It was your typical Annex event, and due to the inclement weather all of the attractions had been pushed inside the school. In the gym there were about five bouncy castles, and scattered throughout the rest of the buildings were face-painting stations, games, food and a book sale. It’s always so sweet being in a miniature place like that– children’s happy paintings stuck on the walls, little science experiments trying to grow on the window sill, tiny water fountains– all these things triggering simple, happy memories in those who pass by.
However, it was not all joy. As I was sorting through the books for sale I came across one of mine. A Van Full of Girls. I was astonished to find it because so few were sold, and almost all to friends, family and acquaintances. With mixed feelings I flipped through it, saw that I had actually signed if for Gemma, a dear friend, and decorated it with stickers, drawings and celebratory thoughts. As I was looking at this and thinking about what an asshole Gemma actually was, an icy voice spoke down to me.
“Oh, to come across your own book at a used book fair! How sad!”
It was, of course, Canadian literary legend Margaret Atwood, who lives in the same neighbourhood as we do and with whom I “enjoy” a “relationship.”
Me: Oh, it’s you. Kind of surprised you survived that winter.
Margaret: As Chekov said, “ ???? ?? ????????, ????????? ?? ??? ????? ??? ?????.”
Me: Never took you for a Star Trek fan. Thought you were way too pretentious for that.
Margaret: Of course you did, my poor thing.
Me: And do you have to wear a cape? Is it enshrined in the constitution or something, or are you just trying to distract people from your hair?
Margaret: Oh, look. I found another copy of your book.
Me: NO WAY!!
Margaret: It looks like Colin– to whom you had written a very wordy, messy and somewhat incoherent message on the title page– is no longer interested in having your book in his house.
Me: Colin is a dick.
Margaret: Of course he is, of course he is. And who do we have here?
Me: Jones, come here, stay away from the scary lady! She’s Vampiro!!
Jones: Do you know Bigfoot?
Margaret: I make hotdog and kale soup for him all the time! Oh, he’s a great chap!
Jones: I want hotdog soup with Bigfoot!!
Margaret: Well, one day I’ll have you and Bigfoot over and we will have some soup, okay?
Me: Jones, come here! Jones! Don’t be tricked by her! She’s a liar! She devours little boys!
Rachelle: Miss Atwood, I just want to say that it’s a real honour to meet you, and that we are all very, very grateful for the beautiful gifts you have given to the world.
Margaret: And so you are the long-suffering Rachelle? Oh my, how lovely you are! Such a refreshing contrast!
Me: I’m right here, you know.
Margaret: Yes, yes I do know.
the White House Press Secretary to President Donald Trump, was refused service at the Red Hen restaurant in Lexington, Virginia based on “moral grounds.” The owner, Stephanie Wilkinson, simply did not want to serve somebody she found so politically offensive, and so she didn’t.
Since then the Red Hen restaurant in Washington, DC, which has no affiliation with the one in Lexington, has been getting attacked by both left and right on social media.
Keep in mind, this is not the restaurant that refused Sanders service. No matter, even after they explicitly stated that this was all a case of mistaken identity and they had nothing to do with the Huckabee Affair, people still demanded that they take a political position on the matter. The Red Hen responded by saying that businesses in DC are prohibited from discriminating against people for political affiliation because they are in a federal district. This wasn’t good enough. People still pressed them. Okay, we know you’re not the restaurant that was involved, and we know that you are subject to different laws and therefore don’t have a choice to make in the matter, but what if you did have a choice? What if you were the restaurant she walked in to? What would you do then?
And so it goes.
And now Donald Trump is tweeting furiously at the Red Hen in Virginia ( the right one) in the hopes of destroying their business.
The owner, likely seeing in herself a patriotic exemplar, stands by her act of micro resistance while the pitchfork and torch crowd– from both the left and right–gather, eager to burn some shit down.
So surreal and terrible and hilarious and scary.
It’s amazing to me just how quickly things are reduced to the symbolic. All the nuance, history, vulnerability and complexity that informs a person– or a restaurant, even–are swept to the side, reduced to little more than the baleful projections of a furious, roiling, unconscious. The appetite right now is for enemies rather than friends, so if you’re caught in the public eye you become what that public needs you to be, not who you might actually be.
And so when I see Sarah Huckabee Sanders tossed about in the media, I think of Monica Lewinsky.
They really look alike.
. 
I mean, they really do.
But beyond that, remember also how Monica Lewinsky was treated by the press and public? She was despised– crucified, by both the left and right, for the sins of Bill Clinton. Honest to God, I think it’s a miracle she didn’t jump out a window. But she survived, admirably, in fact, and it’s as if her ghost is now visible in “the perfect smokey eye” of Sarah Huckabee, and the antipathy that Lewinsky withstood is now being visited upon her. Both of them appear as privileged white girls, Beckys, really, and their ambition, greased by a system that favours people like them, propelled them right next to the most powerful man in the world, and this, this seems to be something our society simply cannot abide.
Ask Hillary Clinton.
And so these women rise up into the culture like cautionary tales. Reduced to cartoon figures, they float slowly above us, soft targets, while we, the rabble beneath cast stones and curses. If you’re a woman and your cultural centrality can in any way be traced back to a powerful man, you will be hated for it– by men, and by women, it would seem. This is America, and if you’re a woman and you fly too close to the sun, you’re declared a witch and you’re going to get burned, whether you deserve it or not.
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