Tag Archives: trump

Why I protest the Trump administration

For the last few months, maybe even close to a year now, I’ve noticed that political memes and updates by some vocal Trump supporters on Facebook often come from sources called “Boo F*ckin Hoo” or “Sorry if the truth hurts” or “Liberal babies,” and the primary message of these posts is “Liberals are whiny snots who don’t understand how good they have it.”That protesters shouldn’t be protesting. Some carry the message that we’re sore losers, and that they didn’t protest against Obama’s presidency (setting aside that some did), so it’s juvenile for anti-Trumpians protest the Trump inauguration. The argument that protesting the inauguration is “whiny” is often based in the Trump supporter’s respect for the democratic process, and the assumption that I don’t respect that process if it doesn’t go my way.

Respect for our democratic process is EXACTLY WHY I AM PROTESTING.

There are some basic traditions/assumptions about how our government works. People in positions of power (ideally) get their appointments based on merit: on experience, skill, a personality that will work well on a team and act as a lubricant. It’s exactly how we would like any employer to hire their employees. The president has previous experience managing in government, and the successful ones have a magnetism that makes it easier to get things done. Reagan, for example, a former movie star and governor, and patron saint of modern conservatism. The heads of EPA, Department of Defense, and other departments have experience in those departments, such as academia or research or in administration, and they have evidence in their work history that they are capable leaders in their field.

From the top down, the Trump administration has none of these merits. Trump’s picks for his cabinet include people with no experience but with long campaign donation histories or with political sway and early statements of support for his run for presidency, partisan critics who have stated they want to completely dismantle institutions that protect Americans and that predate the Obama administration, friends of friends, and at the very worst, warmongers and white supremacists who incite unfounded fear that leads to unexamined, blinding hate. His picks would sound like a joke if they weren’t his actual picks and thus so tragic:

  • Steve Bannon, the former head of Breitbart “news” who is currently Trump’s chief strategist and supposedly the architect behind the shoddily designed, poorly implemented Muslim ban
  • Betsy DeVos, his pick for Dept of Education who has never worked in education, who wants to abandon the public school system in favor of vouchers, and who has made $200 million in contributions to the GOP
  • Rex Tillerson, former head of Exxon-Mobil and Trump’s pick for Secretary of State who was given a friendship medal by Russia/Putin. Nope, no possible conflicts of interest there.
  • Rick Perry, pick for Department of Energy and climate change denier who once said he wanted to scrap the department and who didn’t understand his job role in the new administration.
  • Jeff Sessions, pick for Attorney General and old-fashioned racist.
  • Ben Carson, former neurosurgeon, bizarre pyramid theorist, and pick for Housing and Urban Development solely because he’s Black and thus understands the issues of all Black folk. Also the only non-white.
  • Andrew Puzder, anti-union and anti-minimum wage chief executive of Hardee’s and Carl’s Jr. and pick for Labor Secretary

 

Trump himself is a private business owner who has needed to answer only to himself and his investors, and he has a trail of lawsuits documenting manipulation of his customers to increase his bottom line. This is not somebody I would trust to balance the interests of an entire country. He has no political experience whatsoever. Some people like this about him, but the fact that he doesn’t understand the basic mechanisms of politics and governance worries me. Throughout the presidential race, he showed that he is tone-deaf not only to the language and norms of political world (or even the real world – see: his Twitter account, “grab her by the pussy,” the disturbingly threatening body language he used when debating Clinton), but to the ethics that bind politicians. I want my politicians to value the concerns of all Americans, not just those that voted for them. I want them to listen, and I want them to respond to the concerns of Americans. Trump doesn’t even pretend to do this. Or maybe he does – but only after creating a narrow definition of who can be an American and who can’t. Under the Trump administration, I am not an American, and therefore my concerns don’t matter.

