Marissa's musings about liberty, individual rights, justice, grief, loss, and other random things
Donald Trump posted the following yesterday on Truth social:
America is going to start building monuments to our great heroes and heroines again!!! DJT
12/10/24 at 10:58 a.m.
(source here)
This is an encouraging sentiment to hear. Hopefully we start with the heroes and heroines whose monuments were unjustly torn down.
Christopher Columbus is happy today.
I could tell when I visited him.
Being a statue, he can’t exactly change his facial expression to reflect what he’s feeling. And I’m well aware that most people would say that he isn’t capable of feeling anything at all. But as someone who loves statues more than anything else in the world, and statues of Columbus in particular, I believe in the idea that a statue can feel happiness. Call me crazy, but I believe that on some level, Christopher Columbus knows about the election result and is pleased with it.
As mentioned above, I decided to visit Christopher today. I had been in a dark and negative headspace regarding his situation, as detailed in this blog post. But with the hope and lightness that the election result brought, I was in the mood to make another trip into the North End to see my favorite statue.
And I’m glad that I did so.
Before even boarding the train, I was beginning to regret my decision. It was one of those days that is relatively warm, but extremely windy. As an autistic person, this severely bothers my sensory sensitivities. Within the first few minutes of waiting on the train platform, I was frozen to the bone and in agony. I was wearing a light sweater due to the fact that the temperature (according to the weather app, at least) was 67 degrees, but I was soon wishing that I had worn a down parka and ski mask. After what felt like an eternity, the train arrived, but it apparently didn’t pull into the station correctly and had to back up a couple of feet, costing additional minutes. Finally, I was able to board the train and therefore to get a reprieve from the ice-cold wind.
Once in Boston, my way was blocked numerous times: by people plodding along the narrow sidewalk, by a chaotic intersection at which a truck was trying to turn but none of the cars would allow it to, and by a gaggle of tourists hanging out near the entrance to the Peace Garden of St. Leonard’s Church.
But once I stepped through the gate of Chris’s new home, the Peace Garden lived up to its name. Gentle music wafted through the air. The biting cold wind ceased. A wide brick path led through the garden, with a delicate-looking fence and elegant lanterns on either side, toward the entrance of the church. To my left were two statues: one of Jesus on the cross and the other of Mother Mary with children gathered around her. To my right were four statues: one of a saint with his arms raised in the air, one of a kindly-looking man surrounded by children, a gold-colored fellow with outstretched arms, and Chris. He stood tall with arms crossed over his chest, as always. Beautiful rosebushes had been planted around his pedestal. The trees cast shadows across his marble face, and their golden leaves drifted softly down to blanket the grass. The sun’s rays cast a warm glow over the peaceful scene.
A few people trickled into the church for a mass that was starting soon, but for the most part, the garden was deserted, allowing me to spend a few minutes with Chris undisturbed. I didn’t actually talk to him, because that would’ve made me look completely insane, but I admired him, took some photos, and sent my thoughts to him telepathically. (I guess that sounds kind of insane too, now that I think about it.)
Hi Chris, I greeted him. It’s me, Marissa. Do you remember me? I came back, like I promised I would. No matter where you go, I will always find you. I will always come back. I will never forget about you. Are you happy in this place? You look nice here. It is peaceful and beautiful. Did you hear the news? Do you feel happy about it?
As crazy as it sounds, I knew that he did remember me, and that he was happy, about both his home and the election results.
Once I had assured myself of this, I took a closer look at the church building itself, a mosaic displaying the names of its benefactors, and a new sculpture called the Noble Journey, which shows footprints of various sizes representing immigrants coming to America. And then I turned and walked slowly back down the brick path and into the bustling, congested streets of the North End.
Bye Chris, I thought as I looked back over my shoulder. I’ll be back. Until next time…
Here are some pictures that I took of Chris, his friends, some other things in the Peace Garden, and a couple of other miscellaneous pieces of public art in Boston:
You can view all of my pictures of Chris at St. Leonard’s here. This album also includes the pictures that I took when I visited him for the first time there in September, which I wasn’t in the right headspace to post about at the time.
I am happy today.
