Darker
My family call me “Mary Fucking Sunshine”. My mother – who claims never to have uttered a coarse word before her progeny developed a whopping case of potty mouth – was the one to apply that moniker to me. I feel sure my nickname was meant both as a loving statement of support for my positive outlook, as well as a dig to point up how annoying that sunny outlook can be.

There’s been some dark shit going down these days. I thought last fall when the election debacle unfolded that I had a bead on the shape of darker things to come. I thought that I’d be able to imagine the various policy disasters that one could easily – if grimly – anticipate. But then you fold into this toxic mix a frothy measure of natural disasters, the death of inspiring people – both within the immediate family and the broader human family – and some challenging-though-natural familial developments, and you’ve got a recipe for some serious, I’m-not-fucking-around Doom and Gloom.

And so, as my nickname would imply and for purposes of survival, I turn immediately to the gossamer-thin silver lining: an opportunity for community awakening to a centuries-old issue with poverty and racism perpetrated at the institutional, cultural and individual levels; an opportunity to participate in a dynamic resistance that reflects my values more authentically than an effort to change from within the policies of a progressive government; and an opportunity to bond with aging parents and adult siblings from whom I’ve necessarily separated through the years. Yeah -- good times.

But I will tell you that however well-intentioned my focus on the silver fucking lining, I am often met with outrage (“Are you SERIOUS, Fran?! If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention!”), with a cloying explanation of just how bad things are and isn’t it adorable that I’m trying to spin things in a positive cast (“Awwww, nice try, Fran.”); and with a blinking, disbelieving look of total befuddlement (“OK, now … what?”). I’ve decided not to try to alter my world view but instead to perhaps curb my enthusiasm a bit. Mary Fucking Sunshine has decided to trim the wick. Instead of lighting the whole fucking house on fire to cast the most pervasive, persuasive glow of positivity, I’m going to be that flickering candle in the corner. I’ll listen quietly to the keening. I’ll witness wordlessly to the rending of garments. I’ll nod quietly in solidarity as we rail at the litany of injustices and random brutality of this world. 

I will also, however, remind you that there’s a guy at the corner of Broad and Main who’s giving away hugs. That Keith – who stations himself at the corner of Main and 9th – chats with his teddy bear when he gets a love offering from passersby. That there are any number of people in my neighborhood who will offer a soda, a water or an opportunity to mow the lawn (or fix for you your lawnmower) so that we can share in a small way our privilege and gratitude for that privilege. Just look for those flickering candles – they are all over the place. I’m going to trim the wick and settle in for a long, fucking winter: Mary Fucking Candlelight that I am. 


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