Years ago when I was a social worker for my county's child protective services, I had a caseload of children who suffered all sorts of neglect and abuse from their parents. Some were more severe than others. Once when I was talking with an adolescent who had suffered unimaginable abuse at the hands of his father, I was asking various things about his dad and he looked me in the eye and said "He's not my dad."
It was a sentence so full of hurt and anger and symbolism. I knew what he meant. He was a smart kid. He knew that the monster was his biological father. But he was saying that the monster would never be considered in his heart, as his dad. You need to be better than what that man had been to earn that title.
In that moment, I had a choice. Either to respect the poetic and nuanced utterance of his pain or to impose a rigid cruelty back to him. A cold and heartless cruelty dispensed to the point of making him cry uncle ... much like the way people like Kellyanne Conway does when she destroys people and insists ... and forces them to say it ... Say it. Say it. He's your president. Say it.
Today, when I utter about Conway's boss that he's "Not my president," I'm not saying that I don't understand what happened on November 8th and what will happen January 20th. I know who won the election. I concede. He will become President of the United States in about a week. I understand. But for me to regard a person as MY president, they have to be more than the victor of an election and more than the vengeful misogynist and racist monster that he is.
Uncle I will not cry.