Thank you, Billie Joe

It's been a tough year.

In the past year, I've watched some ugly truths about my country, my friends, my state, and my university come crawling out from whatever rock they were living under. And, unfortunately, they didn't then wither in the sun, but found strength and apparently thrived.

The election of Donald Trump last fall is, in my opinion, an abomination. He is a bitter, egotistical, angry, racist, entitled, arrogant, person. He thrives on hatred. He promotes violence. He seeks to divide, because he would rather be the sole leader of a group, regardless of how small, than share power with many among a larger group. His presidency has been worse than many of us imagined, and the impact of it will be felt for years, possibly generations.

Since the election, hate crimes have gone up. The group of people who agreed with him, who believe that whites are superior, and that powerful women are bitches and cunts, and that LBGTQ are abominations, are feeling empowered. Those who want an authoritarian state (as long as they get to pick the authority) are ecstatic; they think they've got their authority figure, who's going to stick it to the rest of us. You can argue whether Trump actually feels the same or was just using their rhetoric to get elected, but you cannot argue that those groups see themselves in him, and view his election as a sign that their ideas are right. And that the rest of us are wrong.

Now, I'm not an idiot. I may be naive at times, and I am certainly sheltered from the bulk of racism, and authoritarianism, in this country by the color of my skin and the upperness of my SES, but I'm not an idiot. I knew it was out there.

But I admit I didn't know exactly how bad it was.

And then came the vitriol. And the hatred. Then came Charlottesville. Then came videos of police who think they have a right to arrest a nurse who's doing her job. Then came the images, over and over, of people just not caring.

And, yes, then came the people who are still saying, "Well, we have to support our cops" Our troops. Our flag. And not realizing that blind support of someone who wears a uniform, or carries a flag, is a large part of the problem.

Now, I know that the cop in Utah was likely just a bad cop. But he is far from the only cop this year who has obviously felt that being in uniform gave him a pass on following the law. And I know that our military is over worked and the ones on the front lines are being stretched beyond what we should expect. But that doesn't mean I have to love all that they do, simply because their wearing Army greens while they do it. And I love this country, and it's flag, and it's anthem, but I am so sick and tired of folks telling me that I have to love it in one particular way that I'm about to just scream.

I would far rather kneel quietly right now than sing with gusto. I just find that fits my mood. We are in a bad place, and I think some quiet thought, or meditation, or prayer if that's your style might be more productive than mob-induced cheering.

But try that in a stadium, and see where it gets you. At best (again, sheltered by my skin) I get looked at askance. If I were younger and darker, I'd get a different reaction.

I don't know where I belong anymore. My country seems to be falling apart. My region is sliding back into a quagmire of racism and hatred. My university is closing it's administrative eyes to such racism, and hiding behind "differing interpretations" of lawyers.

Until Friday.

Way back in January, long before I hit this existential ennui, I embarked on what I like to call my year of turning 50 concert quest. I've spent more on concert tickets this year than I have in a long time, and have checked a couple of bucket-list shows off. Including, on Friday, Green Day.

Now, I've loved Green Day for decades. Maybe not quite as much as I love REM, but it's pretty damn close. But I'd never seen them. So, I was super-looking forward to the show, but then there were storms, and tornado watches, and lack of information from the venue, and by the time we realized that yes, we were going to be able to make the show, I was in a state of angst. Oh, and wet, because it was pouring. Not conducive to fun.

But, there was beer, and the opening band was good. And I was with one of my oldest and dearest friends (we've been going to concerts together longer than many of the audience have been alive!), and my girl, and it was going to be OK.

And then Billie Joe Armstrong, anti-establisment, take no shit, speak his mind, punk rocker extraordinaire, came on stage.

With an American flag guitar.

And, damn, if my heart didn't lift a bit. I'm sure Ted Nugent would despise both me and Billie Joe for that, but, sorry, Ted, you don't get to decide what lifts me up.

That entire show, for over two rocking hours, the message from the stage was that, we did matter. Those of us at the show mattered. That the people who are moving our country and our state and our world in a direction of hatred and exclusion do not have a monopoly on our flag, or our country, or on patriotism. That we can be who we are, and know that there are others who see us. Who, as the cool kids say, feel us.

Over and over, the message from Billie Joe was that we are this country, too. The freaks, the ones who don't fit in. The ones who won't go along just to get along. The ones who will question authority, even when it's wearing a uniform or waving a flag. Or a MAGA hat. The brave nurses, and clergy, and students, who won't shut their eyes. We are all part of America. And, yes, particularly when they played Youngblood, and Billie Joe himself told us to change the lyric to "Fuck you, I'm from North Carolina."

Now, again, I'm not stupid. I know part of what was going on was standard showmanship. And I know that one concert will not change the world overnight. But let's be honest: I'm not really at much risk in this world. I may not be happy with the direction that the country is going, but I'm a white, middle-aged, straight, upper SES, protestant. About the one demographic that might vaguely put me at risk is being female. I'm not Muslim. I'm not an immigrant. I'm not gay. I don't, really, push peoples buttons. Not without opening my mouth, anyway.

There are those out there who are at much more risk. The ones who can't hid behind their skin. The ones who must choose whether to wear their hijab and risk their safety, or give up a meaningful religious practice. Those who have to hide their sexuality. Those who know that they'll be feared simply because of their skin. The ones who are told their hair is inappropriate. Or their clothes are distracting. Or that if they just followed the rules a little better, the same rules that keep them scared and powerless and hidden, they'd be OK.

So, yes, if Billie Joe made me feel better, imagine what he did to others in the crowd. Who have way more reason to be sad, and angry, and feel left out than I do.

We still have a long way to go. My university is still being stupid. Good people are still refusing to acknowledge racism. Women still get shut out of leadership roles. And LGBTQ teens (and adults) are still afraid to openly express who they are.

But for the first time in weeks, I feel better about the world, and my place in it. I don't feel quite so broken. I don't feel quite so stranded. I don't think I'm going to have to watch the world fall to pieces.

Thank you, Billie Joe.