We’re engaged, we’re awake, we’re in love, and no one is taking our country from us.
I hid my face in my hands. It wasn’t just that my toddler son was playing guns but that he was using a Pride flag as his weapon at a vigil to mourn those killed at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Fla.
"I almost feel sorry for Trump, because a man so programmed to grab for every headline and steal every show and say whatever he can to keep the hot lights of the media on him undoubtedly wasn't listened to as a kid."
I just couldn’t square my son’s loving exuberance and confidence in the people around him with the sheer, teeth-hurting terror of children being stalked by an armed killer through the halls of the Friendship School. How, after all, do you practice for the unthinkable?
To have a child is to plant a flag in the future—and that is no small responsibility.
The Pentagon loomed so large in my childhood that it could have been another member of my family. Maybe a menacing uncle who doled out put-downs and whacks to teach us lessons or a rich, dismissive great-aunt intent on propriety and good manners.