It is humiliating to be an American.

Over the phone my son asks, "What can I do? I have no power."

Every day the screeds of furious women thrash through my inbox. They want to organize marches, they want to read serious books, they want to write letters to the government. They are drenched in dread and impotence.

Over the phone I ask my son, "What good will this do? Whose mind will this change?"

Every day the internet throbs and twitches: boycott! general strike! 

Over the phone my son says, "Do they not understand that poor people have no choice about where and when to shop?" Over the phone I say, "Tom already works too many hours. We cannot afford to lose wages during a general strike."

Every day I think about how far away my sons live. What if the planes can no longer fly safely? What if the trains are defunded? What if there's a civil war? What if the Russians take over? What if my boys are conscripted? What if I never see them again?

Over the phone my son says, "I have painted my dining room four different bright colors."

Over the phone I say, "The cardinals are singing their spring songs."

It is terrifying to be an American.