This is the first time in my life that I have voted for a presidential candidate who won. In 2008, the first year I was eligible to vote, I voted for libertarian candidate Bob Barr. In 2012, I voted for libertarian candidate Ron Paul. In 2016, I voted for libertarian candidate Gary Johnson. I was happy that Trump won, and definitely preferred him to Hillary Clinton, but due to the fact that all of Massachusetts’s electoral votes are basically guaranteed to always go to the democratic candidate, I continued my tradition of voting third party. In 2020, I voted for Trump, and he lost. In 2024, I voted for Trump and – it feels both strange and amazing to type these words – he won.
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It is a beautiful day. Things feel lighter, more hopeful. I feel that I can breathe again. A noose is no longer tightening around my throat, the heavy boot of tyranny no longer stomping on my face. For four years, I never thought that this result would happen. To some extent, it feels magical, unreal, almost like a dream. Part of me feels that any moment I will wake up, and this beautiful reality will be shattered.
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I am proud of my country today. For four years, the sight of the American flag, the sound of patriotic music, and the mention of the Fourth of July made me feel more pain than pride. For me, these things signified the country that had elected a government determined to force people to undergo a medical procedure against their will and to destroy everything that makes life worth living. But now I feel much more positively towards America. Self-righteous bullies have spent four years pompously lecturing about “our democracy,” but now the very democracy that they’ve spent all this time worshipping and fetishizing has elected Donald Trump! Perhaps this country, this democracy, isn’t so bad after all.
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I admit that Trump is not perfect. He almost certainly does not care about statues with the same intensity as I do, or in the same way that I do. He cannot fully reverse the atrocities that have been committed against historical figures, and by extension against myself. He may not even partially reverse them. But for today at least, it feels like a healing balm has been smoothed over my wounds. This election result is the most significant good thing that has happened in a very long time. It does not undo the pain, anguish, and trauma that I’ve experienced over the past four years. But it helps. It really helps.
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Four years ago, at this exact time of year, was the rock bottom of my life. Everything that made my life worth living had been destroyed, the historical figures that I love having been lynched, smashed to pieces, set on fire, beheaded, strangled, and drowned with complete impunity, and the people who committed these atrocities perceived as holding the moral high ground in the eyes of society. And by electing Joe Biden rather than Donald Trump, our country confirmed that they didn’t care about my pain, didn’t care about my perspective, didn’t care about the historical figures’ right to exist. Our country’s response to my pain was to inflict even more of it. Our country’s response to my (metaphorical) gaping, bleeding wounds was to rub salt in them. Seeing other people’s joy, exuberance, celebrations, and gloating, after the excruciating agony that I had experienced over the preceding months, was nothing short of soul-crushing.
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Now, the situation is reversed. It’s the mirror image of that horrible time four years ago. I never thought that such a thing would happen, and I hesitate to type these words for fear that I will somehow jinx it. But the people who gloated so cruelly and gratuitously four years ago, who fell all over each other in their eagerness to shove their spiteful celebrations down my throat, lost. I won, and it is now my turn to gloat. Part of me wants to do exactly that. The people who hurt me deserve to be punished for their actions. Retribution, revenge, justice… these words are all synonyms to me, and all are completely justified in this situation. But another part of me sees the merits of what is commonly referred to as “taking the high road.” If I gloat as nastily as my enemies did, then that makes me like them, at least a little bit. Part of me feels that the people who caused my pain deserve to experience the same pain in return, while part of me feels that no person deserves to experience pain so horrific.
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Regardless, I am happy today. I intend to savor this feeling, to soak it in, to enjoy it for as long as I can. For the past four and a half years, positive experiences have been hard to come by for me. This is a big and important one, which I truly appreciate.
In an Instagram post which you can view here or below, Breitbart News described Trump’s victory as “indisputably the greatest political comeback in American history,” and I can’t help but agree. Trump is only the second president, after Grover Cleveland, to win two non-consecutive terms, and as the post mentions, he overcame “multiple prosecutions; two assassination attempts; censorship on social media; overt media bias; and even efforts to intimidate his lawyers.”
