Interesting insight into the woman who may have been instrumental in bringing us the horror in Washington today.
On March 15, flood the White House with your postcards to Donald Trump, telling him your thoughts on his presidency. Some have suggested these should be vitriolic and suggest he be fired to get under his skin. You can do what you want, but I think that just lowers myself to his level. I don’t plan to go there.Write your message following good forms of ettiquette. In other words, don’t be like him.
Here’s my advice. Write your message following good forms of etiquette. In other words, don’t be like him.
- Be polite.
- Be clear and concise.
- Stand your position and ask for his action.
- Use a fact if you can.
- Stay on message.
Postcards don’t have to go through security and will be delivered directly to the White House.
Here’s where to send them:
Donald J. Trump
The White House
1600 Pensylvania Avenue NW
Washington DC 20500
I am writing mine this morning. Each one will address an issue I feel is extremely important. Here are some of the themes of the postcards I’m sending:
- Stop tweeting
- Release your income taxes
- Stop name calling and focus on the job
- Read and recognize the science behind climate change
- Recognize losing health insurance is a death penalty for those who are ill
- The wealthy are not superior
- Planned Parenthood gives a lifeline to the poor for birth control, health checkups, yearly exams, and advice. Do not de-fund this important resource for our poor.
I will probably come up with more as I write, but this is a start.
Please join the movement and inundate the White House with postcards that are a mandate and a cry to become a “human being president.”
He grabbed my ankles and began pulling me out of bed. He tightened his grip, and I realized it wasn’t my husband teasing me. I opened my eyes, and a large man in a navy blue suit and red tie with orange hair held my ankles and pulled me toward him. I tried to kick, and the grip tightened. I worked hard to force a scream so someone would hear me and come to my rescue. The scream began in my gut and rose up through my throat and finally out into the darkness of my bedroom and straight into my husband’s ear.
“Wake up, baby, wake up,” I heard my husband say. “Do you know where you are? Wake up.”
I finally realized that Donald Trump had not really been pulling on my ankles, but he’d been there in the fear of my psyche crowding my thoughts and feeding the frenzy of my worse nightmare for my country.
My blood-curdling scream woke up both my husband and me and kept us awake for a long time afterward. So much for peaceful weekend sleeping.
The reality of what is happening with the new president is worse than I ever imagined and worse than a nightmare. But unfortunately, this is a nightmare that doesn’t go away with the opening of my eyes. The relief from waking up from a terror dream is not abated, not now when every day brings one more horror and one more erosion of our democracy and republic.
Today, I have lost hope. Today, I feel the need to flee. Today, I cry for those most affected, and wish I could go back to the sleep-induced nightmare so I could kick my feet, scream my screams, and fight the demon in the room.
I will fight to become hopeful again, and I will do my part by continuing the phone calls, sending the postcards, and posting the reports. Please do the same.