White People Crying
Chicago—and me—in the days after the 2016 presidential election
When I finally emerged from my apartment on November 9, 2016, a funereal energy pervaded Clark Street. Despite it being a Wednesday during business hours, plenty of people were outside and crying. I went to my preferred neighborhood coffee shop to mourn in front of the kind-faced barista who worked there on weekdays.
“How’s it going?” the barista asked in the loaded way of a concerned doctor who already knows the answer. He looked like Andrew Garfield mixed with a beagle. Or if Clark Kent moonlighted as a Chicago stage actor.
“Eh,” I offered.
“Well, I got you,” he replied.
My heart fluttered. A moment of kindness on this new day of Trump’s America! And a free cold brew!
“Four seventy-five,” he said, as the digital reader prompted me to insert my debit card.
Fucking Trump’s America.
I looked down to conceal how my neck was blooming red from this misinterpreted gesture and grabbed the glass of black liquid swirled with curdling almond milk from the bar. I sat near a couple sitting puffy-faced before a folded-out New York Times.
