? Six days ago, on August 11, I was locked out of my Twitter account for “hateful conduct.” 


The post that precedes this one (On Effing Moronsaccurately explains the issue and accurately reports my offending statements on Twitter. 


Today is August 17. I want to say more on this. And what I want to say is important. 


I have no intention of wringing my hankie in self-pity or lashing out at Twitter for its well-intentioned policy of censoring hateful conduct. Nor am I about to point a finger at my accuser. How could I? The individual is anonymous. 


I’ve only just begun to realize how serious the consequences of being locked out of Twitter are. As a writer, I often spend hours reading and communicating online. Even off Twitter, I am unable to read, respond to, comment on, or tick “like” to any post anywhere preceded by @ .


If you accept that the charge against me is baseless (as my August 12 post explains),  imagine yourself locked in a dark cell with no way to let Twitter friends and acquaintances know you’re there. Beyond this blog and comments I’ve made to Facebook friends, no one knows my voice has been silenced. 


Twitter is not Draconian. There’s an appeal process, and I’ve requested one. Twitter doesn’t know how soon they can consider that appeal. Fair enough: Drawing the line between fair comment, strong comment, and hateful comment can be like trying to decide where white becomes gray becomes black on a continuum. Many legal arguments have been made about that. 


Twitter’s autoreply has suggested more than once that my Twitter account will be unlocked if I drop my appeal, delete my tweet, and no longer engage in “hateful conduct” - which I take to mean making strong comments about US President Donald Trump. The thing is, I believe my tweet to be fair comment: I will not voluntarily delete it. 


When this shemozzle started, Twitter sent me an automated email informing me I was locked out of my account. Twitter wrote that if I gave them my cell and home phone numbers, Twitter would send me a “confirmation code” so I could resume limited Twitter service. I did this twice, but received no code. So Twitter now has my contact information, and I have zippo. 


Himself says the response to my appeal will never come, either. Although I’m an optimist, I have a hunch he’s right.


When I try to access Twitter, this message pops up: “If you’d rather just delete your tweet, you can cancel your appeal.” The words “rather just” fit a category I call  “shaded language. The words make the tweet’s deletion sound like the logical and easy thing to so. It is neither.  


Although my tweet doesn’t name a specific person, you can draw your own conclusions to whom my tweet (again, see my previous post) referred. Having not received Twitter’s promised “confirmation code,” I have a feeling I won’t get my account back, regardless. Although I’ve been locked out of Twitter, friends have said my @FisherParton Twitter handle remains on view, as does the offending post. My guess is that Twitter can’t delete them without my agreement - but a guess is all that is.


This is an issue of freedom of expression. If you feel it’s appropriate, send me a supportive Tweet. 


I frequently post about Donald Trump. Shortly before my account was locked, I referred to Trump as “Liar, liar, pants on fire! I see an ash hole in those pants.” The “pants on fire” comment is a truism: Numerous fact checks prove Trump is a practised liar. “An ash hole in those pants” ...? There would be, if one’s pants were on fire, so this comment logically follows the first.  


In early May, Forbes magazine reported Trump had told some 18,000 lies while in office: https://www.forbes.com/sites/davidmarkowitz/2020/05/05/trump-is-lying-more-than-ever-just-look-at-the-data/#59a1709b1e17


I believe Donald Trump is morally corrupt. There’s plenty of evidence for that. Whether he’s criminally corrupt remains to be seen; at least one major office has an ongoing criminal investigation.  


Anyone, including Ever Trumpers, has the right to disagree with my comments. My account is open and welcoming to such disagreements. 


I don’t pretend to carry a lot of clout on Twitter. I’m one small person, with one small voice. Regardless, I’m a nuisance. Twitter hardly has the time or the resources to examine the specific wording of each charge of “hateful conduct.” If an Ever-Trumper complained ...? Maybe that’s what happened. 

 

If that’s so, the bigger issue is: How many other Trump opponents have got the bounce for expressing views unpopular with Ever-Trumpers? With such tweeters silenced, it’s impossible to know. Some locked-out tweeters may be scared. Some may miss Twitter so much, they’ll gladly follow Twitter’s suggestion to delete their tweet. Some may well deserve the censure, having strayed from strong speech into unacceptable hate speech. 


Us President Donald Trump has on several occasions stated “fake news” journalists (Def.: Anyone who disagrees with him) should be jailed. Former national security advisor John Bolton alleges Trump once said “scumbag” journalists should be executed. 


The brave journalists and publishers who expose Trump’s odious views should never be silenced. Nor should individuals whose one small voice speaks truth to power. In an open, fair democracy, one voice can become many. 


As long as this dangerous man remains in power, I will protest his autocratic régime with my last breath. It is Trump’s conduct that is hateful - not my small voice nor the many others whose measured, rational voices oppose all Trump represents. 


© Nicole Parton, 2020