Along with ignoring the ethical responsibility of the president to include all Americans, Trump is ignoring the basic values that make our government work, and which Republicans in particular seem to hold in high regard. He is questioning the authority of the judicial branch, which is supposed to balance his executive branch. He has not divested his personal business interests. He has rejected daily CIA briefings that would help him make major security and policy decisions. However, he continues emotional outbursts on his own personal Twitter account. (Sad!) He has undermined our first amendment rights by stating that flag burners should have their citizenship revoked, refusing to talk to one of the biggest news outlets, and suggesting that our arguably best-researched, most professional, most respected news sources are “fake news” while sending out his stooges to claim “alternative facts” (which has spawned some really great parodies). His recent executive order is in violation of the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, and Rudy Giuliani has admitted that Trump approached him to help him make a legal ban against Muslims. I can’t even recall every instance in which he has shown his disregard and disrespect of our laws, and he has only been in power just over two weeks.

And let’s not ignore how much this sounds like authoritarianism, like Mussolini, Chavez, and other world leaders who have done terrible things to their own people. How he throws temper tantrums when other world leaders wouldn’t play ball with him. Let’s not ignore that George Orwell’s 1984 is a current best-seller, and that it was the most-requested title this past week when I sat on the public desk at my library job. And that more than 4 million people showed up to protest his inauguration in the U.S. alone to make for one of our largest protests in history shows the fear that many of us have for our future. And that on my  Facebook feed, all the ambivalent Trump voters who claimed “wait and see” are strangely silent these days.

And that stupid fucking myopic Muslim ban for which he elicited not a shred of input from his military cabinet members, who would have told him it would be a dangerously stupid move in the fight against ISIS, and turned instead to an Islamophobic hatemonger to help him draft it. It’s illegal, and it’s un-American. Nearly all of us are immigrants or descendants of immigrants. It’s a common narrative on the right (and on the left too), that people came to this country from nothing and were able to raise themselves up.

Once upon a time, I bought into American exceptionalism. I bought into the idea that all the bad stuff that happens in the world couldn’t happen here. That we were somehow immune from it, intrinsically different from other countries. That our system was just, or could be just, simply by the fact that it existed. That we wouldn’t willingly vote an authoritarian into power who will either terribly exploit our system or completely destroy it from the inside. That the words “freedom” and “democracy” meant something more to us, that those principles were stronger than fear and hate. I was wrong. We are no different than any other country, and our democracy is just as fragile as every other ruling system, and it needs regular citizens to stand up and fight to protect it.

And that is why I protest.

 

Marching on Washington

The night of the election, and the day after the election, when my husband and I despaired about what a Trump presidency would mean for our country and were obsessively checking our Facebook feeds and asking ourselves and our friends what we should do, we found a movement to march on Washington D.C. We called the dogsitter and purchased bus tickets, busted out the acrylics and painted a slogan based on a phrase that emerged from one of the dozens of frustrated, outraged, despairing conversations we’d shared over the last two months, and boarded at 1 in the morning this past Saturday. And we marched on Washington.

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Slogan is our response to a narrow definition of “real America” that excluded most Americans.

You can’t really see my purple #refugeeswelcome button in support of IRIS in Connecticut, but it’s there. As well as my “get shit done” pink bandanna that makes appearances when I tackle major cleaning projects or holiday dinners. Or the possibility of tear gas.

As we walked the two miles from where dozens of buses parked in RFK stadium – I heard estimates of 1200 buses later – to the rallying point for the CT group, we passed smiling National Guardsmen and women and D.C. officers wishing us good morning. Some men in an armored car waved to us and gave us a thumbs up. Residents chatted with us from their windows. Lawn signs that had been put up for Martin Luther King Jr. Day with quotes from him, and it was an amazing experience to pass them in the quiet of Saturday morning and read them as I went to march for human rights.

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“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

I’d like to say the level of camaraderie was surprising, but it really wasn’t. Women came with garbage bags full of extra pink hats that they were passing out to strangers. Volunteers, cops, and other rally attendees pointed each other in the right directions. We passed an older couple who said “don’t mind us, we’re a little slow,” and all I could think to say was, “I’m glad you’re here.”

