This morning, The New York Times, still clueless, arrives on our front lawn. No matter. We stayed up late to watch the election. Vlad fell asleep with his glasses on the edge of his nose while the pundits on CNN began to post mortem the warm body of our red and blue. This morning, little V keening on the toilet: I wanted Hillary to win. I go to her, as does her dad, and suddenly the three of us are crying together, inconsolable. The boys ask me, as I’m putting ham in their sandwiches for school, whether Trump will paint the White House gold. This morning.
And then they take a turn towards the grumblings of young boys outraged while threading the line of sportsmanship. “How could he…” “I can’t believe…” “How is it possible…” “Seriously…” They don’t know about the chants that start with “lock her up…” or “kill…” — or maybe they do — but surely they don’t know about “grab ’em by the pussy…” — or maybe they do. Do they know what a pussy is, my young boys?
After midnight, the whole house asleep but me folding laundry on the floor, I watch Trump give his acceptance speech. Soft-spoken, proud and moved, polite. He refers to his opponent by her name. He thanks his wife, his daughters, his team. He speaks of unity and rebuilding and the work ahead. I believe I see a change in his face and I ask myself, “Who is this man and how many faces does he have?” Our smallest children, they belong to all of us, will ask this when they begin to gather and weigh the details. They will dig up even more, and they will demand to know. We must too.