Sorry, Mr. Trump, My Honor is Non-Negotiable

I’ve just been told it’s time “to bind the wounds of division.” The man who told me this just became our 45th president in large part due to his singular, unprecedented genius for provoking and exploiting division. So you’ll pardon me if I’m near paralyzed by the irony.

I’ll decide for myself what’s it’s time to do and be, thank you very much.

I tend to be fluid/ Eager to please/ Happy to help you/ Some see the forest/ Some see the trees/ Everyone’s welcome

But one thing I will never say/ One thing I will never do

I won’t call ugly beautiful/ Whatever the advance/ However long the band plays lies/ I won’t get up to dance

Donald Trump spent the last year and half telling us whom to fear, who was to blame for our suffering, who had robbed us of the birthright of manifest destiny, and who deserved our anger. He made us feel special, supported and protected, then, by debasing us. By calling upon the lowest common denominator of our humanity. By calling upon our base instincts.

You get that this is brilliant, right? That debasement could make us feel affirmed? Mephistopheles is a lame, obvious, rank amateur by comparison. And this time there is no Gretchen to plead on our behalf to God.

Our base instincts leap for joy. They shout an enthusiastic “yes.” We are free. We will be great again.

Donald Trump made it fashionable to be boorish. He became a U.S. President by gleefully belittling human beings; any human being who could, even for a moment, provide a fulcrum point for the inexorable lever of willing, glorious and grateful seduction.

For this we compliment him as “a straight talker.”

Honor and decency are officially vestigial. Even contraindicated. The man who popularized this way of life now says it’s time to “bind the wounds” this way of life so savagely inflicts.

Do you see Donald Trump as a healer of wounds? Does he see himself as such?

You know there won’t be a wall, right? And you know that he hasn’t said the same thing about abortion twice in a row, ever, right? And you know he’ll never sue the women who accused him of sexual misconduct, right? And you know he won’t put Hillary in jail, right?

I’m saying, we’re just fine with any equation of truth/untruth, shameless hyperbole, baseless paranoia and even making $#@! up … just as long as it comforts us. Just as long as we can feel affirmed. I’m saying, The National Enquirer sells. And, apparently, learning to think and talk in this idiom likewise sells.

This idiom can make you a U.S. President.

Donald once richly and famously said that, when you’re rich and famous, “they’ll let you grab ‘em by the p*ssy.” Turns out he wasn’t just talking about women. He was speaking about all of us. He was being prophetic. And he is correct. We will let him.

The 2016 U.S. presidential election is officially dystopian for me. It has been for some time. We are all, now, starring in a reality television program. It’s what we wanted. And what we deserve.

So, back to deciding for myself what it is time to be and do …

I think I’ll take radical responsibility for my shame and embarrassment. It’s nobody else’s problem. It’s mine to feel, and I intend to feel it.

Then I think I’ll back away. Detach. I want never to be counted amongst those who could admire what we all have just experienced. I have no benefit of the doubt to offer any man or woman who could rise to power on the winds of such vile politic, or to a populace capable of lauding such rising.

I think I shall not negotiate my self-respect, nor the treasure I extend when I say “I respect you.”

Lastly, I will beware the sore temptation to despair. I will do what I can do. I will teach beneficence where I can. I will remember that perfect love casts out fear.

I will refuse to participate with evil. There is no higher moral duty.

I like living hopeful/ A little naïve/ Wanting to understand/ Offer my life as a transparency/ No weapon in my hand

So lets find what is true and beautiful/ Or leave me, to go my separate way

I won’t call ugly beautiful/ Whatever the advance/ However long the band plays lies/ I won’t get up to dance

(Steven Kalas is a Nevada author, therapist and Episcopal Priest. He writes a weekly column for the Sparks Tribunje and can be reached at skalas@marinscope.com. )