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Women of all backgrounds and abilities were here. On the other side of the museum, American Indian women in full traditional dress and Standing Rock t-shirts were talking with passersby. People involved with Black Lives Matter were there. Men were there joining in the chants, like echoing the women’s “My body, my choice” with “Their body, their choice.” We did a few “this is what a feminist looks like” chants, once at the very moment a college bro walked by with a sign reading “this is what a feminist looks like,” to much cheering. I saw more rollators and more wheelchairs than ever before, and tons of “We the People” posters portraying women in star-spangled hijab and proud Latina women. Some participants snapped photos of our sign or gave us nods of agreement.

Even though by 11 am the crowds were impossible, and we couldn’t hear the speakers or even see the giant screen, and though we were squished so close that we could barely lift our arms and it took us half an hour just to cross to the opposite corner of the street in a vain attempt to meet up with friends two blocks away, and though the march portion itself didn’t start until 2:30 though it was scheduled for 1:00, and even though my energy and my back both gave out around 3:30 and we didn’t make it to the White House or to see any of our friends, we were part of this, and we showed up for a massive peaceful protest that we felt was our duty as Americans to attend.

I am 30 years old, and I just attended my first big political demonstration.

Other things that happened:

  • “We don’t want your little hands anywhere near our underpants!”
  • “Build a fence around Mike Pence!”
  • Gloria Steinem and BLM activists and other women of color were among the speakers
  • Way less garbage than I would have expected considering march organizers planned for 200,000 attendees and there were more than 500,000
  • “Tree people” hanging out and letting us know when there was movement
  • Talking to women who bused there overnight from Missouri
  • Lots of signs held by older women along the lines of “I can’t believe I’m still marching for this”
  • Coffee shop workers who kept their places warm, their bathrooms open, and their patience intact
  • Pro-life women were apparently at the march, and I am so happy that they came despite the controversy over listing them as partners
  • A truly lovely older woman from my church, who went to Nicaragua with me and helps with the refugee family we sponsor, appeared at our bus pickup and I realized I had expected to run into her all along.
  • Two other people in my RCIA class marched in Washington
  • A huge number of friends and acquaintances attended marches in L.A., Philadelphia, Manhattan

I am so glad that I was part of this.

Raised Rural: Part 1

The Connecticut suburb where I live voted overwhelmingly for Clinton at 69%. But the rural township where I grew up in Pennsylvania voted 68% for Trump. I might have voted in Trump, too, if I had continued to live most of my life there.

When you think Pennsylvania Dutch, you might think of Amish folk in Lancaster County. I think of my family. The Dutch – or “Pensylfainya Tutch Nah” if you’re one of the old ones who grew up speaking the language and went to a Grundsau Lodge like my grandfather – are overwhelmingly Protestant, German immigrants who arrived decades before the American Revolution and settled in a swath moving west and north from where their ships landed in Philadelphia. Where I grew up is the very northern end of where they settled. Going through old documents and books from one side of my family, I know my first PA Dutch ancestor came here as a French Huguenot in 1738. His son became an officer in the Revolution and then a state representative, and the generations after him made their money off coal, slate, and other natural resources. There are pictures of railroads and factories in the old photograph albums, next to photos of round-faced women in fashionable dresses and stern-looking men. And pictures of the hotel that my great-grandfather owned but that didn’t get passed down to my grandfather, who I only know to be a bus driver with antiquated, oftentimes unintelligible speech patterns that were made worse over time by multiple strokes, calling homework “lessons” and fond of the phrase “gee almighty.” Picturing him, I see him sitting in his chair in the basement of the split-level, the chair draped in a sheet to protect it from doghair from the Golden Retriever, watching NASCAR with the volume up on Sundays but also Formula 1 on Saturday afternoons, and chewing flat toothpicks or Wrigley’s Doublemint that he bought in 5-packs and kept in a Christmas-themed, mailbox-shaped tin that once held Russell Stover candies, wearing a white T-shirt and shorts with a black belt, long legs out in front, mesh hat on his head, mostly quiet but sometimes vocalizing what might have been a complaint.

