Whiskey When We’re Dry



How did we get here, to this place of rage and intolerance?

How did we allow racists — armed fascists — to threaten our very democracy?

Most of us won’t turn off our devices long enough to think, really think deeply, about the crisis in our nation.

Instead, we’ll take a few steps deeper into the corner of the room filled with others just like us. Safe. Unchallenged.

We’ll play the “Yeah, but…” game, justifying the actions of our tribe as no worse than the actions of their tribe.

We’ll tell ourselves we’re people of faith and that the compromise with our image of God has been acceptable in order to stop abortion.

We’ll feel the energy of entitlement at the idea of taking back our country from those who look different, speak differently, cook differently, as if we, and our clan, weren’t those exact people a few generations ago.

We have no chance of hearing, and thus no chance of truly understanding, because we are shouting so loudly ourselves.

Righteous. Certain. Superior.

How did we get here?

Let this question from Whiskey When We’re Dry, by John Larison, simmer:


” ‘What started the war, Pa?’ 

  His eyes settled on me.

 ‘Stories, Jessilyn. We tell ourselves the wrong stories.’ “