The cursed gene

The eyes of my Aunt Nura are wise eyes, whatever that means. Perhaps what it means is I could never lie to those eyes, for they slice right through me. This is true so surely it must be what I mean.

My Aunt Nura has always been perfect in her auntly duties. For all I know she might even be my godmother. She lived on a lake once and there were ducks and she told us stories like about a time she found some duckling orphans and utilized a kiddie pool to teach them how to swim.

The illness came on swiftly, in 2008 or so. We’d be talking with her – perhaps it would be concerning work or city traffic or the price of milk – and all the time expecting stories and long, piercing looks in reply. But no stories and no long, piercing looks would come now.

Instead, my Aunt Nura said, “This is Obama’s fault. Let me tell you what he did to cause your problem…”

I admit it became a bit of a parlor game for us. We’d crowd around the dinner table at Thanksgiving shouting out topics and my Aunt Nura would connect them all to the many faults of this horrible yet omnipresent Obama person. Any topic would do. Rap music or long lines at the grocery. Grandfather’s stroke or Rihanna’s nipples. The dearth of lightning bugs in the city.

“…Obama…”

“…Obama…”

“…Obama…”

It was amazing and tragic.

Some time went by and then, last week, I went on a visit to my mother, who does not have wise eyes and does not tell us stories about duckling orphans. I greeted her nonetheless. I told her of a rude driver with whom I’d crossed paths on my way to her house.

My mother said, “What do you expect? Look what we’ve got as President!”

“…Trump…”

“…Trump…”

“…Trump…”

And with that, my Aunt Nura’s amazing and tragic affliction had been revealed to be genetic. H.P.O. Hamid-Pattern President Obsession. Even I might have this gene! It could be right here. In me. Waiting. Triggered by the next flip of the remote control.

I have decided to get proactive. I will stave off H.P.O. I have always been an excellent staver. Watch me.

For the next thirty days, I shall not bow to these genes. I shall not speak of this Trump at all. Where others speak of Trump, I shall speak of music. My loved ones. Engrossing fictions. Bats.

Thirty days. 

I vow to beat H.P.O. and the battle begins tomorrow.