At the farmers’ market, among the tables of local apples, greens, eggs and art, I spied the Donald. Comb-over coiffed, he stood arrayed in his classic suit, but a crepe paper version. The effigy was obvious to the point of chuckling guffaws of most shoppers passing by with sacks of kale, cheese and carefully selected cantaloupes. My kids, toting their own treasures, followed suit, and wondered if it was in fact full of candy. The man at the booth gleefully displays his pinata and asks if I’d like a button.

I shake my head, too troubled to chuckle at the reproduction or consider his offer.

See, I’ve been sick at the way my possible (though most likely not probable) president treats people. Cheaply batting at Muslims, Mormons, and Women, and an ever-lengthening list of assorted individuals, places, and organizations smacked at through his twitter tweets; almost an equal opportunity offender. Funny how someone so fond of gold makes a obvious omission for the golden rule.

My kids hear the news with me. They know he’s popular elsewhere (he isn’t where we live). But I was still surprised that he’s cracked into their playground banter. They burst through the door one afternoon singing vengeance-charged jingles,  and thinking he deserved to be the scapegoat for their song. I wince, and hold up my hand, halting their song.

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

Donald Trump’s belittling and bullying, beating people down like insignificant objects is the reason I won’t engage. It’s enough to disagree, to angrily,hotly, sick to your stomach, say no when you feel it turning at his words and actions. Shout all you need to that what he says and does is not okay. But don’t swing.

God said love everyone, full stop.

Honestly, I’m not really feeling the love for the self-worshiping, gold-loving, comb-over that talks before he thinks, there are too many angry feels for his blather and moral failures to work through until I can go vote against him. I can’t get to the polls fast enough.

But, until then, after that, and hopefully never will I pick up that beating stick, perpetuate brutality, and let one more person become an object.

Violence for violence? No. I explain my revulsion to the man at the table with the pinata. His smile sinks.  Sobered, he bows his head considering his offering.

People are not pinatas. It’s not God’s love.

But, I’ll start there.

 


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