It has not escaped me that Hillary Clinton is the target of my own and others’ feminist rage. In those rare moments where I can actually, in my imagination, step into her shoes, I am astonished by the amount of vilification hurled in her direction, and I realize that, only if she steels herself, can she bear to receive it.
“And if I could hand pick the next president, I would choose Bernie Sanders and Jill Stein to lead together. But personally, my intuition tells me that opening the door for the women leaders of the future, the women like Jill Stein and countless other sisters, mothers, and grandmothers that represent truth and peace and sustainability, it will require a woman that is embedded in this current sick system to first step into that role. It doesn’t validate the system to me, or invalidate the harm, but it does speak symbolically of an immeasurable transformation occurring in our species to see a woman lead even in the apex of the patriarch the U.S. seems to represent.” — Tribe of Dreams (in reply to a comment).
I have no idea whether or not this beautifully layered perspective on the archetypal feminine and its driven injection into what is perhaps the most crucial watershed moment of our troubled nation since its genocidal inception will drive me to vote for flawed Hillary, but I deeply appreciate the author’s compassionate view of the sweep of his-story revolving into her-story — and then, hopefully, our-story. Reading through this prose poem, even in a cursory manner, has already jumbled all that I have been thinking and feeling into what will hopefully distill into a larger gestalt. YES! In great gratitude, via Chenue.
Also, read the anguished comments, especially the one from “newstorypublishing.”