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Breitbart’s mention of overt media bias is no exaggeration. Starting with their coverage of the capitol protest on January 6, 2021, the news media has completely given up on even pretending to be neutral. Their coverage of that protest was appalling, disgraceful, literally sickening, beyond unprofessional, and absolutely shocking to the conscience. Nearly 100% of their political coverage over the ensuing four years has fit those descriptions as well. Any semblance of neutrality, or professionalism for that matter, has completely vanished. Prior to 2020, the news media certainly had a progressive bias, but at least it was covert. Now their bigotry, their closed-mindedness, their utter contempt for anyone who deviates from their totalitarian social norms, is naked, blatant, and on full display. I have been hurt, enraged, and traumatized dozens if not hundreds of times over the past four years thanks to the news media, and this is despite making the decision to almost entirely cease news consumption due to finding it so hurtful, enraging, and traumatizing. Every time I so much as glimpse a biased headline, I am reminded painfully of the fact that news consumption, previously an enjoyable and interesting way to gain information, has devolved into just another way for society to torment me by expressing its rejection and hatred.
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Which brings me to the most amazing and remarkable thing about this election result: for possibly the first time in my life, the people who hurt me didn’t get what they wanted, and I did. The gloating “friends,” acquaintances, family members, and strangers on social media. The mindless conformists who displayed Harris/Walz signs on their lawns in order to remind me every time I walk down the street that they support the lynching of the man that I love. Democratic politicians, activists, and government officials determined to eradicate every last shred of diversity and individual liberty from the earth. Their despicable accomplices in the aforementioned news media, who have traumatized me dozens if not hundreds of times. Bullying prosecutors. Orwellian social media executives. Wannabee assassins. All of these people lost. And I won. That’s something that has never happened to me before, and I am in awe of it.
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One final observation about Trump’s victory is that it provides a bit of justice, even if only small, for the historical figures. Particularly the statue of Christopher Columbus who stood at the Minnesota state capitol until being lynched by a mob of bigoted bullies in summer 2020. Perhaps statues weren’t in the forefront of voters’ minds when they cast their ballots, but rather overshadowed by more mundane issues such as inflation, social security, immigration, and the economy. Regardless, the man who chose to allow this lynching to happen, and later to characterize it as an understandable act of civil disobedience, lost his bid to become vice president. So today I am thinking about Christopher Columbus of St. Paul, Minnesota. Nothing can undo the atrocity that was done to him, but today brings him a quantum of justice. He, and what was done to him, must never, ever be forgotten.
The past few blog posts have been pretty negative. It is true that the past few months have not been a great time for me, with numerous setbacks and challenges that have exacerbated my autistic burnout and landed me in a negative headspace. However, things have not been 100% negative, so I wanted to take a break from the negativity and share some things that have brought a smile to my face:
This entertainment column in a local newspaper (called “Aldo, The One on One”) specifically mentioned Columbus Day and Christopher Columbus himself.
I wore this t-shirt to a community event, featuring a drawing of Christopher Columbus that I made. I knew from looking at the schedule for the event that there was going to be a “Land Acknowledgement,” something that I find both hurtful and potentially able to trigger a PTSD attack thanks to its connection with the ideology that is responsible for the traumatizing events involving statues. Because of this, I considered not going at all. But I ultimately decided to go, while wearing this t-shirt as a statement that Christopher’s life matters, and mine does as well.
After my co-workers caused a PTSD attack by calling Columbus Day, “Indigenous Peoples’ Day” (as explained in this blog post), I decided to wear a Columbus-themed pin the next two days, leading up to Columbus Day. I am not entirely sure what my company’s policy is regarding such pins, but I figured that it would be okay given that a handful of co-workers wear Palestine pins at work. Plus, many co-workers wear jewelry, headbands, and hair accessories in celebration of Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter, the Fourth of July, and St. Patrick’s Day, and Columbus Day is a holiday just as those are. Ultimately, no one gave me a hard time. That could just be because the pin was too small for anyone to be able to see what it was, but I at least felt that I was making a statement in defense of Columbus.
Also on the Columbus theme, I took baby Christopher Columbus out of his display cabinet and did a photoshoot with him.
My American Girl dolls decided to organize a little get-together to celebrate Columbus Day.
