Happy Freaky New Year!

 

My singular New Year’s resolution going into 2020 was to enjoy as many live music concerts as possible. Long before I accepted a one-year contract to be the Music teacher at SoBoCo Primary School in 2019, music had been a big part of my life. When I was young, a million years ago, I played trombone and baritone horn well enough to earn college scholarship offers. After my playing days were over, I hosted a blues show on 88.1 KCOU, Mizzou’s student-run radio station. Over the years, I continued to listen to and appreciate all kinds of music, always striving to broaden my musical horizons.

 

Teaching music to young people helped me remember just how important music is to me. As 2020 approached, music was once again a huge part of my life. I directed a Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood-themed concert featuring my second graders in November. The following month I directed my kindergarteners in a delightful holiday concert and lead the whole school in a light-hearted holiday sing-a-long. I even managed to attend a few live shows here and there, including an unforgettable concert by Here Come The Mummies, a funk band that you have to see in person to truly appreciate. No matter how much music there was in my life, I couldn’t get enough of it.

In January of 2020, I started scanning the interwebs for upcoming concerts and filled my calendar with dozens of exciting prospects. I made plans to attend performances with my wife and my music-loving friends in Columbia, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Boulder, and Fort Collins. I continued teaching my students about various genres of music ranging from classical to disco, and I introduced my first graders to the songs they would be performing for their Spring musical “How to be a Pirate”.

 

Musically speaking, 2020 was going to be the best year ever.

In February, Bethany and I went to “Cash Bash”, a musical tribute to Johnny Cash on the late musician’s birthday, at Rose Hall in Columbia. It was fantastic. Little did we know that it would be the only concert we would attend in 2020. Well, that’s not exactly true. Despite rumors of an impending shut down, “How to be a Pirate” went on as planned a few weeks later, just days before the Southern Boone school district switched to virtual instruction for the remainder of the school year. I could have never predicted that the last concert I would attend in 2020 would be one that I directed in early March.

With Covid-19 spreading unchecked as 2021 approaches, it would be foolish to plan on attending any live musical performances for the foreseeable future. Therefore, I must abandon my plan to recycle my New Year’s resolution from a year ago. Instead, my resolution for the New Year is this: In 2021, I promise to let my freak flag fly.

You may be wondering what exactly it means to let one’s freak flag fly. If the pandemic has taught me anything, it is that life is too short to waste time pretending to be anything other than my true, authentic self. I also know from experience that I am not everyone’s cup of tea. Most of the time, I am not ashamed to let my freak flag fly. But all too often, I hide who I really am for the sake of not offending other people’s sensitivities. I think a lot of us are probably guilty of that.

In 2021, I’m going take the advice Here Come The Mummies give in their song Freak Flag:

“I know you’re pretending to be shy,

but I see something naughty in your eyes.

There’s no shame in just being who you are,

On the dance floor is a perfect place to start.

It must be unfurled if you want to show the world--

Let your freak, let your freak, let your freak flag fly…”

 

For having the last name Naughton, and for having a bit of an ornery streak, it was only natural that some of my childhood friends referred to me by the nickname “Naughty”. I was a good kid, but I didn’t always walk the straight and narrow path. I didn’t get into a lot of trouble when I was young, but I did fly my freak flag high—not caring at all who approved or disapproved.

But as I grew older and more responsible, I felt forced to conform in order to fit in and not rock the boat. I started to lose my individuality, my freakiness. Although I do still fly my freak flag once in a while, most of the time I keep it neatly folded up and hidden away. But why?

The Mummies go on to say, “I see no reason why you can’t let your freak flag fly high. Run it straight up the pole, gotta show your colors before you get too old.” That’s fantastic advice coming from a group of seriously-talented funk musicians who wear mummy costumes on stage. I’ll turn 50 years old in 2021, and as the ball drops in Times Square on New Year’s Eve, I plan on running my freak flag up the pole in its place.

 

Happy, Freaky New Year!

Naughton’s New Four-Four-Two

After I sold my beautiful 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air nearly two years ago, in order to buy a 2015 Chevrolet Silverado 2500 HD equipped with a powerful Duramax diesel engine perfect for towing our family’s camping trailer, I began searching for another classic almost immediately. I am beyond thrilled to tell you that last weekend, my quest was fulfilled at long last.