My dad inherited the bitterness, and once or twice as a kid he erupted about how someone long-dead in the family had squandered some sort of fortune. He would work at a company for 2 or 3 years before moving on to something else. There was the year or two that he worked in maintenance at the local amusement park. We got free season passes, and he would sometimes bring home sunglasses or hats for my brother and I that unfortunate roller coaster passengers had lost. When he worked at a place that manufactured diamonds for drill bits, he would bring home razor blade-sized plates of carbon with little diamonds growing on them and stress balls with the company logo. They lived on top of the microwave, next to a boom box whose dial never changed from the local rock station. There was the year he broke his leg falling down the old wooden stairs with the broken toilet he was replacing, the EMTs that came, the cast we signed, the metal pins in his leg, the explanation that the first doctor had messed up and he would need another surgery. Later that year, going to the supermarket and standing not at the checkout counter where I’d usually pester my mom for Chiclets or Fruit Stripes, but another counter with a glass window, no cart with us, my parents looking tense and ashamed. Kids at school making fun of me after I told them how the food fairy visited my house and delivered boxes of bananas and oranges. Going from paying 35 cents to the ladies at the lunch register to saying “free.” My younger brother and I being told to be on my best behavior while my parents, somber-faced, met with a well-dressed man in an office with leather furniture and a credit card company logo on his door. A report card where my teacher expressed concern that I constantly talked about my family being poor.

But later came my mom going back to work after my brother was in school, the housekeys, and once or twice, an afternoon with the nice old lady across the street when we forgot our key and the windows were also locked. Buying the acre of land next to the house and making garden plots, building a bridge across the stream on the new property where my brother and I played with our two Black Lab mix rescues, erecting a toolshed. Associate’s Degrees for my parents from the local community college. Replacing the old diesel Volvo wagon for a used F-150 that we would take camping to New York on vacation, then the excitement of trading in the other wagon for a brand new Jetta for my mom to drive to her payroll job at a construction firm. $1.25 for lunches, and a little extra for iced tea. Me turning 14 and getting a job at the same amusement park where my dad worked years ago. My dad’s promotion to supervisor, business cards, button-down shirts, and new stress balls that said “Move over, Silicon Valley. Here comes Lehigh Valley.” A trip on a plane to Disneyworld. Replacing the big blue stones of the driveway with asphalt and paying a company to construct a two-story garage. Then came the market crash, the layoffs, coming home to an unlocked door because our dad was inside, looking for jobs or doing coursework for his online university. My mom taking a second job, at that amusement park. Eventually my parents’ final split and divorce, community college for me when my hazily-planned dream of going to Ithaca for music fell through, and buying fruit and $0.50 misshapen loaves of French bread at the grocery store for a late lunch on my way home from campus because it was cheaper than a sandwich in the cafeteria, but sometimes I’d splurge on a $2.19 cup of soup. It took me several months to realize I had a PELL Grant in addition to my PHEAA Grant, and that I had money to put towards my books.

But that’s a lot of time I just covered. Let’s back up to my childhood again. My grandmother would take us to Sunday School in the mornings, and my mom or sometimes my dad would pick us up. My first years of Sunday School were spent in a trailer next to the UCC church on an aptly-named Mountain Road that wound past cornfields and single-story homes at the foot of Blue Mountain. As far as I could tell, everyone else at the church was also Pennsylvania Dutch. As were most of my classmates, who could choose between German and Spanish if they wanted to take a second language in high school. My high school had between 600 and 700 students over four grades, with less than 10 Black, Asian, or Latino students who were there throughout high school. In elementary school and junior high, kids with names like Desiree and Jaritza would appear for a year or two, tough girls from Allentown or Bethlehem with loud voices, low grades, lip liner, hoop earrings, and tight clothing, who hung around with the disruptive kids who smoked. They were different. We had a word for their difference: ghetto. The single cheerleader of color, a skinny pretty girl who wore Abercrombie like the skinny pretty white cheerleaders, wasn’t ghetto.

