Reflections on elections

2016 was the first year I was eligible to vote in a presidential election. I was away at college, so I completed an absentee ballot, and, like most, felt confident in what I thought would be the result. I was no big fan of Clinton’s — I voted for Bernie in the primaries — but the other option was laughable: I couldn’t believe that a major political party put such a clown up as their candidate, and I thought the electorate was smart enough to see him for the fraud (and fascist) he was.

On the night of Tuesday, November 8th, I had a Diversity in Education class at 5:30pm. I enjoyed the class; it was mostly discussion-based, encouraging future educators to consider how they might be more inclusive and equitable in their practices. The curriculum was not as aggressive as I might have liked — I had cut my teeth as a teen on leftist circles of tumblr, so by comparison, the concept of considering diversity beyond celebrating and recognizing Black History Month was pretty banal. Even so, I was glad to be in a room with (mostly) like-minded people eager to make kids feel seen and hard.

The class was held in my college’s education building, which was built partially into a hill. The front of the building is a stunning wall of open windows that frame the mountain-facing campus. At the rear of the building, where my class met, we had no windows — and, critically, no cell reception.

The twenty of us entered our silo unbothered, calm, sure of the forthcoming election results. Like most of our class meetings, there was an energy of optimism: we were all excited to begin our careers as teachers; believed we would inspire real social change by raising conscientious, justice-oriented young people; envisioned beginning our adult lives under the first female president, albeit a problematic white lady. Progress, even though it was slow, felt possible.

An hour and a half into class, we were let out on a short break — people splintered off to use the restroom, grab something from the vending machines, stretch their legs, and check their phones.

The mood instantaneously soured as we lit up our screens and laid witness to the dismal reality. Smiling faces became shocked and grave. Our professor fruitlessly tried to pull us back together, but eventually acknowledged that we could never pivot back to where we had been. From here, there was no going back. We fed each other election copium, insisted that this was only a red mirage, that the needle would tick left as the night went on. We ended class early, and we exited that room different people than when we had first gone in. I walked back to my car, panicked and dejected.

To borrow a cliche, I woke up the next morning absolutely certain that I was caught in a dream — that I had imagined the night before and was waking in a world where, in a few short months, a woman would lead the country. With mixed hesitation and optimism, I reached to the TV tray I was using as a nightstand, woke up my phone, and was yanked into the new reality before me.

This year, my partner and I voted early, and as we walked out of the polling place, he remarked, “I don’t want to jinx anything, but we might have just voted for the first black woman president.” I waffled, not out of superstition but from experience. I had learned to be careful with my heart.

Election day came around like a blur; I almost forgot it was a scheduled date, having voted almost two weeks before. I stayed away from news reports, early polling; I heard rumblings from some about Ann Selzer and young voter turnout and bomb threats, but I mentally enforced my 2016 bomb shelter: no phone, no election news, no gossip with coworkers. I needed to get through the school day.

On the way home, I stopped at a friend’s house to pick up some donations she had for my school’s GSA. We kept it light; the first polls hadn’t closed yet, so there was nothing much to say beyond speculation. Her husband’s words echoed my partner’s: “It’s still early to tell, and I don’t want to jinx anything, but early polls look good.” I hoped he was right, but I resisted optimism. Hope doesn’t change a coin flip.

My mental state deteriorated as I went home. A friend messaged me in panic around 6:30, but I told her it was way too early to react. I went about my normal routine — shower, eat dinner, spend time with my cats — but I finally couldn’t resist any more. I looked at my phone. I saw the numbers.

I browsed the internet frenetically, looking for any salve internet pundits could offer. When I saw Pennsylvania with 85% of votes counted, I knew the race was sealed.

A few days have passed. I feel the same: emotionally distraught, unable to focus on my work, simmering rage, immeasurable grief.

I mourn for my loved ones: my trans brother; my friend with undocumented parents; my friend who has struggled with infertility and miscarriages.

I mourn for my future: the children I want to have but now question — how can I responsibly, ethically, lovingly bring a child into this?

I mourn for the career that I love, that challenges children to think for themselves, to question authority, to collaborate with each other — all of which will come under attack in the years to come.

I mourn for my students, twelve years old and without hope that there is a good world waiting for them.

I mourn for the people placed in real, present danger by the hate of the coming administration — the deportations; the genocide; the lack of access to health care, housing, food; the worldwide dominos knocked backward into fascism by the bumbling hands of a barely-lucid fascist and a self-interested, deluded, resentful electorate.

I wish I had words about continuing the fight, about not losing hope. Right now, the grief is too much. Four years sounds easy, but this is a lifetime of Supreme Court appointments. Damage is swift, explosive; repair takes generations. Right now, it all feels like too much.