Go ahead, Mr. Donald J. Duck Dump, he whose name in spoonerism crossed with amateurish potty joke is, so says the lovely meimichan
, an insult to innocent duck shit. Go ahead, Mr. Tronald Dump. Go ahead, Mr. Sexual Predator, Mr. Shameless Tax Evader, Mr. Road Company Understudy of Harry Lime, Mr. Fractional Third of the Third Man. Go ahead, pal. Hit me. I can take it.
I'm a terrier with an idea, just like my own character Kendra. I am a stickler, just like James Madison, for certain convictions. My conviction, not quite in mirror of his but close enough, is equality and dignity for every person. People are people are people. Everyone has a story. I've been this stubborn since the idea of people not being allowed to believe what they wanted to believe set my blood boiling with an emotion I had no name for. I was in Mrs. Rose's class in the first grade. I was seven. I've been this stubborn since the phrase 'slave pen' set me so aflame with inarticulate righteous anger that I had to isolate it on the page and reread it, just to savor the acid and the horror of the rage I felt. I was roughly ten, and learning about the Underground Railroad for the first time. I've been this stubborn since I was maybe eight, and utterly bewildered by the idea of war in the countries in the news (Somalia, I'm fairly sure it was) being motivated by religious conflict. I've been this stubborn since I realized I was the weird one, and that respect as a competent human was novel. I was barely walking, barely using a cane. I've been this stubborn ever since I was a kid falling in love with Resistance stories and Underground Railroad stories and Revolutionary stories, secret codes and midnight rides and discreet exchanges of information, and I never. grew. up.
So hit me with your best damn shot, Mr. Duck Dump. Sybil Ludington fought for ideals better than yours. So did Deborah Sampson, and Dr. Joseph Warren, and the legendary Iron Brigade of Wisconsin, and 506's Easy Company, and my grandfather, my dad's dad, in Belgium with Patton, and the segregated officers washed ashore in Saint Lawrence, Newfoundland, and Washington himself and yes, I went there. Hit me, pal. Grab my queer self by the pussy. Black my eyes, break my nose, mark me up and down. I can take it. I will take it. Because I can take it where others cannot. I refuse to lie down or shut up. Go ahead, take a swing at me. Make me a target. You have got nothing on me for sheer, homespun, righteous blue resolve. I will get up again, and I will shame you as I stand. Go ahead, have fun trying to knock the dumpy little blind lady down. You'll fail.
You will look like an idiot when you fail.
And I'll laugh in your face as I square up with you. And again. And again. And I will. not. stop.
May have been the losing side, this time. Still fully convinced it was the right one.