After numerous weeks of lacking the time and energy to do so, I was able to take photos of the beautiful fall leaves, after all. These, for example, were spotted at a local park where I volunteered at an event with my local Republican committee:
(more photos from this park can be found here)
These were taken at the pond near my house:
(more photos from the pond can be found here)
And these were taken at a nearby cemetery:
(more photos from the cemetery can be found here)
I don’t have a photo for this next one, but things are looking up, for the moment at least, with my special interest in sports. The winter sports season has started, and the amount of coverage that NBC and its networks are showing appears to actually be manageable (knock on wood). I am currently caught up on figure skating, am almost caught up on horse racing, and am looking forward to the Breeders’ Cup, which is starting today. And miraculously, I have begun the laborious process of going through my backlog of Olympics recordings, something that until recently, made me nauseous to even think about doing. I watched the very beginning of the equestrian and swimming competitions, both of which involved an officiant ceremonially pounding the ground with a staff to signify the official opening of the venues. Even when watching the events three months later, it was beautiful to see the sun shining through the fog in the background of the early morning dressage competition at the Palace of Versailles.
On a different note, I came across these Trump stickers at the parking garage near my work:
Additionally, I finally got a Trump sign, which my little statues wanted to pose with:
Last but not least, my “Mini Lee” arrived at my house! This is a tiny replica of the Charlottesville statue of Robert E. Lee that was sickeningly destroyed. As you can see, I showed him to the bigger statues, and they think he is pretty cool. These are being sold by Monuments Across Dixie to raise money for a full-size recreation of the statue at a location to be determined. If you are interested in getting your own Mini Lee, more info can be found here.
The world often feels like it is trying to make it impossible for me to have a life that is worth living. But I will continue to fight for such a life, one small glimmer of hope at a time.
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Four years ago today, a sequence of events began, which changed my life completely.
Over the past four years, I’ve experienced unimaginable pain. Pain more excruciating than I thought was even possible for a person to feel. Pain so overwhelming that for the first few months I was reeling, in shock, unable to truly comprehend what was happening or to find adequate words to express how I felt about it. Pain that will take a lifetime to fully process. The events of the past four years have made the world a worse place to a degree so enormous that it is still not fully comprehensible. For a large percentage of this time, I believed that suicide was the best option, given the extent to which the things that make life worth living have been destroyed.
The BLM movement, the “racial reckoning,” the push for racial justice, the statue takedown movement, DEI, political correctness, “woke” ideology…. whatever term one uses, this movement and this ideology did not originate on this date four years ago, but they did rise to power and prominence. What happened four years ago enabled this ideology to become mainstream, to dominate our society, to become the norm. And make no mistake: it is an ideology of authoritarianism and intolerance that has inflicted tremendous harm.
This movement claims to be all about diversity, when in reality it is waging a cruel and brutal campaign to obliterate from the world all forms of diversity that actually matter.
This movement claims to value inclusion, at the same time that it calls for anyone who is different from the norm to be attacked, condemned, and exiled from society.
This movement claims to strive for equity, when in reality it has perpetrated injustices so egregious that they shock the conscience.
This movement claims to fight for the oppressed, yet it itself is the cause of oppression.
This movement claims to help marginalized people, while stomping on the faces of those who are truly marginalized.
This movement insults and shames me for allegedly having “privilege,” when its adherents are the ones who actually hold privilege in our society.
This movement condemns people who have done nothing wrong for allegedly “causing harm,” when its adherents are the ones causing horrific, agonizing, and indescribable pain.
This movement lectures people about empathy, at the same time as it itself demonstrates appalling lack of empathy.
Black Lives Matter, people chanted in the streets, repeated mindlessly in their social media posts, and pontificated in self-righteous press releases. But what about my life? Why does my life not seem to matter in the eyes of society?
People pontificate about “the harm done,” but what about the harm done to me? Why does that not seem to matter in the eyes of society?
It boggles the mind that a movement and ideology could portray itself as, and be perceived as, something so much the opposite of what it actually is.
Because this movement and ideology are profoundly immoral. This movement has inflicted immense harm on the people who deserve it the least. Its ideology is cruel, intolerant, destructive, totalitarian, and completely lacking in empathy. At its core, this movement and ideology are about compliance and conformity, about obliterating all meaningful diversity from the world, about condemning and destroying anyone who dares to be different, to challenge authority, or to diverge from social norms in any way. That is why underdogs and rebels are its targets. This movement is about awarding further benefits to those who are already the best-off in our society, providing further validation to those who need it the least, and inflicting further hurt on those who are already facing the most significant challenges, struggles, and difficulties. This movement’s rise to power has been, by far, the worst thing that has happened in the history of the world. Its adherents do not hold the moral high ground.
