A small story:

When Kid was little, I joked the way she would rebel against her parents was to become a cheerleader, then attend Bob Jones University, marrying a young man who would stay forever in the State House in Arkansas, giving us masses of polite, strange grandchildren.
I underestimated Kid.
"I am apolitical," she announced at about 11.

I blinked.

"A-po-li-tic-al," I sounded out, then wondered if I had ever said that word aloud. Kid nodded.

"Yes," she said firmly, "I am tired of hearing about politics. I do not care about politics. I am apolitical."
I restrained myself from yelling that I had no child.

In her defense, her father and I watched the Towers come down as she practiced toddling around the house. We were never not going to be politically-minded but I doubt there was a single day we didn't talk politics around her.
When she was seven years old, the economy tanked. Within months, she could perfectly imitate @kairyssdal's voice saying, "This...is Marketplace." Once when we were driving someplace she suddenly burst out, "I AM SO GODDAMN TIRED OF BEN BERNENKE'S VOICE."
"Language," I chided then added, "And we all are."

Had she been a Neocon, at least there would have been some traction there, some interesting give and take. Kid - far more wily than her simple minded mother - stepped out of the political battlefield entirely.
For years, she was Switzerland, taking well-bred glee in shutting us down.

"Did you read the Post article about-"

"No, I did not."

"What did you think of the debate?"

"Nothing, because I was putting little outfits on the cat."
"She's not completely lost," Consort and I consoled each other, reminding ourselves she had registered to vote ahead of time, at 16, at @RuPaulsDragCon. I'd send her links to articles and OpEd pieces, choosing to believe the silence was her, poring over them.
And then the last few years happened. I'd see her getting outraged, disgusted. Then, I would see the dreaded but completely understandable shrug of "I'm a single human being and these are evil bastards; what can I do?"

I'd force myself not to tell her evil bastards bank on that.
"Why should I, my generation, have to clean up your messes?" she'd say and I couldn't disagree. The world sometimes can seem like a game of Double-Dutch jumprope with an infinite amount of ropes, a thing you watch from the outside and think, "I don't even know how to start."

George Floyd.

She went to a large protest to stand with the community and to act as an EMT as needed. She was shot at with rubber bullets. She was maced. At one point, a cop pulled off her mask to mace her.
Ambulances were driven around by cops to arrest anyone who the temerity to think a vehicle dedicated to helping injured people wouldn't be used to trap them. Kid was trapped in a stranger's apartment for hours, listening to the chaos.
In one night she learned what anyone who has ever played Double-Dutch knows; breathe, steady your mind and just jump in. She's as young as she was when she felt as if her voice didn't matter, which is two years younger than the late John Lewis was when he cross the Pettis Bridge.
She is three years older than one of the leaders of the Stonewall Uprising.

She is the same age as the average soldier who landed on Normandy Beach.
"WELCOME TO THE FLOCK!" I shriek in text. From thousands of miles away, I can hear her sigh.

"MAHther, I'm not political. Political is you and Dad shouting all evening as you agree with each other. I'm fighting for human rights," she texts back.

Will accept.
I send her a link to David France's HOW TO SURVIVE A PLAGUE, the story of a bunch of people who also started off not planning to be political but who ended up saving millions of lives.

She doesn't respond.

I imagine she is busy, jumping effortlessly, ferociously.
You can follow @quinncy.
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