I had decided that my next classic would be something from the 1960s, a decade that saw tremendous innovation in terms of comfort, reliability, safety, and of course horsepower. I had a hard time choosing between buying a pony car, such as a classic Camaro or Mustang, or a muscle car like a Chevelle or GTO. I also considered full-sized classics such as Impalas or even Cadillacs. In the end, I found the perfect blend of features found in all of those examples: a 1965 Oldsmobile 442 (Four-Four-Two).

When Oldsmobile first decided to compete against the GTO from General Motors’ Pontiac division in 1964, the company came up with a performance and appearance package for their mid-sized Cutlass. That year, the digits in the moniker 442 stood for 4-speed manual transmission, 4-barrel carburetor, and dual (2) exhaust pipes. The 330 cubic inch V8 motor was rated at a healthy 310 horsepower and 355 lb-ft of torque. The next year, however, Oldsmobile declared all-out war against their in-house rivals at Pontiac.

In 1965, the first 4 in the name 442 no longer stood for 4-speed manual, although it remained as an available option. Instead, the first number 4 denoted a brand new 400 cubic inch big-block motor. This new engine created 345 horsepower and an astonishing 440 lb-ft of torque. (For comparison, the now legendary GTO offered a 389 cubic inch V8 rated at 335 horsepower and a torque rating of 431 lb-ft that year.) The 442 also featured heavy duty shocks and springs and front and rear stabilizer bars which made it one of the most powerful and best handling cars of its era. The 1965 Oldsmobile 442 was the first real muscle car.

As the muscle car wars raged during the second half of the decade, Pontiac’s GTO, Chevy’s Chevelle, and entries from Buick, Dodge, Plymouth, and Ford competed against the 442 for the title of King of the Muscle Cars. Today, many classic car enthusiasts revere the GTO as such, but 442 owners know better.

My 442 is an incredible example of a “survivor” car. With the exception of the radiator, water pump, fuel pump, wheels, and tires, my 55-year-old 442 is in unrestored, original condition.After over half a century, the car still has its original engine, automatic transmission, interior, and paint. It runs and drives amazingly well, although the original four-barrel carb could use some tweaking.

 

It’s also a fairly rare car. In 1965, only 2,500 442 Sport Coupes were made with a two-speed Jetaway automatic transmission. Even fewer were equipped with power steering, power brakes, bucket seats, center console, and factory air conditioning—all of which are still intact and functioning in my car.

Because most gearheads hold the GTO in higher regard, I was able to buy my 442 for a fraction of the price its Pontiac cousin would command in similar condition. It seems that my patience over these many months has finally paid off, and I have been rewarded with a fantastic piece of automotive history. As I assured the car’s elderly seller, (who had just purchased his dream car, a fully-restored 1969 Plymouth Roadrunner), this particular 442 will continue to be loved and cared for by someone who appreciates it as much as he did. I could sense that he was genuinely relieved to know that his baby was going to a good home.

As a Winter project, the 442 will need some love. The headliner is torn and discolored. The paint is in need of a great deal of elbow grease to get it to shine again. (I don’t want to repaint it because a car is only original once, and I like the patina look anyway.) I would like to upgrade the braking system, sacrificing some originality for safety. And the namesake carburetor and exhaust both need attention. 

Of course, I intend to support the local economy by sending some business to my friends Allen and Matt, two talented mechanics who will be thrilled to work on a true time capsule.

If you see me and the 442 cruising through town sometime, give me a wave or a honk. I’ll be sure to honk back, because in addition to most of the lights, gauges, and wipers, the original horn also still works. (Although you may not be able to hear it after Matt works his magic on that dual exhaust.) 

 

A Note From Mr. Naughton

 

For the last two months, I have had the pleasure of teaching a remarkable group of kindergarteners while their amazing teacher, Jasmine Rustemeyer, was out on maternity leave following the birth of her beautiful, twin girls. Unfortunately, with the sudden and necessary closure of the Southern Boone Primary School building due to staffing issues caused by the ever-worsening Covid pandemic, my time as a kindergarten teacher has come to an unceremonious and disappointing end.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before—because you have. You may recall that I taught Music at the Primary School last year, on a one-year contract, when an emergency need arose and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity presented itself to me. I was busy having the time of my life teaching Music last Spring when Covid forced a premature stoppage of in-person learning and an anticlimactic end to the most rewarding job I had ever held.

