My best friend Amber broke down in tears in a bar on election night.
We sat in a dark corner of our favorite Chicago beercade, sipping margaritas served with a Lego wall built around them. We had a clear view of the television above the bar, tuned to CNN’s election coverage. We laughed as we tore down the Lego walls, mocking Trump and his blunt racism.
“I love this,” Amber said, taking a Snapchat video of me to add to her story. “We had our first black president and now we’re gonna have our first woman president. This would never have happened twenty years ago. Fuck people who say millennials are the worst generation. We’re a part of this!”
“Now we just need a black woman president. You know, you’d look hot as hell behind that desk,” I replied, connecting two red Legos together.
“Oh yeah, I’d be like, ‘Bring me my hoop earrings so I can handle this disaster in styyyle.’” She pulled the lime from her drink and brought it to her lips, sucking the juice out before tossing it back into her glass.
Twenty minutes later, when the coverage showed Trump’s substantial lead, I found Amber with tears in her eyes. She pressed her fingers into her forehead as she looked up at the television screen, a smug photo of Trump flashed next to his electoral college lead.
“Are you okay?”
“No, no, I’m not okay because this is the world I live in.” She started crying. “This world doesn’t care about me. These people don’t care about me. They don’t give a fucking shit about me.”
“I promise people care about you,” I said.
“Obviously not. If they did, I wouldn’t be watching this man become President. This man hates me just for the color of my skin. And they want him to be President.”
I watched her cry, unsure of what to say, how to console her. As I walked home that night, her words finally landed in me. She was right. The people of this country thought this man – a man who was so open about his hatred toward people of color like Amber and those in the LGBQT community like me – should lead our nation.
•
I’m not surprised that Trump won. Every week, it seemed, his following grew. I also knew many Bernie supporters who wrote his name on the ballot. No,I’m not surprised but I still feel shocked.
The worst part about Trump’s win isn’t just that he won. It’s that we wanted it. We chose this. As a nation.
Oddly, in the same way that Glee helped give a voice to the LGBTQ+ community, Trump gives an invigorated voice to white supremacy. Trump’s words during the vicious campaign made it seem acceptable to voice hatred for groups and cultures that are different from white America. He showed no remorse for or understanding of his racist, zenophobic, mysogonistic remarks, no shame for his mocking impression of a reporter with a disability.
Many of his supporters say that he’s just “unfiltered’’, that he says what he thinks, and that America needs a president like that. They seem to think that this shouldn’t overshadow his plans for the “important issues.”
To this, I ask, “Is the well being of ALL Americans not an important issue?”
Trump’s words and actions revealed a complete lack of regard for anyone who isn’t his version of America. He made it clear that he thinks many people of color are criminals and, ultimately, less than. He and his vice president elect, the equally concerning Mike Pence, are blatantly homophobic. As Tyler Trykowski points out in VICE, “In Pence’s 12 years in Congress, he voted to define marriage as only between a man and a woman, opposed measures to block employer discrimination based on sexual orientation, and opposed the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” Our leaders should be looking out for the interests of all Americans, not just those who are lifestyle and economic clones of them.
Already, hate crimes have increased and Trump has yet to make a solid statement about it. In his interview with 60 Minutes on November 13th, Trump downplayed this uptick in attacks, saying, “I believe it’s a very small amount.” When pressed further by correspondent Lesley Stahl, Trump finally looked at the cameras and said, “I say, ‘Stop it.’ If it—if it helps.”
Trump’s weak response to hate crimes just reinforces what was made clear by this election: We have not made the progress we think we have.
•
As the reality of this set in, I began to feel scared. The next day I felt traumatized. I woke up not wanting to leave bed, not wanting to go out into the world. I tossed and turned in my sheets for an hour, trying to resist checking for messages, checking social media. I didn’t want to see the posts. I didn’t want to see the heartbreak. Most of all, I didn’t want to see the gloating. I’m from the South, a land rife with Trump supporters, and I wasn’t ready to see their happy Facebook statuses about their victory. Because wasn’t it their victory, too?
When I finally pulled myself out of bed, I quickly immersed myself in the plans I had for the day. I had to run some errands downtown and then go to a photo shoot with a classmate. I had a busy day so it was easy to not focus on what was going on in the world.
Once on the train down to the Loop, I finally checked my phone and, ultimately, Facebook. Most of the statuses expressed the fear and confusion Amber had felt the night before at the bar. Friends shared their concern about what the election meant for people who Trump had marginalized during his campaign, for our country. Some were already in arguments with friends and family members who had supported Trump. All of my friends were upset and hurting.
