It’s taken an embarrassingly long time to write this.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, but that I could not. There were thoughts—so many thoughts—but I could not hold on to any one of them long enough to mold it into something. It was like sitting down in front of the TV and flicking through every channel, devoting maybe three seconds of screen time to each station. Once you have flipped through them all, while somehow seeing nothing, you realize it will be easier to abstain. You sit back and meet your reflection in the black screen. Yes, it’s much easier to choose nothing, than to decide which syndicated sitcom’s laugh track is less grating.
Horror, it seems, is paralysis.
I woke up one November day deep within the plot of a dystopian novel: “The Cubs have won the World Series. Donald Trump is president of the United States…” I will remember that November day for its stillness. It was as if the sky itself were holding its breath. On the train, the jaws of the commuters around me were clenched tightly, lips pressed into thick lines. Usually, as I exit the station, a smiling black man in a yellow vest hands me a free newspaper and says good morning, while a busker strums her guitar. Not this Wednesday. No good mornings, no acoustic music.
In the following days, I read, maybe too much. I marched, probably not enough. And I thought and I thought, but apparently you can only think so much before you go numb.
One hundred and sixty-six days have passed, and here I am. Here we are. It is April. Red and orange tulips are brimming from the garden plots in the traffic circles. The sun hangs in the sky until 7, even 8 o’clock. It was April when Chaucer’s pilgrims departed on their journey. Like them, I find myself in a strange land, but unlike them, I did not go searching for it.
This world would be easier to confront if I did not know so immediately how everything has gone wrong. To not have one’s phone buzz with another breaking news message of where we have bombed and whom we have hurt.
I take everything that has happened and I scribble it down in my mind like a grocery list: the corruption, the end of truth, the bombs, the Russian interference, the ban, the forthcoming wall, the cabinet, the stolen Supreme Court seat, the nepotism, the hate crimes, the deportations, the disregard for our planet. And there, underlined and bolded, at the top of the list: my belief in this American experiment, in its customs and in its people.
This strange land grew up around me, like these springtime tulips, unnoticed until in total bloom.
It’s comical, too, this place I inhabit now. How comical, to picture White House aids stumbling around in a darkened West Wing because they cannot find the light switches, and to realize that our Commander-in-Chief cannot spell. Of course, one is then forced to acknowledge that he is, in fact, our Commander-in-Chief.
We call it “hysterical laughter” because the source of our amusement is so hilarious that it can only be insane.
So here I am. Here we are. It is time to harness my grief into something. One day, I’ll have a great story to tell. Right now, I’m still trying to find the words to tell it.
I have read far, far too many articles across the past months to create a succinct list, but here are some election-related items that initially came to mind.
Despair and Hope in Trump’s America
Everything mattered: lessons from 2016’s bizarre presidential election
A series of editorials from the LA Times