Bruce Mulkey's Blog Subscribers

“Papa’s words ringing in my ears, son, you got to get tighter with your tears.”

As I listened to these lyrics of the Willie Nelson song, Old Fords and a Natural Stone, I was transported back more than half a century to my Tullahoma (TN) High School graduation.

Our graduation took place on the evening of May 23, 1961, a few days after I’d returned from playing in a high school All-American football game in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. In full view of the throng of relatives and onlookers in the high school auditorium, one by one, members of the class of 1961 received their diplomas. And as we sang our alma mater for what I knew would be the final time, I began to weep, overwhelmed by a powerful sense of impending loss as long-time friends and comrades were about to go our separate ways.

I hastily fled the assembly, trying to hide the tears streaming down my face. But as I burst into the hallway, I inadvertently ran right into the arms of Miss Mitchell, my beloved sixth-grade teacher. She did her best to comfort me: “It’s OK, Bruce. It’s really OK.” But terrified that my friends might see me crying, I dashed around the corner to the nearest restroom.

“Guys do not cry,” I silently chastised myself as I rinsed my face with cold water and ran my hand through my hair. But my heart told a different story as unfamiliar emotions continued to well up inside me.

It would take a while, around three decades, before I finally came to realize that being a man meant allowing myself a full range of feelings, including sadness, grief, fear as well as happiness, compassion, and love.

In so many ways, Donald Trump represents the death rattle of an old America, and it’s loud and it’s violent.

When Eddie Glaude Jr. shared these words in 2021 — quoted in I Alone Can Fix It: Donald J. Trump’s Catastrophic Final Year by Carol Leonnig and Philip Rucker — the country was still reeling from the end of Trump’s first presidency and the January 6 insurrection. His statement was less about Trump the man than about Trump as a symptom of something deeper: a nation convulsing through the final throes of an old social order.

That “old America,” as Glaude described it, is one rooted in hierarchy — an order built on white dominance, male privilege, and a narrow vision of Christian morality that left little room for those who lived or believed differently. For generations, this structure defined who counted as a “real American” and who did not.

Over the past half-century, however, that framework has begun to crumble. The civil-rights and women’s movements, immigration reform, and the steady assertion of LGBTQ+ rights have all transformed the cultural landscape. America’s population is now more racially and ethnically diverse than at any point in its history. Younger generations, raised in that diversity, tend to embrace pluralism as a fact of life rather than a threat to it.

But where some see progress, others see dislocation. The erosion of old hierarchies feels to many like a loss — of status, certainty, and belonging. Trump’s political genius, if it can be called that, lies in channeling that sense of grievance. “Make America Great Again” was not a promise of innovation or unity; it was a nostalgic summons to a mythic past when the boundaries of identity were clear, and the power of white men was unchallenged.

When Glaude called Trump the “death rattle” of that old America, he meant it was dying — noisily, painfully, and, at times, violently. The “loudness” is evident in the angry rallies, the online shouting, and the culture-war theatrics that dominate political life. The “violence” has been both physical — from Charlottesville to January 6— and psychological, reflected in the erosion of democratic norms and trust in institutions.

Still, every ending signals a beginning. The unrest of recent years is not only a story of decline; it is also a story of transformation. America is engaged in a long, uneven process of redefining who it is. The battle over belonging  — who gets to shape the national story, whose pain counts, whose voices are heard — is fierce because it matters. Glaude’s metaphor reminds us that the noise is not evidence of vitality, but of transition.

That truth was echoed in Tuesday’s elections. Across the country, voters rebuffed candidates who leaned into Trump-style grievance politics. Democrats scored major victories, including Zohran Mamdani’s historic win as mayor of New York City and decisive gubernatorial wins in Virginia and New Jersey. The results suggest that much of the electorate has grown weary of the anger and division that have dominated the public square for nearly a decade.

Five years after Glaude’s warning, the “death rattle” seems to be fading. The movement Trump embodied still exists — and may yet resurface — but it no longer defines the nation’s dominant rhythm. The noise of the old order is giving way, slowly, to the quieter pulse of a more inclusive, equitable, and forward-looking democracy.

I believe that the turbulence of the past decade will someday be remembered not as America’s unmaking, but as its painful rebirth. And now it’s up to us to take action that builds more momentum toward that future!

It was 1993, and I had been making my weekly 30-mile trek from my little cottage in the hills outside Austin, Texas to Bastrop Federal Correctional Institute for the better part of a year. Each Thursday, I worked with the male inmates in the prison drug and alcohol rehabilitation program, and afterward, I taught creative writing to any of the men who wanted to join our group.

During my drive this day I recalled my first trip to Bastrop a few years earlier. I remembered my own deep fear of stepping inside the prison walls, perhaps because of youthful offenses I’d committed that could have landed me behind bars, including the cultivation of marijuana. And I remembered my strong desire to be of service to these men that I didn’t fully understand, but that propelled me forward. Nonetheless, when I first heard the stories of transformation from my friends who had been volunteers at weekend workshops for the inmates, I avoided participating for a year or more. My entire body literally tightened up (yes, especially that part) at the imagined sound of that big metal door slamming shut behind me.

