OPINION | MY SO-CALLED MILLENNIAL LIFE: Danger is dangerous, y'all

I'm still processing Jan. 6. It was supposed to be a routine day. A Wednesday. But suddenly, it wasn't just that. A match was lit and thrown in a powder keg of disenfranchisement and misinformation. We got to watch it all live, with a wildfire of thousands of rebukes and support spread seconds after choice tweets.

In Washington, D.C., there were thousands of people OK with igniting insurrection. There were millions throughout the country who could not understand them.

It reminded me of last fall. Our whole family stood in our backyard, enamored of the strange dump of rain that fell out of a very sparsely clouded, blue sky. When it rains in New Mexico, with rain as infrequent as it is, nearly everyone takes at least one moment to look up. We marveled until my daughter sniffed the air, looked around and pointed.

"There's a palm tree on fire," she yelped. So there was.

It wasn't our palm tree but a neighbor's two doors down. My husband and I ran out the front door as the drops fell lightly and the kids stared at each other. I whipped out my phone to dial 911, the screen turning an angry emergency red. My husband, in his undershirt and bare feet like me, was already almost to the neighbor's door.

I gave the operator the street address and stood in the driveway as I saw my husband arrive at the open door. I couldn't hear the conversation with the neighbor, but nearly immediately, my slightly bewildered husband ambled back with a report.

I slowly repeated what he was telling me. "The owners said ... it's the electric line ... that it started the tree on fire."

I listened as the phone grazed my cheek and the operator asked for more. "It's happened before?" I said. My husband nodded and continued. I echoed back to the operator. "She ... knows about it? She's ... going to let it burn out?"

It was my turn to be confused.

My husband and I walked back slowly and were caught by another neighbor. Oh, yes, it's happened before, she noted as she stared toward the backyard. I felt uneasy about the relaxed nature of everyone watching the tree on fire. I then burned with a bit of shame when I heard the sirens and momentarily debated running away when I saw the fire truck peel around the corner.

I explained to the firefighters that, yes, I called, but I was sorry and the homeowner seemed to be ... OK with the fire? I was sorry to have troubled them. They brushed past me and walked up to the door.

I haven't seen any burning palm trees since.

What stuck in my mind was the homeowners' nonchalance. Of course, it was their palm tree; if they wanted to let it burn, that was their choice. We warned them and they closed the door in our face, seemingly unconcerned about our concern.

That's what Jan. 6 felt like, with those on the edges of Trump support, those who supported the president without oversized flags but a deep concern for America's greatness. Many glossed over details that could harm our democracy, like hateful rhetoric. There were too many who catered to letting our top political firebrand run through our streets without rebuke, hoping that at the end of his reign, he would just burn himself out with the traditional processes of power.

Others continually knocked on their doors, explaining where that fire could spread. "Thank you, it's fine; it'll be OK," was the polite reply — until the fire came to their doors. And now those politicians and supporters who stood content to watch the country burn, as if a fire could dowse a swamp, wanted to finally make a stand. They realized too late that their house was already on fire, and now we all get to help put it out.

Cassie McClure is a writer, wife/mama/daughter, fan of the Oxford comma (Sorry, Cassie) and drinker of tequila. Some of those things relate. She can be contacted at

[email protected]

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