S has spelling homework now that he’s in third grade. Every Monday he brings home a paper with a list of fifteen words and each day he must practice them with a new exercise. Monday he writes each word twice, Tuesday he puts them into alphabetical order, Wednesday he writes them in sentences. Thursday, while we eat dinner, I quiz him in preparation for the test his teacher will give on Friday.
So far, he likes it.
I remember my second grade Spelling class. Instead of a weekly piece of paper, we had a book. The cover was glossy and fuchsia, a color that is the perfect combination of hot pink and cool violet, and there was a picture of a Dalmatian on it. The contrast of the black and white dog and the bright background drew me in and I hated having to cover it with a paper bag cover. I peeled away the scotch tape on the corners so I could look at it. The pages of the book were glossy too, the typeface of the words wide and round, and although it seems strange to describe a font as friendly, it was. I loved it.
Each Friday we would separate our desks to take a test, much like I imagine happens in S’s class now. My teacher would stand at the front of the room and read down the list of words, carefully enunciating each one. At the end, we would be asked to write a few sentences, and our teacher would speak slowly, repeating each one three times.
Her sentences were simple. “Peter asked Sue how to get to the pet store.” “Who let the jet get wet?” And even though I could breeze through the week’s list of short ‘e’ words, I would always get tripped up on the words “how” and “who.” I would write w-h-o and then rub what was left of my eraser (I ate them when I was nervous) over the newsprint paper, leaving skidded tears along the blue lines, and then I would tentatively write h-o-w over the mess. No matter how hard I studied, I could not remember the order of the letters.
As we are inching closer to the election, more and more signs are being pushed into lawns, and I’ve noticed more cars are being accessorized with bumper stickers.
This weekend, when running errands, we pulled up behind a non-descript sedan with a Trump sticker. I felt the red-hot daggers of anger pierce my guts. I asked my husband, “Don’t you feel like people proclaiming their support for him are really just proudly announcing that they’re racist?” This man’s platform relies on hatred, racism, bigotry, and xenophobia. A Trump sticker then seems to be just as offensive as a confederate flag, a swastika, or a white hood.
I am aware that my question to my husband makes a sweeping generalization of Trump supporters. An almost-irony, since I am making a broad generalization about people who support a man who makes broad generalizations. And yet, here I am. I was a hardcore Sanders supporter, and although I do not agree with many of Clinton’s policies, there is a chasm between her and the man who suggested her murder, who berated a woman with a crying baby, who mocked a Muslim family who lost their son fighting in Iraq, who failed to denounce the KKK. Those who stand behind this man are either ignoring his violence and racism, or they are supporting it. And neither of those options is acceptable. (Here is a listicle for a succinct, yet thorough overview.)
Now, when I see these supporters on the road, in my neighborhood, or in my newsfeed, and when I hear them repeat their “Make America Great Again” slogan, I find myself reverting back to old habits. I am nervously chewing on pens and my fingernails. And I am struggling over those two little words.