When I finally stepped forward, it didn’t take long to realize that the inmates were guys much like me, with similar abilities, dreams, passions, unexamined beliefs, blind spots, and fears. And, of course, transgressions that had been committed. I connected at a deep level with a number of the men, broke bread with them, rejoiced with them, cried with them, and supported them to grow and to make a fresh start. The compassionate Colombian attorney convicted of money laundering who served as translator for the numerous Spanish-speaking men at Bastrop. The Caucasian writer who was a model for those who wanted to quit blaming others and take responsibility for their own lives. The Native American artist who had killed in a fit of rage and would likely spend the rest of his days behind bars for it. The bond was more transient with some men. The taciturn African American, hard as a rock, who one day let a silent, solitary tear slip from behind his sunglasses.

I saw imprisoned men literally living lives of monks. I saw them adopt new ways of being, taking responsibility for their lives, cleaning up their past, learning to trust, yes, even to love. And I knew that if they could do that while incarcerated, I could no longer wallow in the prison of my mind. I could no longer make excuses and blame others for my shortcomings. I could no longer let my fear hold me back. I could no longer be a spectator. I would embrace my past and live my life fully from that point on.

With support from my friends inside and outside the prison, intensive workshops, my men’s group, and a great deal of personal discipline, I set about creating the life that I had previously only dreamed of. To reclaim my integrity and my authenticity, I committed to consistently tell the truth and keep my word, to forgive and ask for forgiveness, to atone for my misdeeds, and to seek reconciliation. Closure with former wives and lovers and acceptance of family members just as they were. Clearing up my credit card debt and my hefty bar tab left over from the Eighties. Earning my living as a writer and depositing $10,000 in savings. From time to time, I would almost collapse at the enormity of my task, but my path was clear.

If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. I heard that from more than one of the inmates at Bastrop. How many of us, I wonder, continue to do time for our real or imagined offenses—some of us behind barbed wire or concrete barriers, some of us in our mental prisons of lies, pretense, fear, guilt, or shame? During my brief stretch at Bastrop, I believe that I helped some of those guys find freedom within the confines of their prison cells. And, in turn, they helped me break free of the shackles with which I’d restrained myself.

I like to think of myself as a self-aware kind of guy—attuned to my emotions, noticing them as they arose, acknowledging them, and letting them pass. But this past year, with the death and destruction of Hurricane Helene in western North Carolina, followed by the election of an ignorant, vengeful, narcissistic wannabe dictator, my mind has often been crowded with a free-floating assortment of fears.

Thank goodness for my daily meditation practice, biweekly therapy sessions, and hikes with close friends. Speaking fears aloud—with my therapist, hiking buddies, and my wife Shonnie—has helped me gain perspective. I’ve also taken action where I can—leading my faith community’s (Jubilee’s) Social Justice Team, supporting people who are standing up for democracy, and sharing supportive information through blogging and social media. And Shonnie and I began watching lighthearted shows like Ted Lasso and Friends most evenings for some much-needed laughter.

But a few weeks ago, I stumbled on Arthur Brooks’ article in The Atlantic, How to Turn Anxiety Into Adventure. Brooks—Harvard professor and behavioral scientist—defines anxiety as a chronic, low-grade fear response that protected our hunter-gatherer ancestors but now often misfires in modern life. He offers strategies to reframe it.

A few that stood out to me:

1. See anxiety as “unfocused fear.” Clarify it so it becomes episodic, not constant.
2. Name and journal your worries. Write down sources, worst/best outcomes, probabilities.
3. Reframe it as opportunity. Anxiety can sharpen focus and push you toward growth.
4. Accept, don’t suppress. Resisting anxiety makes it worse.
5. Lean on relationships and community. Perspective and connection reduce its power.

Since I was already using #5, I tried #1 and #2—starting my own anxiety journal. The top source I uncovered? Donald Trump’s ongoing drive toward authoritarianism.

Here’s how I broke it down:

• Worst case: chaos, violence, and a slide into permanent authoritarianism.
• Best case: Trump implodes, MAGA splinters, and fades away.
• Most likely: their missteps erode support, and elections restore balance.

I’ve also used my journal to process fears about aging and other concerns. So, am I free of anxiety? No, I’ve begun accepting some anxiety as part of the human condition. But I do feel calmer, clearer, and less consumed by it.

So, if anxiety is currently an issue for you, here are my suggestions:

1. When possible, take action to address the cause of your anxiety.
2. Share your concerns with trusted friends and family members.
3. Start an anxiety journal to get your fears out of your head and onto paper and update it regularly.

You may also want to check out Brooks’ articles in The Atlantic or his blog: reelikklemind.com.

Oh, and one more thing: ditch the doomscrolling.