It’s 3:34am. I went to bed around midnight and was nudged out of light sleep by V joining me. He didn’t say anything though, and as my brain processed that, I knew things had to be in worse shape than when I finally closed my eyes a few hours ago.
I’m crying a little less this time, so far. But of course the day is still very young.
More than anything I wish I didn’t care so much. I wish I could shrug it off. I wish this were 30 years ago when we could still plausibly say, with clear eyes and mostly intact hearts, “Ah, tough luck this round, but we’ll live to fight another day.”
Virtually all of my friends are politically engaged. I didn’t do as much loving harassment of my people as I have in elections past, because I really didn’t need to; everyone knew what had to be done and they all did it. We did our part. I spoke to a couple of people I thought were maybe, just maybe reachable. I guess they weren’t.
When the top of the ticket changed in July (or was it June? I’m sure as hell not looking it up now) the vibe shift was immediate and intense, so much joy and relief. It had felt as though we were sliding inexorably toward an inevitable crash and burn. Suddenly a dizzying injection of positivity, real empathy, real action, enough to fuel 100-odd days with feverish, frenetic hope. And, well, there you go – the title says it all.
I suppose we will indeed live to fight another day. We don’t have a choice. We still share this country, this world. But the long, long arms of systemic racism and internalized misogyny and the deep desire of so many to scoot and squeeze themselves under the umbrella of fascistic xenophobia that appears to offer safe harbor have again won the day, seemingly. That wasn’t my most poetic metaphor but I stand by it.
My son is still too young to understand any of this and I guess that’s a small mercy I’ve been given. But thinking about him makes the pain so exponentially worse. In a few hours he will wake up blissfully unaware that anything has changed, unaware that people who profess to love him have bargained away his future for the promise of cheaper eggs and owning the libs. To some, that will sound terribly over-dramatic, and I would be the gladdest person of all to wind up being wrong. It just doesn’t matter right now. When he wakes up I will give him a thousand kisses like I always do, get him a banana and an apple bar and cuddle while we watch Peppa Pig before school. I will try desperately to keep it together until he leaves and then I will crumble again. Maybe just maybe I could even get a few more minutes of sleep before he wakes up. Probably not. But I’ll hope anyway.
Sconnie Molly 