Living in a Bubble

Here is me again, trying not to live in a bubble.
I do read the NY Times e-newsletter after all. I have a Twitter feed but I never look at my Twitter feed. How many hours are there in a day, even with the extra time gifted to a person not teaching anymore? And who needs to get all up in arms over such dribble as the president's tweet, calling Omarosa “that dog” and a “crazed, crying lowlife"? I'd never fall asleep at night. I'd rather concentrate on my posts of friendly faces and friendly creatives on my more friendly feeds.

But as I do every morning, I read the NY Times on my phone. In reply to that unsurprisingly inappropriate remark by our inapproriate president, the White House press secretary tried to defend Mr. Trump by pointing out his willingness to lash out at people of all races. That makes it okay, then?

Would it have been okay for me to hurt the feelings of one student at my school if I damaged the growing egos of all of my students? My kids arrived at my classroom door each week to have a bit of messy fun in their academic day, to learn how to see the world as a budding artist, and to discover their creative voice. So what if a student stretched the boundaries of behavioral acceptance as prescribed by the Ranney School Honor Code and made my life as a teacher hard? It would not be okay for me to lash out and destroy his day, his family's heritage, or his childhood. And lashing out at other kids would not make it okay, either. The press secretary went on to say that the Trump administration had already created three times as many jobs for black Americans as the Obama administration did. That false claim (as proven false by the Times) does not remove the hurtful tone of his tweet. So remind me, because I live in a bubble. How did we get here?

As I wrote in a previous rant, I feel like it is my job as a citizen to keep up with what is going on, not that I could make a difference. My vote for Hillary certainly didn't. This presidency, like all the rest before and after will enter the history books (or the cloud) and be remembered as it will. More determined people than me, such as Ricky and Barbara, may help this country recover, one voice at a time. I thank them as I would thank a doctor for helping people recover, one body at a time. The world needs passionate experts. Listening to the ridiculously funny remarks of the late night geniuses on television does help make the ridiculous so much more than just a joke and adds fuel to my unlikely interest in the news. So I listen to Zach explain to me what is really going on and I read the New York Times in the morning, mostly to see if there are any new obituaries or entertaining human interest stories. I try not to live in a bubble.

Sam came downstairs just now with his ukelele and played a couple of tunes he is working on for the holidays. I started off my morning in a rant and quickly turned around, applauding with delight over his perfect lyrics and upbeat melodies. So, here is my answer as a retired art teacher from a respectable fine and performing arts department in an ​​​​​​​ultra-conservative school... a picture tells a thousand words, making art much more pleasant and reflective than a short, hurtful tweet, and music will help us all heal, one song parody at a time. I like living in my creative bubble. I hope it doesn't burst.