I never shopped at Abercrombie, being taken instead to Sears, Kids R’ Us, and the Vanity Fair outlets in Reading for nice school clothes as a kid with my mom and grandmother (who worked as a teller at a local bank) and sometimes my aunt (who worked at a travel agency), and going to Old Navy, Deb, Kohl’s, and JC Penney as a teenager. Band concerts and Sunday clothing usually came from the Fashion Bug in town, which specialized in dark-hued, shapeless, uncomfortable polyester dresses and pants. When I wasn’t forced to look nice, I was wearing oversized t-shirts. There was the t-shirt with wolves in the woods from the Woolrich outlet, where I also got a rabbit pelt. There was the tie-dyed shirt I got from the Independence Day celebration in north central PA where relatives had a hunting cabin, and where I also got a second rabbit pelt and attended the rattlesnake hunt festival one year. There was the Bob Marley t-shirt from the boardwalk in Maryland (a camping trip), soft hand-me-downs, a tie-dye wolf shirt from a flea market, marching band t-shirts I had to wear to football games when I took off my jacket.

For fun, my brother and I watched Disney movies on VHS, either rented from my mom’s sister’s video store, or materialized in our house probably as extra stock from the video store. Or we played with the toys given to us mainly by our grandmother and aunt. Sometimes we went outside, but living out in the township next to a busy state route two miles outside of the actual town meant we had no local playmates. Our house was a farmhouse built around 1908, the farm itself long gone, and the living room never completely finished. Eventually we put drywall up along the walls, but the ceiling is still exposed beam, 100-year-old white hatchmarks on the wood. Because of its location outside of the town lines, among woods and scattered farmlands, whenever we called the police we needed to wait around 40 minutes for a state trooper to arrive from Bethlehem. The cities in Captain Planet showing trash cans were unknown to me, as were the city blocks in Sesame Street. I didn’t recognize the lush suburban streets in Wishbone, or in the bicycle safety videos I saw in school. Looking both ways and dismounting near crosswalks meant nothing to me. I could only ride my bike alone in the following places: on the quarter mile of back road that led to a steel fabrication company (my brother and I could see the welders’ torches from our bedroom windows), a defunct paint mill, and the crumbling foundation of a railroad station that had been abandoned decades ago; the rocky track next to the wooden railroad ties left behind after the steel had been ripped up; or the dirt track next to the fabrication company where four-wheeler enthusiasts had made loops and hills. Sometimes my brother and I would walk on the tracks looking for metal stakes or other strange-shaped rusted things, or look for owl pellets and rocks by the river. When he was old enough, my brother got a BB gun, and sometimes he could get me to shoot at empty soda cans with him. When my parents got handguns and my brother got a .22 rifle, we set up paper targets at the dirt track and took turns loading and emptying clips and learning how to operate the safety controls and load the chambers, the sound of exploding rounds dampened by foam plugs from my dad’s work or earmuffs. Sometimes I could be talked into spending an afternoon shooting at bottles and cans thrown in abandoned quarries, or at the rod and gun club where I took the hunter’s safety course and hit every clay pigeon they threw during my test, but I preferred the precision of the smaller caliber rifles to the loud shotguns that bruised my shoulder.

We lived near the Appalachian Trail, and my mom took my brother and I hiking sometimes. There was a shelter where sometimes we would find hikers with expensive-looking equipment. Most people from the area who ventured up to the trails didn’t venture far, hanging out at the Knob or by the cleared-out powerline towers, and both areas were spray-painted with graffiti and had green shards of Yuengling bottles strewn among the rocks. You could see fireworks in Allentown and Bethlehem from up there. When my husband and I first started dating, we would go up and walk around sometimes, and then run around chasing each other in the baseball fields where he’d played Little League, drive around on the rural roads and pass occasional memorials at the foot of trees or telephone poles, stop in cleared cornfields and beat each other with dead stalks, and make an occasional trip through the woods to check out any of the numerous abandoned, water-filled slate quarries where my parents and their friends would drink and hang out and sometimes jump and sometimes drown. Sometimes he used the money he saved from working at Taco Bell near the mall to buy Chinese takeout, or I paid for breakfast at the rural diner with money from my retail job at the mall.