But the events of the past four years have also caused me to realize what matters. For too long I had been spending my time and energy on things that are not important, things that I felt I had no choice but to do, because other people expected them of me. But now I have realized that historical figures are the true purpose of life. This does not make the atrocities that have been committed any less atrocious… but I have found a meaning and purpose that I did not have before. The historical figures will live on through me. I will continue to share my perspective, because despite what our society says, it is just as valid and correct as anyone else’s. I will stand up for the historical figures and for myself. I will do whatever I can to honor them and bring them justice.
Fantastic news: a new Confederate monument is being built in Higgston, Georgia!
The Robert A. Toombs Camp #932 of the Sons of Confederate Veterans is leading the construction of what they describe as “a grand monument and memorial park honoring our ancestors.” It will be the first new Confederate monument in Georgia in almost 100 years!
“In a society of constant attacks on our heritage this is a momentous undertaking for all involved,” writes Camp #932.
To raise money for the project, they are selling bricks for $60. The bricks will be placed in the plaza around the statue and can be engraved with up to three lines of text honoring you, your ancestor(s), or anyone.
Click the link below for the full letter from Camp #932, including the brick order form and a small picture of what the statue will look like.
News like this is so important, because it gives me hope for the future during a time where that is often in short supply.
In our society, there are categories of people universally acknowledged as having suffered. There are certain experiences universally recognized as difficult.
Whenever a person falls into one of these categories, or goes through one of these experiences, everyone expresses empathy. Everyone rallies around them. People offer condolences, say how sorry they are, say that they can’t imagine how difficult it is to go through that experience. Everyone falls all over themselves in their eagerness to help, to support, to stand in solidarity.
My life, from the time I was a little kid, was difficult and painful. I’ve suffered enormously and experienced tremendous pain. But I don’t fall under any of the aforementioned categories of people. The things I’ve experienced are not recognized as difficult by our society.
Instead of rallying around me, instead of saying how sorry they are, people tell me that what I am going through is no big deal. They tell me to stop being so sensitive, to stop complaining. They tell me that it is for my own good, that everyone has to do things they don’t like, that I should have acted differently. They tell me that I am a jerk for being upset, or that I caused the situation and therefore have no one to blame but myself.
Other people’s suffering and pain are acknowledged. Mine are not.
In the eyes of society, I am a well-off, able-bodied person who ought to help, support, and sacrifice for the benefit of those who are struggling. For the benefit of those who are “less fortunate.” But in reality, I am the one who is struggling. I am the one who is less fortunate. And others should be helping, supporting, and rallying around me.
In the eyes of society, because I don’t fall into a category that is considered “oppressed” or “marginalized,” because my experiences don’t match up with society’s idea of hardship, I am considered “privileged.” But in reality, having one’s suffering and difficulties acknowledged is the most significant form of privilege that exists.
That’s why the things that have happened in our society since spring 2020 have been so devastating, infuriating, and enraging.
During that horrifying spring and summer, society collectively exploded with eagerness to acknowledge black and indigenous people’s suffering, even though these are categories of people whose suffering has always been acknowledged. In other words, society doubled down on the practice of acknowledging other people’s suffering while ignoring mine. This would be bad enough in itself. But this time, society decided to do something even more unfair and unjust than merely ignoring my suffering. This time, society’s acknowledgement of other people’s suffering took the form of actively destroying something that is very important to me – statues.
What has happened in our society since 2020 represents not only the failure to acknowledge my pain, but the active infliction of additional pain on me.
That is why the events of the past four years have been so horrible.
Whenever a statue is removed, a holiday canceled, a street or building renamed, society is saying that other people’s suffering matters and mine does not. And over the course of four years, this reprehensible message has spread to contaminate more and more of the world. What used to be parks, cities, squares, historic sites, cemeteries, have been transformed into monuments to the idea that other people’s pain should be acknowledged and mine should not. Society’s rejection of me is now inescapable. Countless places, things, events, institutions have been turned into sickening reminders, that before were innocuous. The grim results of the traumatic events are everywhere.