Worse, though, were the posts from friends in North Carolina. People I had known for most of my life were sharing excitement about Trump’s win. A few of them were mature enough to not gloat or make rude comments. Others were completely open about their feelings towards people who hadn’t voted the way they did. One individual even said a “see ya later” to people who wanted to leave the country out of fear.
I unfriended them all. I’ve never been the kind of person who does that. I don’t like everything my “friends” post, but it’s their account and they can post what they want. This just felt different. I don’t know exactly how to describe it, but the kind of hatred they were choosing to support had crossed a line. Maybe it was impulsive and pointless, but I just couldn’t see their happiness at that moment.
Once I got off the train, I pulled my earbuds out of my pocket and plugged them into my phone. I put them in my ears, but didn’t play any music. Nothing really fit what I currently felt.
I walked around for a while, ignoring my errands in favor of watching people around me, watching Chicago react. The Loop, always a loud and active place, was silent. All the people were there, but no one spoke. Everyone wore a somber, contemplative look as they walked, eyes downcast, to their destination. It was a strange feeling, all the quiet. I had never experienced anything like it. It made me feel uncomfortable.
I knew that a protest had already been planned for that evening outside Trump Tower. I wandered up Wabash until I could see the tower, but no one was there yet. I wondered how many people would actually show up.
Throughout the afternoon, I got texts from friends telling me they loved me. It was comforting to have people reach out like that, to feel close to friends who were feeling the same confusion I was, but it was also odd. They were texts you received when something bad happened, when some kind of tragedy had taken place. I didn’t like feeling like that. I didn’t like feeling that a president being elected was a tragedy. But that’s how I felt.
I ran errands and went to the photo shoot. It was easy, just headshots of a classmate. It was all very quick. We didn’t talk much. Neither of us seemed to be up for small talk.
As I left the studio and began walking up the street to the train, something caught my eye. Across the street, a group of people surrounded a smaller group of people, taking cellphone photos. I couldn’t see what was going on so I crossed the street to get a better look.
Standing on the corner were seven college-age people, of varying races and genders, holding signs. Their signs were about Trump, but they were for those of us who were feeling scared and confused.
If you’re an immigrant, I’ll keep fighting for you
Love still wins
America is black/white/brown/gay/straight/male/female/other
As I looked at these individuals and their signs, I began to cry. I cried because of how uncertain I felt about what was to come, but I also cried because these people were my America – everyone’s America. All around me people were snapping photos. I looked into their faces and, for the first time that day, saw smiles.
I don’t know what happens now. I don’t know what the next step is when it feels like we’re being thrown backwards. What I do know is that we won’t let this stop us.
This is the first time in my lifetime where almost every minority feels threatened. It’s terrifying. But those people, the ones holding signs on the street corner, give me hope. When we’re all in danger, we must fight together for what is important.
I’ll give Mr. Trump a chance…only because I have to. He’s been elected and there’s nothing I can do to change that.
What I can do now is hope. I hope that hate crimes don’t continue to increase. I hope that those of us who don’t align with Trump’s view of an American will be able to make our voices heard. I hope that this will be a time of learning, for Trump and his America.
Not all Americans look like Trump. Some of us have black skin or brown skin; some of us experience sexual identity differently; some of us have bodies that don’t function the same way as able-bodied individuals. We’re all still Americans and deserve the right to feel safe and protected in our country.
•
When I was younger, I was in love with the Series of Unfortunate Events books. The series follows three orphans as they try to escape the clutches of a sinister man, Count Olaf, who wants to steal their family’s fortune. The books are dark and cynical. There is usually a moment toward the end of each book, when things are at their worst and then, magically, a glimmer of hope appears.
The final scene of the 2004 film adaptation features this line:
At times the world can seem an unfriendly and sinister place, but believe us when we say there is much more good in it than bad. All you have to do is look hard enough. And what might seem to be a series of unfortunate events, may, in fact, be the first steps of a journey.
Maybe this is our journey as Americans, as individuals, as humans trying to feel valued in this world. This election is our unfortunate event and the folks holding signs on the street corner, are our first step toward progress, toward healing. No matter how deep the well of our current despair, we must find the good in the world and always carry it with us.
William Grant is a writer and photographer living in the Chicago area. His writing has appeared in Columbia College Chicago’s The Lab Review. He is the Editor-In-Chief of and a contributing writer for the art blog Not Your Mother’s Breast Milk.