The worst part of last Spring’s closure was not being able to say a proper goodbye to the second graders I had grown to love over their three years in the Primary building. I am not ashamed to admit that I shed quite a few tears during the weeks that followed the end of in-person classes and the end of my dream job. Last Saturday, when I read the email informing teachers that we would be switching to virtual learning for the remaining school days until Winter Break, I had tears in my eyes once again.

I could have attempted to teach my students remotely, but I realized that the switch to virtual learning presented an opportunity for Ms. Rustemeyer, my dear friend, to save seven days of Family and Medical Leave by returning to work a little earlier than expected. Her experience of teaching remotely last Spring, and her years of experience as one of the best kindergarten teachers you’ll ever meet, (and my lack of experience on both counts), made it an easy decision for me to make.

Jasmine has graciously invited me to record a video to send out to the kids as a way to tell them how much I love them and how much I will miss them. And when school resumes in January, I plan on popping-in to say hello to my young friends whenever I get the chance. I should have plenty of chances. In late January, I will begin covering a second grade classroom for another teacher/friend who will be taking maternity leave. Hopefully, Covid won’t deprive me of a proper conclusion to a third long-term assignment.

 

If you are the parent or grandparent of one of Ms. Rustemeyer’s kindergarteners, would you mind reading the following message to them please?

“Dear friend, I have had so much fun getting to know you over the last two months. Ms. Rustemeyer didn’t realize what a wonderful gift she was giving me when she asked last summer if I would like to be her substitute when the time came for her to be home with her babies. I hope you enjoyed our time together as much as I did. I hope you learned a thing or two along the way. Most importantly, I hope you know how much I care about you. You, my friend, are loved.

Ms. Rustemeyer is so excited to see you again. She has missed you as much as I am going to miss you. Please show her all the love you showed me. She will need it. Being away from her babies will be hard for her, so you’ll need to do everything you can to make things easy for her.

 

Although I won’t be your teacher anymore, this is not goodbye. I will still see you around the Primary School from time to time. Keep an eye open whenever you are on the playground or in the lunchroom or hallway. You never know where I’ll turn up. (I never know where I’ll turn up either!)

 

Take care of yourself, your classmates, and Ms. Rustemeyer. And have yourself a merry little Christmas! 

Love, 

Mr. Naughton”

This Christmas, Love Your Neighbor as Yourself

 

Tis the season to be bombarded with a relentless barrage of advertisements reminding us that the best way to show someone you care is to spend copious amounts of money buying themthings they don’t need. The rampant consumerism associated with Christmas usually turns me into a bit of a Grinch, but this year a few of the commercials I’ve seen have managed to leave a favorable impression on me. Why? Diversity, representation, and inclusion.

You may think that because I am a heterosexual, able-bodied, middle-aged, white man I don’t care about diversity, representation, or inclusion in holiday commercials. Perhaps I wouldn’t care as much if I were simply a heterosexual, able-bodied, middle-aged, white man living in an all-heterosexual, able-bodied, white family. Thankfully, that is not the case.

My family is the living embodiment of the term Diversity and includes some of the most amazing people I know. Among my siblings, children, cousins, nieces, and nephews are people who are LGBTQ, Asian, Black, and differently-abled. I am happy to see advertisers finally recognizing the fact that America truly is a melting pot made up of various races, sexual orientations, and physical conditions. I am happy to see my family represented on TV.

I have been pleased to see ads recently that lovingly depict mixed-race families, people who are lesbian, gay, or transgender, and children with limb differences. (My family in a nutshell.) These depictions may not mean much to you, but for the families represented in these commercials, it means everything. For far too long in this country, being a “typical” American meant being a straight, white American. Advertisers have propagated this myth in print for centuries and on television for decades. Finally, there seems to be a realization among companies who advertise that there is no such thing as a “typical” American family.

As the depiction of American diversity becomes more commonplace in commercials, television shows, and movies, the hope is that all Americans will eventually feel represented. Only then will we all begin to feel included.

Everyone deserves to feel included, no matter who they are, no matter who they love, no matter the color of their skin, no matter where they were born, and whether or not they use a wheelchair or  were born with ten fingers and ten toes. We all just want a seat at the table. In the United States, we have a pretty big table with room enough for all Americans.

Yet there are those who disagree. The Westboro Baptist Church, the KKK, neo-Nazis, the Proudboys, and One Million Moms are groups of mostly white heterosexuals who hold rallies, boycott businesses and television networks, and lash out against LGBTQ people, people of color, and/or others who don’t represent their definition of “American Values”. These are the people who insist that there is a war on Christmas, yet their refusal to accept and love others as they are makes them the least Christ-like among us.

