The Dangerous Hypoxic Drills of Our Toddler President

 

Photo Credit, Kirsty Gardiner

Hypoxic drills. That’s what watching last night’s presidential debate felt like. Swimmers know such drills to be hellacious torture. Instead of breathing comfortably, you breathe every third, fifth, seventh, or ninth stroke. Many coaches argue against this training method because it can cause people to hyperventilate and black out—not ideal in water.  

I had never heard of hypoxic drills until I joined a masters swim team a few years ago.  I hated it. After the first 25 meters of not breathing, negativity  flooded my mind. “Why did I ever sign up for a masters swim team? I am too old for this. I swear that wall is moving further away from me. OMG, did they make my daughter do this when she was on the swim team? This is child abuse. I have to make amends to her.”

Clearly, I don’t have the heart of a champion because I kept wondering why I should ruin an otherwise enjoyable sport. To which a proponent of hypoxic drills would say, “It improves endurance and technique. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”  

Interestingly, blacking out in shallow water is most common among highly trained swimmers and divers. I will not die from hypoxic drills because I am not that great of a swimmer. I will reflexively take a breath long before I black out. 

I can’t say the same about swimming in the polluted waters of American politics. Reflexively, I try to take a deep breath of the Spirit when I read about yet another senseless death of a black person, and another police officer not held accountable for it. I try to remember that God is bigger than the worst of human evil. Still, my soul gasps for civility, compassion, wisdom and justice.

I am expected to keep moving forward, to get dressed and function as an adult in a country led by a spoiled, cranky toddler.  I need to get stronger, but I am running out of air. I pray for the strength to reach the wall --- that place where I can finally stop, rest and breathe easy for a while. But Trump keeps pushing that place to a distant dream. 

Some folks like the security of lane ropes and a black line to follow in a pool.  I prefer to swim in deep, vast waters like a lake or an ocean.  There are no hypoxic drills in open water. Each comfortable breath is filled with wonder. As I turn my head, oxygen fills my lungs and, my eye captures a glimpse of sky, sunlit waters and trees waving from the shore. For a split second, all of nature is held in my eye and then I turn my head back to the deep to exhale all worries.  Empowered, I keep pulling forward with the wonder of creation as my guide.  

Watching the debate last night was just the opposite. I inhaled anxiety and couldn't exhale.  It felt like a cruel, long hypoxic drill. The same thoughts surfaced in my mind as they do in the pool. “I can’t breathe. When will this end? Why am I doing this? Who decided this was a good thing? Why did I let someone do this to my child?”  

Political hypoxic drills are dangerous, and they should never be done alone. Understandably, many people didn’t watch the debate, but they played a vital role for those of us who did. They as stood life-guards, ready to save us from drowning in despair.

True, I could have just turned off the TV, but I want to be a better swimmer so to speak, an informed citizen. I want to watch and pray and work for a greater good. But somewhere between Chris Wallace’s opening and final statements, I blacked out. I sunk into a murky world where democracy dissolved into fascism. What hope is there in a country where people support a president who can’t even adhere to the simple debate rules? What hope is there for the healing of a nation when its leader refuses to condemn white supremacists, and instead calls them to action? Why are we allowing this lying, sexual predator to torture America’s children? 

Of course, Joe Biden is not perfect, but at least he will throw our drowning nation a life preserver instead of an anchor that pulls it further down into the abyss.   

As I watched the debate, I turned my head. I tried to breathe. But there was no air. What saved me from drowning? My family, my friends, my faith community, and even political commentators and comedians who survived the drill and lived to tell about it. Their words pulled me out of Trump’s stank, vile cesspool. They reminded me that I am not alone, and we are not stuck there. The tortuous hypoxic drills that Trump has been running for the past four years will end. Until they do, we grow stronger. Our techniques improve. If forced, we will go further and harder and longer for the sake of democracy than we ever dreamed possible.