“There’s an old Kabbalah saying that emphasizes the idea that each of us reflects the world we find around us. They say, ‘As you are, so is the world’, and they mean that none of us is innocent. That each of us carry within us all of the bad and all of the good we see in this world.” I was sitting as far out on the fringe of the group as was socially acceptable, using my relative seating position to express my severe distaste for the propagandist lectures we had been receiving for several days and the general personalities of the folks with which I had found myself surrounded. Despite my knowledgeable and informed stances against the Israeli occupation and my hesitation in participating in such a nakedly propagandist program, I nevertheless signed up for a free trip to Israel marketed as my birthright. I told myself I could disrupt the program from the inside, could better understand the perspectives of those against whom I’d argue, and if I’m being honest, was also excited about leveraging the free flight to Israel to explore Budapest after the tour concluded. But as I sat there, trying to make self-aware and ironic groans and facial expressions to communicate my disapproval of the entire endeavor to my all-too-eager peers, this Kabbalah saying resonated deeply. And I recalled thinking, as I am here, so can the occupation exist.

I forgot about the saying, until that awful November night in 2016, as I watched the fate of my country slip away, and hope fade away from the faces of those I love. As you are, so is the world, and as I had done nothing to contribute to the 2016 election, it shouldn’t have been surprising that Donald Trump had won. I am aware this thought attaches more importance to my particular actions than is deserved, but as I abandoned the pizzas and wine we had accrued for our expected celebration to feast on grief and fear instead, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had personally let down this nation, that my individual detached cynicism about the 2016 election, manifested the country’s election of Trump. And as I sat there, wallowing in my own self-important guilt, I blurted out, “Everything’s going to change.” But a wiser friend corrected me. She said, “Not for us, I’m afraid. No, my biggest fear is how much will change for people without our privilege, but the rest of us, I’m afraid we won’t change a single thing. We’ll all be doing exactly the same thing in 2018.” And as I returned to my corporate job the next day and a conservative executive told me he knew I was upset but what the country needed was everyone to work hard, despite our differences, and then slightly later, also told me that the undocumented parents of one of our office’s interns deserved to be afraid and that never in history had anyone ever attacked Jews, and as I spoke back as much as I could, but also held my tongue for fear of being fired or punished, I worried that I would do exactly as my friend predicted and would indulge my all-too-human desire to find normalcy amongst the chaos, to pretend I didn’t notice our steady march toward authoritarianism, to ignore the call in my heart that was reminding me, As you are, so is the world.

Do you remember when irony was cool? Is it ridiculous to suggest it died, unceremoniously, on November 5th, 2016? That it quietly snuck out the back window as we were busy staring at the TV, hoping that this year, Florida wouldn’t disappoint us yet again. Irony, the detached meta-cognition of our circumstances that allowed us to posture as though the world could never disappoint us, for we knew too well how futile and pointless the whole endeavor was. Even if the world was stupid, we were smart — because we knew how stupid the world was.

In many ways, Donald Trump began in irony. I remember the first person I knew who supported him. What I remember most is how funny he thought it was. He was a counselor at a Jewish summer camp I worked at, and every day in the dining hall he would lead his 11 year-old campers in a “Don-ald Trump, Don-ald Trump” cheer that would incense the rest of the camp’s liberal counselors. And when we confronted him about it, he assured us it was all a joke. Trump wasn’t really going to win — he would just shake up the typical political dialog, breathing life into a stale and corrupt process. Yes — this counselor was ultimately going to vote for him — but more because it was kind of funny and dangerous than because of a particular alignment on policy issues. Irony was the cloak of invisibility that those early supporters wrapped around their shoulders to avoid accountability for their nationalist impulses. And if you couldn’t understand how all of this was just so funny, then you were probably too concerned with PC culture to even have a sense of humor at all.