I am not a fan of the commercialization of Christmas, but I am becoming a fan of some of the commercials I’ve seen this Christmas season. Will that be enough to compel me to go out and buy the products those companies are selling? Probably not. If One Million Moms boycotts it, however, I might buy stock in the company.

Watch for those commercials that celebrate the diversity of our great nation. Buy their products if you feel like supporting them. More importantly, support the people around you who are being represented in those ads. I can assure you that someone you love is gay, someone you care about is living with a disability, someone you know is struggling to raise their non-white children in a country rife with white-supremacists. 

If you care about putting Christ back in Christmas, then do as He commanded: Love your neighbor as yourself.

I Might Be a Hobbit

The books “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” by J.R.R. Tolkien are stories about epic journeys, and they rank among my very favorite books of all time. Lately, they remind me of what I’ve been missing during this ever-worsening pandemic; travel and adventure.

I might be a Baggins. Like most Hobbits, I am usually quite content to spend days on end in the comfort of my own home, yet I do occasionally get a powerful urge—like Bilbo Baggins did as his 111th birthday drew near—to hit the road in search of adventure. Years earlier, Bilbo was a reluctant adventurer when Gandalf and the Dwarves recruited him to join their quest to take back the Lonely Mountain from the vile dragon Smaug. But after his journey there and back again, he was a changed Hobbit. For the rest of his days, Bilbo felt drawn to the world beyond the borders of his home in the Shire.

 

I, too, feel that pull. 

Aside from a few socially-distanced camping trips last summer, our family has not strayed far from our mid-Missouri home since the coronavirus changed everything last March. My one and only New Year’s resolution for 2020 was to attend more live concerts, yet I managed to go to only one show in February before the rest were all cancelled. And although I have found countless classic cars for sale online, located from coast to coast, I have not gone to inspect a single one in person for fear of inadvertently bringing the virus home to my family.

The Hobbit in me is coping the only way Hobbits know how: by staying in my burrow and eating way too much. Despite reducing our Thanksgiving guest list by two-thirds, we still managed to make the same amount of food—most of which I seem to have eaten myself.

 

There is one other thing (besides my height) that I have in common with the Bagginses from Bag-End. Bilbo shared a birthday, September 22, with his favorite young person, his nephew Frodo. My birthday is close, September 25, and I will celebrate it with my favorite young person, my granddaughter Freya, who was born on—you guessed it—September 22. A party for Pop and Freya Baggins…I do like the sound of that!

Frodo set out on his own adventure on his 50th birthday, when Gandalf convinced him to return the One Ring to the fires of Mordor from whence it came. My 50th birthday will come next September. I hope to go on a few adventures before then, but you can bet I’ll have something special planned for that particular occasion. 

In the meantime, I need to get out of this house. The Winter Doldrums will settle upon me soon, as they always do, and without the prospect of a road trip or some kind of adventure to look forward to, I fear that they will be unbearable this year. Cold weather coupled with social distancing will force us Hobbits into an especially lonely seclusion for the next few months. We can only hope that with the prospect of a Covid vaccine and warmer weather to look forward to as Spring approaches, those of us who are struggling right now can hang on until better days arrive.

For now, I will keep myself busy by reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy and spending as much time as possible basking in the warm glow of the smile of Miss Freya Baggins.

Diapers and Trolls

 

As I had hoped, quitting Facebook is already proving to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Yes, I still spend more than my fair share of time online searching for classic cars and watching fishing videos, but I haven’t been sucked into any political arguments on social media in almost two weeks.

 

According to the screen time report on my smartphone, I spent 25% less time online last week than my previous 7-day average. In my newfound free time, I managed to reread one of my favorite books, The Hobbit, and I have begun to reread the Lord of the Rings trilogy, too.

I have also been able to spend a lot of quality time with my granddaughter. Freya is only two months old, but she is already my favorite person in the entire universe (don’t tell my wife and kids). She and I often spend hours hanging out together. She likes it when I sing to her and when I get her nose. My heart is never fuller than when I manage to make her smile. I also feed Freya, burp her, take naps with her, and change her diapers.

  

I would much rather change poopy diapers than argue with trolls on Facebook.

