Trump Blues

Since the election, I've been in an unrelenting depressive state. Never in my worst nightmares could I have imagined donald trump winning the presidency of the United States. I thought we were a better people. I saw us becoming more multicultural, not less, more racially embracing, not less, more inclusive, not less; more compassionate. There were so many signs during the last eight years I took for the truth: our television shows and movies were increasingly becoming biracial. Advertising were beginning to use biracial couples to sell products. Everywhere I looked on the streets where I lived, white people and people of color were living as neighbors, marrying each other, bearing proud biracial children. There were still serious racial problems, sure, but we would fix them. I would have bet every cent I had that donald trump could not have won more than a few southern states, that the rest of the electorate would reject him as, simply, not in step with the expanding bi-racialism of the United States. Was I ever wrong.

In regard to trump and the NBA, it is clear to me that any NBA owner who voted for the donald is no better than Donald Sterling, the racist.

And to those of you who placed the sign in front of a school recently that read: Trump Nation; Whites Only, let me ask you this question: On that day that you yearn for so much when America becomes all white and all Christian, who will be left to hate? Who else? People like you, poor uneducated white haters. In your Trump Nation, you will become the neglected and reviled minority.

It is time to send as much good karma Colin Kaepernick's way. We need for him to become a successful quarterback in the NFL because the greater his success, the great his protest will resonate throughout the country. In the next four years, we're going to need a lot more Kaepernicks, not for the sake of the 49eers, but for the sake of America.

Athletes   by Walker Gibson

The groggy fighter on his knees
Sways up at nine, postpones the count;
The jockey, forty-to-one shot, sees
Them all go by, yet whips his mount;
The losing pitcher, arm gone lame,
Still drops that last one in, a strike -
So you and I play a stubborn game,
Disaster prodding us alike.
So you and I, ignoring odds,
Tug caps, clutch ropes, and flail our whips,
Make sacrifices to the gods,
Breed children and build battleships.
Though ours is not an athlete's doom,
Nor death like any locker room                         * The word locker in the original was
                                                                               shower. I changed it to the more
                                                                               modern term.