“Of all the men and
women running for president, I found her to be the most qualified,
comprehensive in her understanding of domestic and foreign policy, progressive
and charismatic. I wanted to write about her and engage rigorously with her
ideas far more than I did. But I didn’t. In part, I did not have the energy to
deal with the inevitable backlash, from corners right and left. In part, I was
trying to understand the popularity of Bernie Sanders because so many people I
respect supported him and his ideas. And of course, there was that
overconfidence, which, in hindsight, I am ashamed of. Nothing should be taken
for granted in a democracy.”
--Roxane Gay, Hate That Doesn’t Hide, August 18,2017
Roxane Gay is not in the top billion people I would blame for Trump’s
election. She is one of the most powerful voices of the Resistance, and I tend
to think of her as President of the Survivors. Though I’ve never met her, (she
did write me a kind and thoughtful rejection letter back when she was editing Pank) she has been with me in my
survivor’s fight. If Hillary Clinton is my psyche’s political mom, then Roxane
Gay is a big sister, fighting off bullies with her grace, honesty, and
self-reflection.
But the fact that this incredible hero of mine felt afraid to voice her
Hillary support helps me understand what all of us, including/especially Roxane
Gay, have accomplished in these last three years.
A few nights ago, I was driving home at the end of a yucky, crampy,
stressful-for-really-no-reason kind of day. I had the window open to stave off
some stress-nausea. A big white SUV
pulled up next to me at a stoplight, and the young white man in the passenger
seat started screaming at me:
“Did you really vote for Hillary?! Fuck you!”
He threw a just-lit cigarette at me (Thank goodness it didn’t come in
the window.) and kept screaming as they drove away. I got home and called my
best friend, jangled and afraid, sitting on the bathroom floor in case I threw
up. At first I asked Amy to come over and sit with me, but an eerie calm came
over me all at once. A voice in my head (or heart?), the voice that has taken
me bravely though all these years as a trauma and abuse survivor:
He's mad because he has already lost. He knows
he can’t make us go away.
I thought of my bumper stickers and all of the wonderful momentary
connections they’ve allowed me to make—the happy and sad waves, the curious
expressions, the kids who eagerly turned to see who was driving. I forget which
anti-tyranny expert said it, but the signs of Resistance aren’t there to
convince the other side, they’re to let the oppressed know they’re not alone.
By supporting Hillary Clinton, no matter how, we changed the cultural
and political landscape forever, and we did it in a constant minefield of
triggers, under threats, condescension, and shaming from both Trump’s party and
our own. We may not have won the election, but we’re still here, and we are
coming together in ways I would never have dared to dream of.
I’m not just writing this to shore up optimism, but to honor the constant
daily achievement of survivors. Like many other women, I struggled to feel safe
and sane during and after the election. Like so many other women, I flashed
back to my own rape and abuse every time I passed a TV with the news on (WHY
ARE THERE SO MANY TVS ON EVERYWHERE?!) or scrolled through my feeds.
Making it worse were the feelings of abandonment and betrayal, the sense
that I could never stop being at war with men. Almost every male person I considered a friend supported Hillary
begrudgingly or passively, if at all. Whether by apathy or antipathy, almost every male person I know chose
his own supremacy over the health and safety of women. To me, it really felt
like almost everyone I knew was ready
to embrace rape as long as it didn’t mean giving up the social capital that
vocally supporting Hillary Clinton costs.
AND YET, to paraphrase the words of Mitch McConnell which I am bizzarely
about to have tattooed on my arm, nevertheless, we persisted. SOMEHOW there was
an opening at Women Organized AgainstRape and I entered weekly trauma therapy at the beginning of March. My
therapist is an absolute champion of letting me weave my personal story in and
out of politics, never asking me to tone down my anger or not take things
personally—she knows, maybe we all know, that politics is always personal.
Yesterday I made the decision to phase out weekly therapy and dedicate
my Monday afternoons to things that are
not trauma, and that 100% feels like Reclaiming My Time.
SO I want to step back and marvel. The night of the election, in
addition to the terror and heartbreak, a deep warm, powerful sensation pulsed
through my body. I guess it could have been panic, but it felt more like
resolve, like my soul rising to the occasion and reaching out to join all of
the other souls that were doing the same.
Women who support Hillary, I can never thank you enough. Thank you for
every Bro you’ve faced down or blocked, every time you’ve had to head the word
shill (or shrill, for that matter), for every danger and trigger you’ve faced
and still managed to wake up the next day. Whether you fight an inward battle,
an outward battle, or a combination of both, thank you so, so much. I’m with
you forever and I will never, ever back down.
Keep going, I love you, keep going.
No comments:
Post a Comment