Despite limiting my time online, I am still able to keep up with current events. You might remember that I promised a couple of weeks ago to never write about politics again if Trump could produce any actual proof that the election was rigged. Unsurprisingly, he has failed to provide any evidence whatsoever of a concerted effort to commit election fraud.

It is time for the president to demonstrate actual leadership and concede defeat in order to begin the peaceful transfer of power that is a hallmark of American democracy. It is an indisputable fact that Biden received over six million more votes than Trump did. Recounts will not reverse such an overwhelming victory. We the people have spoken—at the polls. Legally. Peacefully. For the sake of the Union, we must all come together and reject Trump’s attempts to undermine the will of the people and Democracy itself. Enough is enough.

I’ve also been following the explosion in new cases, hospitalizations, and deaths related to COVID-19. A quarter-million Americans have died in nine months and things are getting worse every day, including here in mid-Missouri. I fear that the only way many people will take the pandemic seriously is if they lose someone to this awful virus. It has not escaped my attention that many of the people who refuse to accept the results of the election are the same people who refuse to wear masks.

Why wouldn’t you wear a mask? Liberty? Asthma? Anxiety? Please. I have to wear a mask eight hours a day while teaching school and I’m not complaining about my rights being infringed upon. I have asthma and anxiety, too, by the way. In two months, I have never held my grandbaby without wearing a mask. I won’t come within six feet of her if I don’t have my mask on. I wash my hands and use sanitizer when I hold her. I take a shower and change into clean clothes every day after I come home from school. (Our family even cancelled our big Thanksgiving get-together that we host at our house every year.) In short, I will do whatever I can to keep my family, my students, and my fellow citizens safe.

Unfortunately, not everyone is so inclined.

One of the last Facebook discussions I participated in was about the efficacy of mask-wearing. A friend said she is still waiting to see some data that proves masks prevent the spread of coronavirus. Despite the CDC, WHO, and every surgeon on earth agreeing that masks prevent the spread of infection, some people still need to “see the data.”

 

If you are like me and are growing weary of arguing with mask-deniers and election conspiracy theorists on Facebook, I have three questions you can ask them:

If you are Christian, then do you also need to see scientific data in order to believe in God?

If you are pro-life, then why would you refuse to wear a mask when it can help protect lives?

If you are a patriot, then why would you support Trump’s efforts to undermine American democracy?

You could ask your friends those questions, or you could quit Facebook and find healthier ways to occupy your time like reading Tolkien, hunting for hot rods, or doting over a grandbaby. Me? I’ll choose poopy diapers over internet trolls every time.

Snoozed, Unfollowed, Unfriended, Blocked, Deactivated

Once upon a time in America, when two people got together and discussed their political beliefs, there was a real chance that one or both of them might change their mind about something after listening to a different perspective. There was once a time when telling the truth mattered and “alternate facts” were simply called lies. Not long ago, people could debate important issues without vilifying those with whom they disagreed. However, in the wake of the 2020 presidential election, it is painfully clear that the age of civility in politics has officially ended.

The Age of Trumpism is upon us.

In the days after my latest column, entitled “Make America Kind Again”, was published in last week’s Journal, I was reminded of just how uninterested some of Trump’s followers are in treating Democrats like me with kindness. Over the last few months, I have snoozed, unfollowed, unfriended, and blocked more people on Facebook than I can count due to the overwhelming amount of animosity directed at me and people who share my beliefs. When that negativity became too much to bear last week, I finally did what I had been contemplating for a long time; I quit Facebook.

(And no, I did not switch to Parler.com, which is like Facebook but without a hate speech filter.)

The move was long overdue. I have wasted hours, days, weeks, and months of my life living vicariously through Facebook instead of living out loud in the real world where I belong. Facebook became an addiction, and after I quit drinking nearly four years ago, my dependence on Facebook became nearly as unhealthy as my dependence on alcohol.

For the longest time, my ego prevented me from deactivating my Facebook account. I was convinced that my Facebook friends’ lives would be irreparably harmed without a daily dose of Travis Naughton. I also believed that my writing career and sales of my books would be negatively impacted by abandoning social media. Then I remembered that I’m already not making any money as a writer. Dropping Facebook can’t make that situation any worse.

I do still have an Instagram account and a blog, so I’m not reverting entirely to the Stone Age. Instagram is mostly artsy photos and fun videos, and my blog is an outlet for my writing. Until politicians and their followers figure out how to ruin them, I’ll continue to use them to maintain an online presence—just in case I write the Great American Novel and need a way to promote it.

