It’s been a tough week. I’ve had a lot of feelings, and I’ve shared a lot of thoughts on social media and in the arms of dear friends and in safe classrooms. I’m writing here because it’s how I usually process things. Reflections on what this means, what to do, and – for those distant family members and strangers who voted differently than myself – why I’m afraid, despairing, filled with rage.
What does it mean that the glass ceiling at Javits Center became so real that Hillary Clinton was unable to give a victory speech there Tuesday night? Whatever it means, that answer is amplified by the fact that instead a misogynist who has been accused of sexual assault, who has been recorded admitting it, who has targeted women for years, won instead. It also means that a strategic proportion of less than half of voters either agree with his hateful rhetoric and proposals or (even worse) will tolerate it for other means.
It’s hard to think of who the next four years will help. Every single person I know will be worse off, often in extremes. Women, but also Muslims and undocumented immigrants; queer and trans people, but also black people, documented immigrants, refugees, those with disabilities, the poor, those with job precarity and those relying on ACA for health insurance, indigenous communities, intellectuals, Jews, journalists, protesters.
Despair because this election happened, and millions of voters supported that decision. Anger because it shouldn’t have happened, for a host of reasons from the technical (she won the popular vote) to political (his policies will be bad for so many) to moral (multiculturalism and intellectualism are apparently now evils to be excised, and they’re central to my being). Fear because women’s bodily autonomy and right to public life are being threatened, because Muslims and immigrants and refugees are being pushed out rhetorically and through the power of the state. Rage because fuck all of that.
Last night, I joined a group of people – mostly college students – in the streets of DC. When we arrived at the White House, we also ran into a rally of and for undocumented immigrants. Locking arms and marching in the streets was empowering – a welcome euphoria I hadn’t felt since watching Manhattan get shut down in response to police violence – and the intersectionality of the protest was invigorating. Among the chants I heard and screamed:
Donald Trump, can you hear? Immigrants are welcome here!
No Trump, No KKK, No Fascist USA!
(women:) “It’s my body!” (all:) “It’s her body!”
Trans, queer? Unashamed!
Black Lives Matter!
I’ve been in much of a daze since going to bed late Tuesday night. In my class on Wednesday, we turned it into a safe space where we could reflect on what this means and think about moving forwards. I cried several times; many of us did. This isn’t what losing an election should feel like, but the stakes were so high that many of us feel that we lost more than an election. We lost our future. We lost our rights. We lost our humanity. And he isn’t even in office yet.
Most of my students are young women trying to move up in the world, and facing sexism and rape culture and misogyny every step of the way. Most of my department’s students are women doing the same. Several of my students and half of my PhD program are international students, students whose immigration status is called into question – and for the Latin Americans especially, threatened in everyday life. I have a number of young cousins growing up in a state that by and large – and always has – makes space for white supremacists and not for women, minorities, immigrants. I still remember hearing snide remarks from white men behind me when I went to vote for the first time in the 2008 primary. They weren’t even directed at me, but I’ll never forget them.
What do I tell my students, my friends, my cousins, about their future? I certainly can’t give them guarantees about what’s to come. But I can tell them that I’ll do everything to stand in the way. I’m male. I pass as white. I’m a citizen. I work in a field where the threat of the law is less of a liability (but still frightening: another vivid memory is being roughed up at a protest).
In my classrooms, in gatherings of friends, and online, I’ve been hammering away at the same few points. Trump’s racist, misogynist, Islamophobic, xenophobic rhetoric, platform, and eventually policies will aim to create anomie and fear in this country and the world over. In the face of that, we need to care for one another and build community. Organize and resist. A party that represents and enacts hate and fear mongering will control much of government this January. But there is power in people.
To those who are scared, sad, or angry. I’m here for you, reach out.
To those who are celebrating right now. I see you.
To those who will stand against Trump and all that he represents. Solidarity.
To those who are willing to work with Trump, even on specific issues. You’re useless in this struggle.
To those with privilege. Wield it in service of those who do not.
To those who are with me, we have work to do. There’s a lot that’s already apparent – indigenous rights, anti-police and anti-capitalist movements, reproductive rights, immigrant rights – but there’s also a lot of work that we don’t even know yet. It will become clarified in the years to come. Do what you can, how you can. Let’s get to work.