It’s early Friday morning as I begin this column, and I find myself in a state of gratitude bordering on desperation – a weird emotional combo – because the Olympics are starting today. By the time you read this, if you do me that honor, we’ll be well into the games.

So, why the desperate gratitude? Because I’m practically dying to be inspired. Practically dying for something uplifting to happen. Something real and solid, with a coherent narrative that can’t be spun by pundits. A fair competition with judges who aren’t us, with clear winners and losers we all acknowledge. I am dying for a celebration of excellence that elevates the human spirit and helps us remember who we are. Who we can be.

In a world gone mad – not just crazy mad, but angry mad – I’m hoping the Olympics might bring us some international healing, joy and peace.

Even more challenging, perhaps, I’m hoping the Olympics might briefly unite the Divided States of America. Team USA is something we can all get behind and cheer for, together.

It’s been a while.

Actually, I felt a wee bit of hope for this country stirring in my soul right after the Trump assassination attempt. Does that sound awful? Hear me out. It was nice to see people who hate Trump with a white-hot intensity – who find their very meaning and purpose in that hatred – evincing concern and even compassion immediately after his close call. It wasn’t widespread and it didn’t last, but I found it encouraging.

And even Trump, himself, seemed different. Changed. Many remarked on the way he looked at the GOP convention. His face seemed softer. More humble. He even seemed to get a little teary at times. Sure, he gave that endless, rambling speech – or so I was told; I slept through it – but people still speculated that maybe, just maybe, Trump was a new man.

He wasn’t. Pretty soon, he was up to his old ways, talking about “broken down” Joe Biden and “radical left lunatic” Kamala Harris, telling the crowd at his first post-shooting rally that he had no intention of being “nice.”

Granted, he’s repeatedly been called a “fascist,” a “threat to Democracy,” and “Hitler” – by masses of powerful people who seem to believe what they’re saying – so maybe he’s just not feeling all that warm and fuzzy. Or, maybe he just can’t be that “new man” many were hoping to see. Maybe it’s just not in him.

But one thing IS new since that near death experience. Trump now seems to see himself as divinely protected, an instrument of God, on a mission to “save” America. And he’s not the only one. The memes are all over the Internet. Trump with a guardian angel over his shoulder. Trump in the arms of Jesus. Trump AS Jesus, hanging on a cross, an American flag for a loin cloth. I find the Divine Trump memes either horrifying or amusing, depending on my mood, but there are enough Trump-as-Satan memes out there that the universe somehow feels balanced.

Meanwhile, there are the new Kamala Harris memes. Kamala as Wonder Woman. Kamala as Captain America. Kamala as the Statue of Liberty. Kamala as “brat.” (If you don’t know what “brat” means – in its latest iteration – you are not alone. It’s a GenZ thing, very meta, and I am too old and confused to explain it. Use your Google and prepare to be enlightened.)

As someone who abhors a bandwagon, the instant vibe shift around Kamala Harris has made me slightly uncomfortable. But I don’t hold it against her. These meme-driven movements have a life of their own. I’m sure the negative Kamala memes are coming, too, as soon as her new-candidate gloss wears off. They’re probably out there already.

The meme-ification of both Trump and Harris reflects the dumbing down and flattening out of our political discourse in general, I think. We seem to be moving backwards toward a civilization that communicates mainly in hieroglyphics, with so much nuance and subtlety lost along the way. William Shakespeare must be turning in his grave.

Of course, political cartoons have always been with us. But they used to be smart. Thoughtful. They were pictures worth a thousand words. Some still are. But the political memes that pepper our social media feeds are mostly blunt instruments. They don’t make us think or ask questions or reconsider our positions. They merely make us feel angry or validated. And they signal our affiliations, like team jerseys. Share a meme, support your team. And put your enemies on notice.

It’s all so disheartening.

You know what else is disheartening? I put this column aside earlier, then came back to it after watching the opening ceremony of the Olympics with my daughter. We were both dazzled! From the athletes coming down the Seine in their boats, to the wildly creative production numbers, to the touching speeches of dignitaries, to a resplendent Celine Dion singing from the Eiffel Tower – all in the rain – it was a moving spectacle we’ll not soon forget. Sure, it was provocative, too. High Camp at times. There were drag queens. But they were a very small part of a four-hour event, and this was, after all, Paris. Drag queens are part of their schtick.

Now for the disheartening part: I took to Facebook as soon as the ceremony ended, tears in my eyes after Celine’s sublime comeback performance, hoping to share my joy. This was just what I’d been hoping for! Just what we’d all been hoping for, right?!

Wrong.

By now, you’ve probably heard about the Drag Queen parody of Leonardo Da Vinci’s ‘The Last Supper.’ It’s all anybody seemed to be talking about after the opening ceremony. Allegedly, sometime during the production number billed as a “Fashion Show” – nodding to the city’s long relationship with that industry – a tableau resembling The Last Supper appeared beside the catwalk, featuring a drag queen in a halo-like headdress at its center.

I scratched my head as I caught up on this outrage du jour, because here’s the thing: I never saw it. I saw the fashion show, but never the Last Supper tableau. Either I looked away at the wrong moment, or went to the bathroom, or something, but I missed it altogether. My daughter didn’t see it, either. Many friends I’ve spoken with – who watched the ceremony in real time, like me – missed it, too.

I’m not claiming there was no Drag Queen Last Supper at the Olympics. I’ve seen the photos circulating on Facebook. (Though it’s worth noting that they’re carefully cropped so that only 12 queens appear with “Queen Jesus,” when there were many more on TV.) There may have been some anti-Christian mischief afoot – again, this is Paris we’re talking about – but if there was, I just don’t think it’s such a big deal. Whatever happened, it was so brief many of us missed it, and it doesn’t negate all the truly beautiful pageantry on display in that city, nor the good will and camaraderie radiating from those boats along the Seine.

I’m now hearing lots of folks say they’re going to boycott the Olympics altogether, and I think that’s a real shame. However deeply offended you may have been by this tableau – and I understand that, I really do – the Olympic athletes, who have worked so hard, had nothing to do with it.

It’s easy to huddle angrily in our cultural enclaves, with our dueling memes and our mutual contempt. Heck, it can even be fun. But you know what’s even more fun? Watching an American athlete take the gold, together.

Come on, Team USA. Let’s do this.

###

Addendum: This column went to print on Sunday, July 28th. As of this posting, on Tuesday, July 30th, the Olympic committee has made an apology – though not exactly an admission – and the argument over ‘Drag Queen Last Supper’ may finally be starting to fade into memory. Meanwhile, Team USA just won the gold in Women’s Gymnastics!