So, it has been a year now. It has been a year since something completely unthinkable to me happened. It has been a year since we elected someone to be our president who doesn’t even seem fit to pooper scoop a dog park. And when I say “we” elected him, I don’t really mean we, because I know so many people who had nothing to do with this travesty.
This day, last year, was an extremely difficult and emotional day for me—as it was for many. Even before all the Electoral votes were counted, I knew it was over. After a restless night, filled with lots of tears, I awoke to a shell-shocked morning filled with more tears.
For many, the election of Donald Trump was the glorious defeat of Hillary Clinton. For many, Hillary Clinton was a polarizing figure who couldn’t be trusted. And for many, the promises of putting America first, and the isolationist rhetoric of a wealthy businessman fed the fears and feelings they’d had for years.
Waking up to have what I already knew confirmed was a punch in the gut. I didn’t know how to process that hateful, racist, and nationalist rhetoric could win in America. I thought we were better than this. I thought we had made so much progress. To me, electing Donald Trump wasn’t solely the defeat of a more qualified candidate, who had been viciously attacked and maligned for decades, it was the manifestation of a national identity crisis.
Who the hell are we?
Who the hell are we?
Twelve months later, I still don’t exactly know.
Each day of the last nearly ten months, I have awakened to the terrible thought that he is still there, and he is still wreaking havoc on everything I thought was already great about our country. He is still bulldozing the path to greater equality we had been paving. And each day, he continues to put forth a new fresh hell.
But in spite of all of these very negative, and probability unhealthy feelings, there have been amazing glimmers of hope.
Activism is a new normal for many of us. We realize it’s not enough to simply get out and vote anymore. Now, we have to make sure others are voting. And we have to remind our legislators who they represent on a daily basis. We march. We make calls. We start and sign petitions. We donate to Planned Parenthood, the ACLU, and campaigns for those who have the courage to fight for all of us. Some of us run for office. We work to fulfill the intent and spirit of those who founded this nation.
There are plenty of days that still feel awful, and plenty of moments filled with crushing doubt. I still find myself asking ‘Who the hell are we?’ Sometimes, I replace that ‘hell’ with an f-bomb. But there are also days like this Tuesday when we get to see that all the work can make a difference. We absolutely can effect change, and it can manifest from a slow burning grassroots movement.
America isn’t about me. It’s not about you. America is a dream. It’s a dream of freedom, hope and equality for the oppressed, and the weary. It’s a place to start fresh. It’s a place to be greater.
Twelve months ago, a grave error was made. Those of us who love our country enough to feel heartache for that mistake have watched as it seems like everything we believe in is being systematically unraveled. But we haven’t simply “watched.”
As Elie Wiesel directed, we have chosen not to stand idly by in the face of injustice. We have lifted our voices, we have marched, we have supported each other, and we have fought to uphold the values and ideals upon which our nation was founded. We have again learned that we accomplish little while fragmented and focusing solely on our own hurts. Coming together gives us strength and courage. Coming together helps us move mountains.
It may feel like hell for a while, but we are awake, and as Martin Luther King Jr. sang, “We shall overcome.”
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