08/25/2025
I am sad and distraught about the decimations the Trumpocalypse is wreaking on millions of people, not just in America but all over the world.
No atrocity on American soil can ever compare to the double genocide at the core of this country's origins. But Trump's Reign of Terror is just getting started, and it's already third on the list of America's Most Evil Atrocities.
What can I personally do in response to the ghastliness?
I can refuse to let despair colonize my imagination. I can safeguard my capacity for wonder and keep training my eyes to notice the everyday rebellions of beauty—the fox trotting through the alley at dusk, the kids painting sidewalks into cathedrals with chalk. I can align myself with networks of care, mutual aid, and joyful defiance. I can amplify voices that the Trumpocalypse seeks to silence.
I can make art, music, and ritual that strengthen the spirits of my allies. I can conspire to turn grief into songs and fury into strategies. I can study history to remind myself that tyrannies always fall, though often at great cost—and that liberation requires stubborn love as much as it does resistance.
I can donate money to grassroots groups defending the vulnerable. I can volunteer my time with local activists who are protecting immigrants, voting rights, reproductive justice, and the climate. I can check in on friends who feel isolated, making sure no one fights despair alone.
I can write letters to editors, call legislators, and show up in the streets with my body and my sign. I can teach, mentor, and pass on skills of resilience to younger allies. I can vote, organize, and stay alert—not just for the next election, but for the long, ongoing work of keeping democracy alive.
I can sharpen my rage into a luminous sword instead of letting it corrode into despair. I can name the Trumpocalypse for what it is: a death cult, a con of cruelty, a desecration of everything tender and wild. I can refuse its gravitational pull by being louder in my love, bolder in my solidarity, rowdier in my refusal.
Most of all, I can keep my own soul from becoming a miniature Trumpistan, polluted with cruelty and numbness. Instead, I will be a living sanctuary, an ecosystem of refusal and tenderness, a trickster priest of rowdy hope.
Image: from my unpublished Tarot deck