I was a little kid when Watergate was going on, 9 or 10 years old. Mom and Dad both worked so during the summer my brother and I got sent to a dude ranch sort of day camp that was out in the boonies. Well it seemed out in the boonies to me at the time, anyway, but in actuality it was about a 30 minute drive out in the unincorporated part of the county. Every day the camp van would pick us
and a handful of other kids up in the morning and deliver us safely back home in the evening.
Our bus driver, Mr. Whitlow, was in his mid-20s, frumpy, had a mop of crazy blond curls, and loved to put peanut butter on everything. The kids used to grill him: would you put peanut butter on a hamburger? On tuna fish? Even in chili? Every time Mr. Whitlow would emphatically insist that yes he would. And so it was Mr. Whitlow would attempt to entertain us on the interminable ride to and from camp every day; sometimes we'd sing along to songs on the radio and other time he'd let us grill him about his undying love of peanut butter.
In the background of my life at this time my parents' marriage was crumbling, the Vietnam War was raging on, and there was Watergate. I didn't grasp much of any of this stuff, but what I did know was that everywhere I turned everyone was very angry. Even Mr. Whitlow was not immune to the tumultuous energy of the times, and one day instead of the usual peanut butter 20 questions or top 40 on the AM radio he taught us a little cheer: Impeach for America.
Mr. Whitlow: IMPEACH!
Van full of kids: FOR AMERICA!
Mr. Whitlow: I can't hear you... IMPEACH!
Us even louder: FOR AMERICA!!
Over and over it went, each time we tried to make our voices even louder than the previous time, though we had been operating at full volume after the second time around. I didn't really get it, I don't think any of the kids got it, but it allowed us all to let off some steam, so it was good for that. My parents were thoroughly amused when we told them about it.
So while Mr. Whitlow was amused and my parents were amused, their smiles were only momentary, and nobody was truly happy and soon enough everybody was back to being angry again.
Fast forward nearly 50 years later and I find myself chanting Mr. Whitlow's cheer...
IMPEACH! FOR AMERICA!!!
Right now it's contained in my head, but I don't know how much longer I can keep it there. Every day it's a tweet or a press briefing...
There's a term for this, it's called Trump Depression. I have to find an outlet. Maybe this will help.
and a handful of other kids up in the morning and deliver us safely back home in the evening.
Our bus driver, Mr. Whitlow, was in his mid-20s, frumpy, had a mop of crazy blond curls, and loved to put peanut butter on everything. The kids used to grill him: would you put peanut butter on a hamburger? On tuna fish? Even in chili? Every time Mr. Whitlow would emphatically insist that yes he would. And so it was Mr. Whitlow would attempt to entertain us on the interminable ride to and from camp every day; sometimes we'd sing along to songs on the radio and other time he'd let us grill him about his undying love of peanut butter.
In the background of my life at this time my parents' marriage was crumbling, the Vietnam War was raging on, and there was Watergate. I didn't grasp much of any of this stuff, but what I did know was that everywhere I turned everyone was very angry. Even Mr. Whitlow was not immune to the tumultuous energy of the times, and one day instead of the usual peanut butter 20 questions or top 40 on the AM radio he taught us a little cheer: Impeach for America.
Mr. Whitlow: IMPEACH!
Van full of kids: FOR AMERICA!
Mr. Whitlow: I can't hear you... IMPEACH!
Us even louder: FOR AMERICA!!
Over and over it went, each time we tried to make our voices even louder than the previous time, though we had been operating at full volume after the second time around. I didn't really get it, I don't think any of the kids got it, but it allowed us all to let off some steam, so it was good for that. My parents were thoroughly amused when we told them about it.
So while Mr. Whitlow was amused and my parents were amused, their smiles were only momentary, and nobody was truly happy and soon enough everybody was back to being angry again.
Fast forward nearly 50 years later and I find myself chanting Mr. Whitlow's cheer...
IMPEACH! FOR AMERICA!!!
Right now it's contained in my head, but I don't know how much longer I can keep it there. Every day it's a tweet or a press briefing...
There's a term for this, it's called Trump Depression. I have to find an outlet. Maybe this will help.
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