The mall wasn’t technically in Allentown, but the suburb north of it. My family occasionally ventured into affluent parts of Allentown for doctor’s appointments and suit rentals, but there were never any trips into the center of the city until I had college classes downtown. Allentown was dangerous, it was said. The dark-skinned loud people I encountered at the nearby amusement park, teenagers with their pants hanging below their buttocks, brought to mind the word “ghetto.” (And we had a word for white kids who emulated that kind of dress and attitude.) In my young mind they were ill-mannered at best, and maybe dangerous, and this was reinforced by the adults around me. Bus trip to musicals in New York were prefaced with grave warnings to keep my belongings with me at all times. A childhood trip to Philadelphia with my grandmother (who has never left the U.S. as far as I know) and aunt, a 70 mile trip, merited a stay in a fancy hotel – but 70 mile trips to Hershey Park or Lancaster were done in a day. The country, the rural towns, that was where it was safe. That’s where I was supposed to belong.

11.12.16

As a Christian, I am heartbroken. Being a disciple of Christ means working within oneself to extend compassion and love to all human beings and especially to vulnerable people – in 2016 United States that means refugees, women, religious and ethnic minorities, LGBTQ, mentally ill, the homeless, the undocumented. Being a Christian to me means possessing a responsibility to make this world a better place for all people in it, not just people who are like me. And this country, one that claims so many other followers of Christ and worshipers of the God who is pure love, has spoken out and voted in defense of myopic self-interest at best, and at worst, the opposite of love: hatred, bigotry, sexism, and xenophobia.

That’s how  I updated my Facebook status on Wednesday, the day after the election. Before this week, I’d sign onto Facebook maybe once a month or so. Since Wednesday, though, I’m on it constantly and putting up multiple posts per day, reading news articles people link to and checking their statuses. I’ve been on Facebook more in the past four days than in the past year. The first day or two were posts like mine, which encouraged me to post my own. Saddened that bigotry won. Unbelieving. Angry and fearful for the LGBT and Muslim and Black and Latino people in their lives. I hoped I’d wake up Wednesday morning, Thursday morning, and it would all be a dream and go away. I felt empty inside, like I had lost something very dear to me. And I had: I’d lost my belief that good would prevail in America, and that we as a nation would act in the best interest of everyone who lived here. After the grief (or rather, concurrent with the grief) came posts about how to fight his policies. How to get active in politics, organizations to donate time and money to, Change.org petitions for the electoral college to follow the popular vote, rallies and marches and community conversations to attend. I donated to Sierra Club and ACLU and shared my story with Planned Parenthood and urged my Facebook followers to do the same. I attended a peaceful protest last night in New Haven, and read the notes for a community conversation that I missed.

The Facebook conversations are changing now to report violence and hate-filled actions. The friend of a friend, an academic in South Philly, had her car keyed and “it’s our pussy now, bitch” or something like that carved into it. Black students in the area of PA where I get up are being bullied and called names. Teachers’ students have gone from asking if their parents will be deported to reporting classmates telling them that their parents will be deported. Somebody opened fire on a protest in Portland. And Donald Trump is silent on the violence that has been condoned by his speech over the past year and that people feel they can come out and say now that he’s won the election.

I understand how the whole “Make America Great Again” message could have resonated. It’s the same reason folks got swept up in Obama’s “Yes We Can” eight years ago. And I treat it with the same deep skepticism that I did Obama’s 2008 campaign. It’s an empty promise with no real path forward. But anyway, Trump was a break from politics as usual, and I know lots of people voted for him as a protest against Hillary Clinton. And in a normal election, protest votes are usually fine. But you can’t deny the racist, sexist underpinnings of his speech, and I cannot forgive those non-racist, non-sexist Trump voters for implicitly giving the green light to the ones who are spray painting swastikas and saying “you’re next” to brown men and women. Especially since his racist and sexist rhetoric was always 1) illegal or 2) unconstitutional. The young, college educated Republicans I know believe the Constitution is a near-sacred document, but lots of them came out and voted for a candidate that doesn’t seem to give a lick about the Constitution. And who endorses racist practices and sexually assaults women. And is a fascist.

