It is not often that words fail me. Today has been a maelstrom; every now and then I am able to catch hold of a single emotion long enough to identify it: Fear. Anger. Hopelessness. Sadness. Horror. Revulsion. Frustration. Disappointment. Grief. Last night I held a sleeping kitten to distract me from the steady march of red across my homeland, like an invasion but not because the red tide was not outsiders but neighbors, old friends, family members. Does it sound like an exaggeration to say I feel betrayed and even gaslit? One of those old friends posted today about how sad it is that so much fear has been “hammered into people” over the course of this election cycle. Really? I thought, It’s not enough to vote against my humanity, I’m not even entitled to my own fear? Last night I put my phone away, watched a movie, held a kitten, pretended what I saw happening wasn’t. I could pretend for a few more hours, I could still hope. Pooh, our newest and smallest boy cat, is more emotionally aware than his brothers. He sensed my upset and licked and licked my face. I tried not to think about my daughter upstairs, how my husband and I both tucked her in with the same words: Whatever happens, it will be OK.
We lied. Today I woke to shocked texts from my cousin and my best friend. This does not feel OK. This. Is. Not. Fine.
Now is when we grieve. I can no longer tell my girls that they can grow up to be anything they want to be, because America would rather have a corrupt businessman, pervert, and convicted-fucking-felon as leader than a woman. The irrepressibly hopeful voice in my head tells me this will change. The cynical one reminds me that the first woman to run for president was not Hillary Clinton eight years ago but Victoria Woodhull in 1872.1 That was over a hundred and fifty years ago. All my daughter wanted to know this morning, after I broke the news to her, was if Harris was going to run again. I couldn’t say what I was thinking: would it even matter if she did?
Rena, my sometimes otherworldly and other times outrageously normal nine-year-old, is taking this much better than I am. Once I scraped myself out of the puddle of misery I had turned into on the couch, forced into action by the necessity of annoyingly early errands, she suggested we all wear our dress-up cloaks, “to brighten us up.” I had actually briefly considered the idea already, and immediately rejected it. The last thing I wanted today was to draw attention to myself, the old survival mantra was playing a loop in my head: stay quiet, stay small, keep your head down and you’ll stay safe. An emerald green hooded cloak flaring out around me is rather the opposite of that, but I agreed for her sake. It did help. I strode out of the house feeling untouchable, come-at-me-if-you-dare. That lasted until we reached the end of our driveway and I noticed the sign Rena had made last week (was it only last week?) with so much hope. Made of bright cardstock with wooden supports, it was crumpled in on itself, defeated by the rain that felt entirely appropriate for the day. The visual image broke through my numb shock and I cried all the way into town. A couple hours later we were home again and I cried some more, crumpling myself under the impossibility of doing anything normal. I read and responded to check-in messages from my circle of women, and cried. I wrote my devastated niece some bullshit about extinction bursts and how this is really evidence of lasting change coming. I made popcorn and a strong mocha, still crying. At which point Rena intervened again and suggested it was a good day to sit on the couch and read Harry Potter, which we did. It’s hard to cry while reading about teenage witches and wizards. It’s hard to maintain my unfaith in humanity in the face of my daughter’s youthful wisdom and optimism.
My niece said that this will not stop us, we will continue fighting for our rights. One sister-in-law reminded the rest of us of our power, another offered the image of us as a circle, holding hands, unbreakable. My mother-in-law sent a quote she had found: “This is not the end. I promise you, this is not the end…” When I finally braved social media most of what I found was encouraging, empowering, hopeful. Hold fast, sister. You are not alone. Today was HARD hard, but all this got me through. (Maybe I didn’t lie after all; maybe the “extinction burst” theory isn’t bullshit; maybe 53% of Americans don’t wish me ill, personally. Maybe).
And here I am, finding words beyond the haze of disillusionment. I’m back on the couch, but no longer limp with shock and grief. I’m sipping a calming potion from my favorite cauldron mug: Chamomile for relaxation and mood lifting, lavender for peace, lemonbalm for emotional balance, mugwort for calm clarity and intuition, all of them for healing. The next four years will be hard too, I’ve not felt the last of my fear or anger or all the rest of it, not by a long shot. But there is room again for hope, for joy, for peace, for my almost annoyingly persistent belief that good will ultimately triumph over evil, love over hate. We can, together. I promise.
Despite being a powerful and wealthy businesswoman and a popular figure, Woodhull was ruined for her effort; ostensibly because she had dared to publish a story in her newspaper about an affair between Harriet Beecher Stowe’s brother, a much beloved religious leader, and one of his congregants. She and her sister and business partner, Tennie, were forced to close their brokerage firm (the first one every started and run by women) and flee to Britain. Woodhull died there in exile at the age of 88. From: National Park Service. “The First Woman To Run For President: Victoria Woodhull.” January 25, 2021. https://www.nps.gov/articles/the-first-woman-to-run-for-president-victoria-woodhull.htm. Accessed: November 6, 2024.