Part of me is numb, immune even, to the word Trump or anything that follows. We allowed him to be racist, sexist, xenophobic, a proponent of sexual assault, someone who makes fun of disabled people, someone who boasted that he could shoot someone in the middle of the street and be excused, revered even. We allowed it. We didn’t do enough. I didn’t do enough. I deleted an entire side of my family because of Trump. To be honest, I’m not sad and I’m not sorry. What I am is tired. I’m afraid. As a woman, as a mother of both boys and a girl I’m not sure how to perfect my message. I want them to be kind, caring, sympathetic, emotional, empathetic people, but I don’t have a bone in my body that cares about what happens to this man. This terrifying, ignorant, unqualified, hateful human being who is set to become our next president. And Russia. We knew this as well, right? In some capacity someone knew. He keeps breaking the rules and then they tell us well, yeah, but the rules don’t apply to him. I’m tired of waking up and asking myself, “Is this real life?!” or “What’s this anxiety about?” Since I was a kid, my greatest source of stress (also that which has been a catalyst) has been the future, the unknown. What are we doing? What have we done?
Perhaps I should have tried harder to engage the aforementioned mostly self-employed, suburban, white, religious and racist family members. Perhaps I should have been less emotional when I posted about the election or Trump. Perhaps I should have been on the front lines door knocking and making calls. But I did none of that. My heart and my bones and my experiences lamented in private.
Now here we are. Knowing what we know. Staring down the beginning of four years of who knows what and we’re writing about it and making light of what we can and holding on to those who need it. I hope this time, that is enough.
I hope we all practice bravery and empathy, even when it seems it’s the last thing you can muster.