I also can’t forgive myself for not fighting harder than I did. I thought we had this. The “sensible” people I talk most with, and the media I consume, told me they and others were going to come out and vote against Trump. I thought I had done my part by participating in social justice stuff at my church and letting some people know about it, posting my photos of a service trip to Nicaragua and sharing a fundraiser link right before our Syrian refugee family came over in July. I should have talked to my grandmothers about how sweet and polite the kids are, and how the parents are desperate to learn English and find work, and how they have shown immense gratitude and hospitality to me and members of my church. I shouldn’t have worried about appearing holier-than-thou if I talked about it. I should have checked the box for ‘Democrat’ instead of ‘Unaffiliated’ when I registered in March so I could vote in the primaries and get on mailing lists to help make phone calls and canvas my town. I should have tried to talk more with my stepdad about what I encountered in Black neighborhoods in Philly, Chicago, and New Haven. I should have convinced my apolitical mom to go out and vote. I should have pushed people to recognize the racist code underpinning some of the phrases they’ve picked up from the political sphere. I should have checked in with my liberal friends and made sure they were registered to vote.

I didn’t though, and now this election started a fire in me to start fighting back as hard as I can. I need to keep that anger to propel me, because once I start waking up in the morning and I don’t feel that burning inside right away, once I no longer want to shout with my husband about injustice, I still need to keep this fight going. For at least the next four years, and throughout my life. It’s only the last two or three years of my life that I’ve realized the sort of power that I have, that I can be the change I want to see in the world. Now it’s time to stand up and do it.

11.8.16

For the first time in eight years, I voted. I went to the local middle school and got in line at ten past six in the morning, and I filled in my ballot for Hillary Clinton, then the down-ballot candidates I’d researched earlier. I got my sticker, went to work at the library, saw a bunch of other “I voted!” stickers on my coworkers who I also know voted for Clinton. We held a mock election for some of the stuffed animals, and I gave them slogans from the 1964 presidential election. It looked okay.

Clinton wasn’t the first choice for me and many others who would have much rather seen Bernie Sanders, but she was far better than Republican candidate Donald Trump, who was a joke that I grew sick of in February. With his outrageous inflammatory statements and terrible fashion sense, he was a troll that the media was feeding and I was sick of hearing about. But with every new outrageous statement, his voice got louder. Deport all illegals, build a wall, and make Mexico pay for it (as if our economy wouldn’t suffer from the job losses), then he attacked Pope Francis on Twitter for criticizing him (how Twitter is considered newsworthy is still beyond me). And with every ridiculous statement – none of them containing any substance or actual policy, engineered just to get attention, fearmongering to some groups and incensing others – his support grew, and the Republican Party begrudgingly took him on. I hoped they would lose badly, implode, and fraction off into intellectual conservatives and Tea Party populists, and maybe we’d finally have a three-party system where dividing lines on social issues took a backseat to theories of governance. Economists said his tax reforms and anti-trade policies would be a disaster for the working and middle class, totalitarian governments were announcing support for him, and his plan for revitalizing the economy was “it’s gonna be great.” This is all aside from his record as a crooked businessman, rapist, sexual assaulter. Donald Trump represents the 1% we all blamed for the 2008 economic downtown, and the big businesses we bailed out with nothing to show for it. The working and middle class couldn’t possibly vote for the same asshole that caused them to lose their job in the first place. The one that says it’s okay to sexually assault women. I thought we as a country, and especially those who tout traditional Republican values, and Christian values, would revolt against that. Clinton might be a horribly corrupt politician, but as a politician she’s at least bound to some sort of ethics, whether she actually feels them or it’s affected. And she has actual experience. Trump’s only moral compass is himself and his own extraordinarily fragile ego. We couldn’t possibly elect an amoral megalomaniac whose policies, inasmuch as he had policies, would run this country into the ground for everyone. Even though he was frighteningly close to Clinton in the polls leading up to the election, she still had a good margin. She was going to win. Trump and all he represented was going to lose, and we would have some damn sense in this country again.

I was wrong.