My future has been stolen by spineless grifters

Donald Trump has already built his wall, and I am paying for it.

My friends are paying for it. My family is paying for it. America is paying for it.

The wall stands, insurmountable, in front of me. Every day, I take a step forward, but it remains in front of me. I scrabble at the bricks, sometimes managing to claw one out, but then ten more are piled on top.

The man who is assuming the highest office in the United States is a man who speaks like he’s reading a political version of “See Spot Run.” He is spoiled, crude, and boorish. He’s every frat boy, every belittling coworker, every patronizing boss I’ve ever encountered.

— — —

The “nasty woman” moment has become cliche, and yet, I’ll never forget it.

I was watching the debate, alone, in my apartment. When those words escaped his mouth, I gasped out loud. Because I knew it. Because I’d been there. Because that was his true self, unguarded, hating someone because they were a woman who dared to speak truth to his bullshit.

A few months later, my mother and I were at a bar and noticed the bartender had a “nasty woman” tattoo. My mom asked her about it and she responded, “I never want to forget how that moment felt.”

I will never forget how that moment felt.

It was every frat boy, every belittling coworker, every patronizing boss — on a national stage.

— — —

I was born in 1990, which is solidly in the middle of the Millennial generation, by any definition. That means I graduated from high school in 2008 — right into that special segment of Millennials that got completely fucked over by the recession.

Let me clarify: I have a theory that people who graduated from college from 2006 through 2012 are just straight up fucked.

That’s when student loan interest rates jumped, the housing market tanked, and the recession happened.

My first “real” job was in 2009, and it consisted of calling people who used to go to my college and asking them to donate money. I lasted a whole semester of listening to people actually crying on the phone about how they’d been laid off and lost their entire savings before I quit.

Those of use who graduated into that, or took out student loans during that period, got hosed.

My peers and I are saddled with student loans at high interest rates, unable to refinance.

We graduated into a terrible job market with depressed wages. After being unemployed or underemployed for years, we took what we could get.

Retirement savings aren’t even a thought for us. I briefly paid into a 401k during my first “real” job out of college (which, by the way, was fixing iPhones at an Apple store) — but then figured I could put that money into my student loans instead.

With retirement seemingly out of reach, home ownership seemed the next logical goal — but how do you save for a home when you can’t claw your way into a job that makes more than $40K?

And yet, I’m told, it’s because I’m too lazy. I don’t work hard enough. I want everything handed to me.

I did everything I was “supposed” to do. I studied hard. I got into a good school — a “new Ivy” — early decision. I graduated with distinction.

My multiple on-campus jobs limited me to 20 hours a week, so I worked outside employment to get more hours — on top of my full-time course load.

And yet, despite doing everything “right,” despite all my blood, sweat, and tears, I still can’t afford to save for retirement. I still can’t afford a house.

I’m still broke and living with my parents, and it’s all my fault. Buy less cups of coffee, they say. You’ll save more money. Well, you can’t save money when you aren’t making it to begin with.

— — —

I haven’t been the same since the election.

I work in the media. That’s a new thing for me. I didn’t go to school for this, I just kinda fell into it.

Election night was all business, even as we all realized what was happening. I worked probably about 12 hours, and got home around 1 a.m. I poured myself a large glass of bourbon, watched Donald Trump give his victory speech, and cried.

The next day, I got a call from a friend of mine that the gay pride flag on her house had been set on fire. I almost broke down into tears again in the middle of Wegmans.

I physically reacted. My period was several days late because of stress. My skin went to shit. I started clenching my jaw at night. I woke up in the middle of the night, tossing and turning.

Nihilism took over, and I’m not sure it’s fully ended. I drink too much. I get into fights with my mother. I drive recklessly. I spend money I don’t have. I show up late to work. What the hell does it matter, when the world’s about to end?

My mother’s comments about moving to Canada, which used to piss me off, have turned into wondering if I should keep a full tank of gas and my passport in my purse. The Peace Bridge or the Lewiston-Queenston Bridge?

— — —

After the election, I told my mom I wanted to pepper spray.

Our work parking lot is barely lit, and we have a lot of crazy people. Over the summer, one of our producers was eating lunch outside when a guy walking by started screaming “TRUMP TRUMP TRUMP” at her, enough to make her run inside. People have posted on our Facebook comments, calling for our social media manager’s identity, my name, to be outed.

Normally my mom would have told me I was crazy. Instead, she told me that my brother would help me get what I needed.

My brother told me to get a knife instead, because it does more damage.

— — —

My future is being slowly grifted away from me.

I’m the child of a woman who was raised by a single mother on welfare. The true American success story…and I’m struggling to achieve a fraction of the wealth my parents had.

I sit, typing this on my parents’ sofa — because I moved back home in an attempt to save up for a house — and I just want to scream.

I have at least five pre-existing conditons.

Five.

GERD.

Hiatal Hernia.

Ulcers.

Barrett’s Esophagus (precancerous, by the way!)

Endometriosis.

I was diagnosed with the first four about a month after the Affordable Care Act passed. I was able to stay on my parents’ insurance and never denied coverage as I switched jobs.

But let me tell you more about my Barrett’s diagnosis. It’s a precancerous condition, meaning there’s a highly significant chance it’ll develop into esophageal cancer.

I first found out through a letter. The doctor who did my first endoscopy, who told me to get it done fast in 2009 “before Obamacare, while it’s still free,” was too much of a coward to tell me my diagnosis to my face.

He didn’t tell me in recovery. He didn’t tell my parents. We found out when we got the letter, which was splashed with mentions of cancer. Cancer. CANCER. My mom read the letter to me — as much as she could, while completely distraught.

I went to my follow-up appointment with the same doctor — cancer. Cancer. CANCER. I held it together enough to get to my car and call my mother, then completely broke down. I was sitting in the parking lot, sobbing uncontrollably, convinced I was going to die at 20 years old.

I will never forget that feeling.

— — —

Well, I’m almost 27, and I’m still here — but completely uninsurable, if not for the Affordable Care Act. That’s something I’ve never had to find out, and I’m terrified that I’m going to have to.

I’ve watched retirement slip out of my grasp.

I’ve watched home ownership slip out of my grasp.

I’m watching my own health slip out of my grasp.

And now, I’m watching America slip out of my grasp.

The people on the right who should be saving us are spineless, allowing a child to run rampant over their party solely to preserve their own craven goals.

And the people on the left, well, they say we must preserve the peaceful transfer of power, as I feel the tread of a boot on my neck.

Lean in, they say, conveniently ignoring the dagger dangling in front of me.

— — —

I wake up every morning, unsure what the future will bring.

Will I wake up to a new world war? Nukes being lobbed between countries? The National Guard, storming into the newsroom?

I could easily give up the fight. I’m a white woman. I could do myself up, slink down to City Grill, find myself a rich lawyer or doctor to take care of me, and stop caring.

But I can’t stop caring. I can’t stop worrying about my friends who are gay, transgender, Jewish, Muslim, etc.

I can’t stop caring. I’ve tried. I can’t stop caring. It’s just a few hours away, Canada. But I can’t stop caring.

Growing up, I was bullied. A lot. And when that happens, you’re faced with a choice: you can grow up to do better, or you can take it out on others.

I’m not optimistic right now. But god, I hope we can do better.

And no matter what happens, I can’t stop caring.