Alternative Facts

"Alternative facts are falsehoods." Chuck Todd to Kellyanne Conway on Meet the Press, 1/22/2017

Can this all be real?  As a 63 year old grandmother, who has lived in the middle of America all of my adult life, I cannot fathom this constantly changing stream of alternate realities.  I know what I see and hear with my own two eyes and ears - yet a new President has taken the reins and in less than a day in office has already sent forth his minions to lie on his behalf concerning issues that make no difference to the majority of Americans.

Who are these Americans I speak of?  They are those who work paycheck to paycheck- I know these people, I was one of them.  They are black, brown, white, Jewish, Christian, Phillipino, Muslim, every race, every religion, every gender, and sexual orientation under the sun. They are those of us who, through no fault of our own, have suffered and are facing catastrophic illness and have had to learn to navigate a broken health care system. They are the families of all of these people.

And, yes, they are the women, men and children who marched in the Women's March that took place around the world on 1/21/2017.

Today, our country is broken in jagged shards of glass and we, the people must find the glue to put it all back together again.

Because, this President, this President Trump does not seem to want to help- and his Republican co-horts are in a league of their own.

Alternative facts really are falsehoods.  I believe that the turnout for the Women's March took place because of a deep boiling of the blood.  Americans do not like to be lied to- and they do not like to feel that they have been conned. The majority of Americans saw through this Con.

Those that did not are seeking a type of benefit for reasons I have yet to discern.  But, underneath it all, I do believe that all Americans share certain common values.

We know that America is written on the promise of the Statue of Liberty

A Poem by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"