People love symbolism. We love being able to channel dots and disparate events into one tidy linear stream of consistency. We love symbolic dates. It fits our psyche quite snugly if anniversary dates can be tethered together by the magic web of orderly chronological landmarks.
So when there was all the talk about an “Antifa Revolution” scheduled for November 4, it made little sense to me (other than it was a Saturday, a good day for children to play). November 4 has no Trumpian significance and surely would not inspire the glaring emotionalism that has perpetuated an incessant stream of anti-Trump dramatics over the past year.
Not November 4.
But November 8? Would be more suitable.
November 8, tomorrow, will mark the one-year anniversary a great number of us were handed a tantalizing snippet of hope that we had not possessed in a very long time. And it also marks the one-year anniversary a great number of people also found their infantile voice and began acting like babies, and there has not been a moment of peace since.
Beware of November 8. Hellish events usually happen on a whim, not by flyer.