The Trickle of Fear

I am working hard not to be obsessed with all things political. It's difficult. Last night, after closing at the store, I drove home and since nothing good was on NPR, I switched to Progressive Talk Radio. I am not much of a talk show fan, but I tuned in right when the host (don't have a clue who it was) said, "He needs to call them what they are, goddamn liars."

"He" referred to Obama and the liars were McCain/Palin voices now organized by the former Bush election team. The host went on: "Obama has to realize that Americans aren't fond of intelligent people and they certainly aren't fond of intelligent black men. God forbid a black man is smarter than they are."

And that's when the trickle of fear oozed a bit. It seeped more even after I got home and listened to Ann's recounting of her day in the classroom. It dribbled onto the sheets as I tried to sleep recounting my own day with the customer who proclaimed herself a conservative "scared shitless by Palin." And it wet the back of my pajamas like a nightsweat when I thought about the real possibility that fear could determine our next president.

My shifts at work are quirky this week. Home at 10 last night and up at 5:30 for a 7 shift this morning. I know when I am tired fear rises and pools on my chest. At first I tell myself, as I'm trying to sleep that the tightness in my chest is heartburn, which technically it is (an 8 p.m. dinner never helps), but then I realize I am not really breathing because to breathe means I must acknowledge the fear and to acknowledge it means I must muster up the courage to render my fear powerless.

I am not that brave most days, but as the politics of fear overtake the sensibility of an intelligent black man, I know I must find some courage to let the fear go and fill my sleepless nights with something that feels less like heartburn and more like hope.

It helps when the dog curls up behind my legs in the middle of the night and twitches with his puppy dreams. It helps when I hear Ann's sleeping breath rise and fall. It helps when I watch the sun push pink against the last of the night sky. It helps when I take a long walk along the lake and watch the migratory birds feed in speckled patches along the shore. It helps when I make bread and watch it rise throughout the day and then smell the warmth of the yeast and flour right before I pull it from the oven. It helps to realize fear is weak and boastful. It helps to get past fear's bluster and see its deflated cadaver when I muster up the courage to stare it squarely in the eyes.

It helps. It all helps.

But I am still wary of the trickle.