Ring, ring: My phone call should be important to you

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 07/04/2025 (499 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I have spent the last several weeks writing emails, leaving phone messages on comment lines and/or talking to agents within various American institutions protesting the purge of democratic principles; I am enraged by the corrupt, obscene and perverse Trumpite “orders” meant to cleanse America and make her “great” again.

My actions might seem naive, witless, fruitless.

But enraged, feeling helpless, I am compelled to raise my voice. I begin my comments by identifying myself as a Canadian, reminding my audience I live in a sovereign nation. I like to begin this way. The claim settles me.

I state my case, one shared by many who value sustainable and progressive policies that advocate for the sacredness and survival of the Earth and all of its inhabitants, human and non-human.

I have my list of offences well in hand: misogynist, homophobic, fascist. I have apt descriptors: mendacious, moronic, maniacal, Muskianic…

The White House comment line telephone is accessible. If I call during its hours of operation, I get an agent who would then convey my message — a questionable follow-through at best, I admit, but a hope I cannot disregard.

My tone might seem abrasive. The agent asks me why I am not being nice to him and to his president. (The president just recently noted Canadians are “nasty.”) The idea of putting “nice” and “Trump” together as a viable notion startles me. I respond by saying I don’t think I need be nice. This is a comment line. I have the right to speak my mind.

“I am not a ‘nice’ woman. I am not a ‘nice’ Trumpian.”

My voice might have been raised, but I am raising it deliberately, purposefully, sounding an alarm. The agent, deeply offended, reminds me, as he ends the call, that “he has my number.”

I feel his words are a threat.

I am taken aback, but then I remember: Fascism does that.

To him and to me.

I think it best to call again. Another agent answers, responsive, and in her own way, concerned. She understands that I have been threatened. She apologizes, says she will pursue the matter with the agent (there would be a record of the date and time of the call and, of course, my phone number), and that there will be an apology. I am sure she says apology.

There is, of course, no apology, but she has her good intentions, is more seasoned perhaps, less contaminated by the perverse right wings commanding her government.

I continue to develop my contact list, though I intend to begin my day by calling the White House.

I move on to various Democratic sites — the Obama Foundation, for example. While I explain my position and intent to the receptionist, she notes I cannot leave a comment, though she too is rather dismayed by the lack of interest/responsiveness/co-ordinated resistance within the foundation and among its exemplary leaders.

I move on. The Clinton Foundation is inaccessible by phone, though the donor pages were active and receptive. I leave messages for the Democratic Party; I call specific Democratic senators who find the vicious, oval office Trump-Vance tag team assault on Ukrainian president Volodomyr Zelenskyy more than reprehensible. I find the names of Republican senators who echo that analysis. And I add senators who have praised the Trump-Vance assault as evidence of the need to protect America from being abused by a remarkably courageous man fighting for the right of his nation to exist.

My list grows. I hang a flag from the second floor of my house. I have never been fond of flag-waving. I understand national boundaries are mostly formed by guns, germs and steel, and that nationalistic fervour is often dangerous.

But I am a Canadian and a crone. I have children and grandchildren. I cannot be silent. I have thought myself a member of the human community. I have trained myself to look beyond the borders of my time and place, my gender, my status, my experience. I will live with the complexities of nationalism in light of the need to protect life-giving values and terrain from Hitlerian Trumpian tentacles.

I approach Canadian organizations committed to opposing the nightmare of history enacted south of the border. Coffee in hand, computer on my lap and cell within reach, I join a petition to revoke Musk’s citizenship, though such a petition might not have any legal force. I continue my calls/comments in support of Americans resisting the imposition of Republican “domestic terrorism.”

I review my motive and practice. I recognize I am the tiniest cog in the wheel of misfortune unfolding but must advocate, for even a tiniest cog ripples as it searches for the “good” in America.

arts@freepress.mb.ca