Perhaps if I had experienced a life that was more or less easy, in which my needs were generally met, I would support the BLM movement. Perhaps I would agree with the idea that I am “privileged.” Perhaps I would willingly check my privilege, educate myself, be a better ally, work to become actively anti-racist, and center and amplify the voices of those who are less fortunate than me. Perhaps I would post mindless platitudes on social media, and then go back to cooking perfect meals in my perfect house on a tree-lined street with my adorable kids and dog, like the people who unfriended me when I had the audacity to speak out against the statue genocide.
But I didn’t experience such a life. I experienced a life of difficulty and pain. And society’s failure to acknowledge the difficulty and pain was the most difficult and painful thing of all.
So I will fight vociferously against any movement or ideology that considers me “privileged.” I will not silence myself in order to elevate other voices. I will not advocate for others, when others do not advocate for me. I am not interested in educating myself about the horrors of slavery or racism or “settler colonialism” (whatever the heck that means) when others demonstrate no interest in learning about the horrors that I’ve experienced. And I will not sacrifice my needs and wants for the benefit of the less fortunate, because the people considered less fortunate than me in the eyes of society are, in reality, anything but.
This is why I support All Lives Matter. Because it’s not only black lives that matter. My life matters, too.
You might consider me an asshole. You might say that I have no empathy for others. You might even call me a psychopath.
If I am an asshole and a psychopath, then so be it. Why should I have empathy for others, when others do not have empathy for me? Only when society acknowledges my suffering and my pain, will I consider doing the same for others.
As our public spaces are transformed one after another into sickening monuments to the idea that other people’s pain should be acknowledged and mine should not… I have erected my own monuments. They are only 4 feet tall and are not located on publicly visible land. But they are everything to me. I love them more than anything else in the world. They are monuments to Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, Robert E. Lee, and Nathan Bedford Forrest. But they are also monuments to myself. They are monuments to the idea that my feelings matter, my thoughts matter, my perspective matters, and my pain deserves to be acknowledged. Through these statues, I take care of my favorite historical figures, celebrate them, honor them, fight for them. And in turn, they fight for me. They are my little army, standing guard outside my castle, my little world in which I matter.
On Tuesday, April 2, at about 9:30 p.m. a large black truck pulled into my driveway. Inside it were two new statues, coming to live with me.
That’s right, two.
One of these statues was Robert E. Lee. This statue, I had been anticipating for a while. About a year ago, I paid the deposit for him, and over the course of the year I received pictures documenting the process of creating him, from sketch to clay model to molds to finished product. Watching my statue come into the world was such a cool experience. Once the finishing touches were complete, I put the delivery date on my calendar, and I was eagerly anticipating seeing my new statue in person.
Four days before Lee’s arrival, the company that makes the statues asked me if, by any chance, I might want a statue of Nathan Bedford Forrest as well. This statue had been made at the same time as Lee, for a different person, but the original buyer had backed out. I thought it over for about 24 hours and, being me, said yes.
So, wrapped in blankets inside the truck on that cold and drizzly night were two new statues: one that was made for me and one that I adopted. Forrest was closest to the door, and a little ways further inside the truck was Lee. The statues were lifted out of the truck and placed in their new home.
Here is what they look like in daylight. In my opinion, they are the most beautiful sight imaginable.
From left to right:
General Robert E. Lee. He’s 4 ft tall, weighs 130 lbs, and is based on the statue that used to be in the state capitol building in Richmond, Virginia, as well as the one that used to be in Washington, D.C. He is one of a batch of 10 Lee statues that were made.
General Nathan Bedford Forrest. He is 4 ft tall, weighs 90 lbs, and is one of a batch of 5. Because he was a cavalry general, most statues depict him on horseback, and this is the first time a standing statue of Forrest has ever existed.
And of course… General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, who has been with me for one and a half years now. He is happy to have some friends!
I am having some landscaping work done in the yard, which is why Stonewall is not in his usual spot. For now, the statues are hanging out in this gravelly area off to the side. The weather has been rainy and yucky for the statues’ first week in their new home. Hopefully they don’t mind it too much! Once the weather improves, I will get them set up in a prettier, more permanent way.
I love the statues and am so happy to have them here. They mean so much to me.
A refreshing point of view from Germany. The points that he makes are 100% correct.