As a person who battles addiction, I have to be proactive in avoiding things that can become detrimental to my mental and physical health. Alcohol and Facebook both certainly fall into that category. Yes, they can be fun at times, but I know they aren’t good for me.

Just because I won’t be getting pulled into any more political arguments online doesn’t mean I’ll stop speaking up when I see injustices taking place or when I feel strongly about expressing my opinions about the current state of affairs in the world, in America, and here in Southern Boone County. In addition to politics, you can count on me to continue writing about adoption, parenting, teaching, baseball, and hot rods—and my smokin’ hot wife—on Page 4 of the Boone County Journal.

I do not expect you to agree with everything I write, nor do I expect to change your mind about those things on which we disagree. I do hope, sincerely, that you will see that the man writing this column each week is not just a liberal Democrat, but also a husband, a father, a grandfather, a kindergarten teacher, a classic car enthusiast, a Cardinals fan, and a patriot. 

Make no mistake, just because my political leanings may differ from yours does not mean that I love my country any less than you do. Maybe if we could all keep that in mind, then Facebook could go back to being a place to post pictures of our grandkids again. 

Until then, I’ll see you on Page 4.

Make America Kind Again

 

Unlike many of my Democrat friends, I did not celebrate the announcement that the Biden-Harris ticket had secured enough electoral votes to win the battle for the White House. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled that they won. I really am. However, my enthusiasm was quickly tempered by the stark realization that many of my Republican friends will continue to embrace Trump’s habit of vilifying and de-humanizing anyone who dares oppose his divisive and hateful ways.

After Fox News and almost every major media outlet declared Biden the winner of the presidential election, my Facebook newsfeed became peppered with conspiracy theories and hate speech directed at the winning candidates. One local friend shared a post calling Joe Biden a pedophile. Another friend in mid-Missouri referred to Kamala Harris as an Uncle Tom. Several others repeated Trump’s baseless claim that election fraud is the reason Biden won. 

First of all, it is outrageous to accuse someone of such a heinous act as child molestation based on a fringe-media smear campaign instead of actual evidence. Second, for a white man to call a Black woman an Uncle Tom is just as racist as calling her the n-word. And giving credence to Trump’s completely unfounded accusations of a rigged election is irresponsible and dangerous as it only fans the flames of hatred.

I will make a promise to you right here, right now. If Donald Trump, with all of the resources of the Federal government at his disposal, can find any actual evidence of a concerted effort by Democrats to rig the election, then I will never write about politics in this newspaper again. (If Democrats could rig an election, then explain how Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham got re-elected.) The reason so many of the mail-in votes were for Biden is because Trump has been telling his followers for months that mail-in balloting is not to be trusted. As a result, far fewer Republicans voted by mail. That’s not fraud. It’s a simple case of Trump’s strategy backfiring.

It is my sincere wish that we can find a way to come together as the United States, instead of drifting farther apart as Red vs Blue States. Only time will tell.

I am cautiously optimistic that things will slowly start to improve after January 20. The fact that America has elected its first Black president (twice) and now its first Black, Asian, and female vice-president gives me hope. It should also give hope to people of color and to every little girl in America.

I am the father of an Asian daughter. Though Tiana is not eligible to be president or vice-president due to the Constitutional requirement that she must be a natural-born citizen, I hope she can now see that opportunities for Asian-Americans and women are virtually limitless. I am, in fact, the parent of two people of color, and I hope that Tiana and her brother Truman can look beyond the racism and hatred that has been proudly displayed over the last four years and see that America really is a nation of immigrants like them.

I am also a grandparent to a beautiful, seven-week-old baby girl named Freya, the daughter of my oldest son Alex. Perhaps she will grow up to be president someday, though I hope by then she will not be the first woman to hold the highest office in the land. As Vice-President-elect Harris said, she may be the first woman to be on a winning presidential ticket, but she will not be the last. Kamala Harris has proven that America truly is a land of opportunity for everyone, not just white men.

I cried happy tears while watching the senator’s victory speech on television last Saturday night, not solely because her words were powerful and moving, but because I saw so many young girls and people of color in the crowd crying tears of pride and joy and optimism for a better future. If you consider yourself a patriot, if you claim to love this country of ours, then I hope you will reject the conspiracy theories, the hate, and the divisiveness propagated by Donald Trump over the last four years and embrace this chance to Make America Kind Again.