My twelve-year-old has recently become a master of the monologue. Any subject can get him going—preteen angst, the perils of middle school, having to take out the trash, the fact that it’s Thursday. Occasionally bringing me to tearful laughter, his curmudgeonly tirades are almost unfailingly accurate.
So, his take on the election, I knew, would be especially edifying.
He listens but also puts all he garners through his own well-honed critical filter. He sees and therefore thinks and communicates clearly, and conversing with him on subjects that step outside the realm of the occasionally coarse purview of twelve-year-old boy gives me hope.
He was disgusted and sad and angry on Wednesday morning.
But what he was and is not is confused when he says the rancor of this election season and its attendant results prove how very far we still have to go—as a nation, as people.
A twelve-year-old who sees clearly.
And a mother whose hope has been renewed.