I was 22 when he was elected. I won’t be using his name in this post because simply seeing it makes my skin crawl and my intestines recoil with disgust— it’s purely an involuntary physiological reaction. That was eight years ago, though in reality, it all started even earlier—maybe ten years ago. The country and the world have been living with that orange-puckered, hate-spewing, dry fox toupe, deranged, destructive, delinquent for far longer than the space and time continuum should allow. I truly didn’t know hate until 2014, when I was halfway through college, starry-eyed and completely ready to take on the world and change it somewhat. My main worry at the time was marginally passing some course and locking eyes with a cute boy in my French class who sat in front of me and, for the life of me, never turned around. 

Then, news about this ridiculous clown of a man that stood on the sidelines of New York City’s “polite society” or some highfalutin corrupt socialites club began surfacing. The world knew him for his various *failed* businesses and his brash way of firing people on his yawn-inducing show, The Apprentice. I also vaguely remember something about a golden toilet and the horrid Central Park Five cases. I remember people laughing at this pathetic joke of a cretin whose vocabulary didn’t go past third-grade level, and his drapey, shapeless suits made him look like a saggy bag of bones and flesh. I would joke with my friends about how some people took the American Dream a little too seriously and thought that anything was possible in this country. 

The semester ended, school was out, and Michael Brown was killed that hot, dark summer. The country went up in flames.  Protests erupted in Ferguson, Missouri, and the Black Lives Matter movement took center stage, ready to take charge in leading a cultural revolution. The fall semester began with charged energy as we started to feel the weight of history on our naive little shoulders. Those who were always meant to be activists in their lifetimes stepped up and shut down popular convening areas in my university. They were severely castigated for disrupting student life and chastised for expressing their freedom of speech. Mind you, all protests were peaceful and awe-inspiring. 

Fast forward to 2016, my senior year of college and last shred of school. The focus was graduating and getting out into the world to travel and live the life I was always meant to live. The Bernie campaign was in FULL swing, and I was invested like never before. It all culminated in his visit to my school, in which I had front-row seats and cried throughout. Oh, and I shook his hand. I haven’t washed my right hand, also, in many years. There was a sweet hope in the air that was coupled with my sincere, youthful belief that change could be dramatic and happen overnight. Amid these life changes, a squirrely white boy with a coifed comb-over, a stark side part, and a pressed suit would stand outside our main cafeteria with a large sign worshiping the man with unnaturally small hands. The boy claimed to be the president of his club and was firm in his belief, no matter how many people openly laughed at him and practically spit at his feet.

I’m 30 now, and it’s November 6th, 2024. I’m jaded from poring my soul and body into activism and completely disillusioned with life. Is it historically normal for there to be so much political unrest between your 20s and 30s? US-centrically speaking, as many countries have lived through decades of unspeakable violence, lest not forget. 

I feel physically ill. There’s a taut tightness in my chest that could snap my ribcage at any minute, and I’m deliberately shielding my mental health from any news/social media/radio waves. I don’t want to think, which means I’m walking around with headphones all day listening to upbeat music or watching Love is Blind Argentina. This cannot be real. I’m in a state of shock as if someone died, and we’ve entered the wrong timeline. String theory perhaps? I’m not allowing my mind to take me back to the hell 2016-2020 was… because it is very evident that this time will be worse. I know the reputation I’ve built is to be outspoken, quick to mobilize people, and feisty if need be. But I’m not sure I want that right now. I do know that it is no longer my responsibility to reach over the table and try to understand his supporters. As Ethel Cain put it, “… I hope clarity strikes you someday like a clap of lightning, and you have to live the rest of your life with the knowledge and guilt of what you’ve done and who you are as a person.”

A friend recently shared on her story a resonating post that I hope we can all keep in our back pockets when things get even tougher: 

“But if I can give a word of solace for myself and anyone else who needs it, the heart of activism is never going to be in the institutions but in our communities. Things will get harder, but there are places to plug in as an outlet for your anger once you’re ready. Continue to listen, support, and care for others around you. That’s not the full answer; I don’t know what is. But justice will never be achieved without collective care. That is what we can hold on to, that will always stay true.”