Everywhere I go, everyone I talk with, no exceptions, has sunk to outrage and despair. A country under dark leadership is a country without hope, without recourse, and it’s a heavy lift. We question who we are as Americans, what we stand for, what our values are, and what we want our children to learn, know, and respect. The essence of what kind of Americans we thought we were is shattered. We know it in our guts, and we are scared we will not recover. Civility is in the dumpster. Climate change initiatives are taking a dive. Unaccountable money in politics is soaring. Racism, bigotry nationalism, anti-Semitism, homophobia, and bullying are unleashed, even finding a level of indifference in many Americans. The NRA continues to rail against reasonable gun restrictions, and children go to school every day in fear.

And what are the Trump voters getting out of this? Not much. Sure, they got a massive tax cut, but—no surprise—it went almost entirely to corporations and the wealthy. That tax cut will very soon bite us all, Trump voters included, by threatening the safety net of Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, and eventually health care all together. The debt will be so massive there will be no money to pay for these programs. (No wonder the Republicans are not talking about it.)

Maybe those voters are happy about the arrogant if not plain stupid withdrawal from the Iran nuclear deal and the Paris agreement on climate, which has worsened global relationships and endangered the planet for generations to come. Or perhaps they are happy about the Supreme Court confirmations made possible by Senate Majority Leader McConnell’s and the Republicans’ eliminating the filibuster (which renders the Senate’s Advise and Consent responsibilities impotent) and denial of Obama’s replacement nomination upon the death of Supreme Court Justice Anthony Scalia, a full year before the presidential election.

Trump voters have made a deal with the devil and are sticking to it no matter what, including the destruction of the very pillars of democracy they claim to proudly and loudly stand for—while the rule of law is ignored, covered up, and denied and voting rights are compromised. Trump promised to drain the swamp. But the so-called swamp is still filled with the Republicans who continue to control the legislative branches as they did in the second Obama administration (in case you were wondering just who the swamp creatures are). Trumpsters and the Republicans have sold the soul of their party. And for what and to what end? And the worst is yet to come as evidenced now by the rot from the inside out.

Because Vermont Woman is a woman’s advocacy publication, I have to say a word, again, about our disappointing First Lady Melania. What’s with that jacket she worn in June on a 90-degree day, as she embarked and disembarked on airplanes to and from the Texas border? The “I Don’t Care, Do U” jacket worn to “view” the cruelly caged immigrant children, separated from their parents, a policy that her husband approved? (Five hundred of whom remain separated.) Why did Melania create this photo-op media event (tarmacs normally closed were open to the press and film crews) wearing that jacket? Why, indeed.
On the upside in this issue, Vermont Woman weighs in on the noble work and efforts of Vermont’s nurses who are still negotiating for better pay. We are proudly in support of the capable, articulate, and thoughtful Christine Hallquist, the Democratic nominee for governor, who also just happens to be the first transgender candidate in the nation. Plus in this issue is a heartwarming story about Vermont women wildlife rehabilitators, who raise high the bar of kindness and compassion.

Speaking of who are we: Have you ever thought about your great-grandparents, whom you never met? Ever wondered who they really were at their core, I mean beyond the basics? You know, what they were like on the inside: what they liked, disliked, believed in, what their prejudices were, if they were brave, smart, talented, weary, healthy, playful, sexy, temperamental, clever. Were they lonely, scared, tired? What did their voices sound like? Why were they the way they were? What did they think, and what would they make of you?

If you live long enough you will come to realize that you made it this far by making some good choices, along with timing, intuition, and a lot of luck (and good genes and access to health care). Choices are ours to make alone, whether we believe it or not. Luck gets us to old age. Why? Because luck is about the just-misses, like getting on the right plane, even sitting next to the right window, or lingering over a second cup of coffee, which resulted in avoiding a fatal car accident by minutes. Luck comes with any risk taken, including whose friendship we pursue. Intuition, which relies on the brain subtly processing experience and knowledge, can help us, but only if we pay attention. Combine choice, luck, and intuition with timing, and doors will open and close; a path is taken or not.

By chance I met a recently emigrated French woman who helped me translate some immigration papers I had from my grandmother who had immigrated from France at age 2 in 1894. Then I showed her a scrap of paper that I had saved my entire life. On it, my grandmother wrote the following words: Belfast, Haricourt, Courmont, Cote de Cheyne. It’s all I had. Turns out my new French friend jumped up and declared “Courmont! I grew up in the next village, Lure.”

A nine-hour train trip from Avignon, France, from the dusty golden Provence wine country, winding up into the green mountains along the German-French border, chugging finally to a screeching stop in Belfast, where we changed trains for tiny Lure. Alone on the platform was our friend’s mother, speaking not a word of English, holding two yellow roses . She was our gracious hostess for a week while we explored the villages.

I was stunned to find so many relatives in the area, who apparently had been forewarned that their American cousin was visiting and searching for her ancestors. Luckily, genealogy records are a matter of pride in France. I discovered cousins I did not know I had living in the tiny village of Courmont—who proudly displayed a six-foot-long genealogy chart. I found my ancestral line, and as my finger found my grandmother’s name, I had an emotional meltdown.

Next, traveling in a small car, we sped a few miles to the bottom of a hill and came to a full stop by a small wooden sign with an arrow pointing up the hill: Cote de Cheyne (Acorn Hill)—where my great-grandparents had once lived. Again, a meltdown. Climbing to the top through beautiful mature tree groves, my cousin stopped and pointed to a tile-roofed country house, in disrepair, with several out buildings. This was the house where my grandmother and her five siblings were born. The house was built by my great-grandfather and great-grandmother, and as was the custom, their names were carved into the stone over the front door: CH EB 1885, for Constant Hennequin and Elise Bejean. They emmigrated from this house to New York City in 1894.

It was their immigration papers and ship-boarding information that I had saved and my new French friend translated.
I stood there for a long time, imagining their lives, wondering why they left it all behind. I wanted to know more of what was going on in France and Germany at the time, how they financed their trip to America, and what they were thinking, feeling, hoping. It was a moment in time for me. I discovered who I was, and it was profoundly moving, deeply personal and intimate. It was 100 years to the month that they had left “the old country” for America. I was the first descendant to return.

A rainbow arched over the valley; it was a sign.

If I had had a jacket that day, it would have said:

Proud Immigrant

Descendant.

I Care. Do U?

Sue Gillis is the award-winning publisher of Vermont Woman. She has been in newspapers and publishing for over 30 years.