Waking Up In Trump’s America

Yesterday was my birthday. I got the worst present imaginable: Donald Trump as president elect of the United States.

I watched my news feeds on Tuesday night in sick fascination as state after state was called for this orange monster, whose campaign openly espoused racism, Islamophobia, misogyny, and all forms of hate and bigotry. At first, there was desperate hope: We knew the first reporting states would swing his way. When the West reported, justice would prevail.

Over the course of the night, it became horribly clear this was not true.

I feel assaulted and betrayed, ever more so as reports of violence against People of Color and the LGBTQ+ community come in. But more than that, I feel I should have known better. If we’re casting stones, there are plenty to go around. We scrabble at someone to blame, whether it be those who voted third party, or those who [for various reasons, including voter suppression; never forget that] didn’t vote at all; whether it be the majority of White women whose internalized misogyny and/or desire to preserve their safety and position caused them to cast their ballots for a man who openly derides them; whether it be the Democratic National Convention and its machinations, or the 500 years of violence and the culture of white supremacy upon which this nation is built, or, or, or. In our complacency, we believed it couldn’t happen and we fatally underestimated the force of white rage. Of those who embraced the hateful rhetoric as well as those who were willing to overlook it in their bitterness against a broken system.

I am complicit. It sickens me. And though I am disabled and non-Christian, I am more likely to come out okay than many others I know: My Black and Brown friends and family, my LGBTQ+ friends and family. But I cannot remain complacent. The unimaginable has happened, and I cannot preach love and reconciliation. I cannot preach patience. I cannot share the Abraham Lincoln quote about the better angels of our nature, because those angels have already fallen and besides, he didn’t speak to the Black, to the Brown, to the Indigenous, to women. Only to white men.

Though I am not much of an activist, on this I must act. I don’t know how as yet. Perhaps with words, but I feel in my heart I need to do something more than string words together in the safety of my house. I toy with ideas of using my few resources to build safe places for those who need them, but my heart rages and my dreams are full of crows. Badb Catha has never been a goddess I spoke to, but in the last day she is much on my mind.

Right now I am worn out with too much emotion and too little sleep. Right now, I can do little but declare my intent: To stand with those who suffer and fly in the face of hate. Later, I shall see where it leads me.

I call upon Badb, Macha, and Nemain to strengthen me in body and spirit.

So mote it be

 

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