And as irony floated Donald to the top of the pack, it would simultaneously help to sink Hillary. Do you remember how people would talk about supporting her? How rare it was to find anyone who said outright that they liked her policies and character. How instead any support for her was always couched in a disclaimer. Like, yes, she’s a corrupt neoliberal, but like I think she’ll be an effective corrupt neoliberal, or an important corrupt neoliberal, or a better-of-two-evils corrupt neoliberal. And this in itself wouldn’t necessarily doom her, but it was accompanied with a smug confidence that would scoff at anyone associated with her campaign. We’d ask, how can you live with your earnestness for this corrupt neoliberal? Don’t you know she’s destined to win and your efforts could be better spent with grassroots organizations? Don’t you know she’s just the better of two evils? Don’t you know American politics is a rouse and our leader barely matters? Don’t you know the Clintons have already rigged this election? And, I don’t mean to say that Hillary wasn’t worthy of criticism, but only that it seemed that so much of her support, and even her opposition, was rooted in this detached irony.

As it turns out, not all of us would be doing the exact same thing in 2018. My friend, who had expressed this fear, quit her job and moved to Ohio to help elect Democrats and to try to prevent Trump from seizing full control of the country’s power apparatuses. I, fearing the revenge of the Kabbalah if I once again chose non-participation, followed her to volunteer for two weeks before the election. I was not hopeful, but rather hopeful for hope. Hopeful that this election could begin restoring the hope I need so badly to continue working, protesting, and subverting this cruel administration. I prayed my involvement and that of my friends across the country would mean that not only was a “Blue Wave” imminent, but also that it would be so large as to clearly rebuke Donald Trump and scatter his supporters. That it would serve as a referendum and prevent what at times has felt like an inevitable slide toward a vicious authoritarianism and complete collapse of our democratic institutions, leaving only extralegal means to escape the white nationalists’ always present but resurgent grasp of power. But most of all, I didn’t want to spend another election night in California with a joint in my hand and an ironic smirk on my lips. And so this is how I found myself in Columbus, Ohio watching the election results in a giant ballroom filled with exhausted staffers from a long and grueling campaign season.

The first hour of this year’s election felt eerily similar to the last. FiveThirtyEight had given Democrats an 85% chance to win the House. But within the first hour, the odds began to plummet precipitously, even dipping below 50%, and seemingly trending downwards. Democratic Senators Joe Donnelly and Claire McCaskill were going to lose their races. I lost all color in my face — we were experiencing a repeat of 2016. Trump would strengthen his hold on this country and the path toward authoritarianism would be cleared of obstacles. I texted my parents preemptively and told them I might need support tonight, I wasn’t sure I was going to be okay. I watched the election results trickle in this depressed, half-filled Ohio ballroom, surrounded by deflated faces and balloons. The Democratic Ohio gubernatorial candidate gave a sad concession speech in which he emptily instructed us to “continue the fight.” People were crying. It was happening again.

But soon more results came in and the election wouldn’t turn out to be a total disaster. Democrats were projected to win the House and the ballroom gave each other weary hugs and started spreading around relieved shots of tequila. There would be no clear rebuke of Trump, but we accomplished what we needed to — we would have investigative power of Trump and could prevent all legislation from passing. It wasn’t a knockout punch, but a vital, tactical win. At the same time, recognition swept the ballroom that Trumpism is here to stay for the foreseeable future, even if it might not overtake the entire country, even if it won’t entirely consume us. This is enough to hope. Or maybe, to hope to hope. To retain the belief that we can and will defeat this vile man and his pernicious ideology, which does not simply live in people’s minds, but is actively and violently oppressing swaths of our nation. Even if it means slogging through years of damaging appointees, rhetoric, and executive orders. Even if it means watching the Democratic Party painfully retool itself to be competitive again in the Midwest and adopt policy positions we detest. Wars do not leave us the luxury of escaping unscathed.

I came to Ohio hoping to hope and I leave hoping to hope. Now, is normally the part where I’d doubt my conclusions, demonstrating my ability to intelligently detach from my own work — but, today I’ll refrain, because irony is dead. It died when fifth graders at my Jewish camp chanted the name of a fascist, white supremacist leader because their counselor thought it was clever commentary.

I enjoyed working for the Ohio Democrats. In many ways, the logistics of the campaign were a disaster. If I were interested in writing a funnier piece — I might have dwelled on all the inefficiencies and ineptitudes of this anachronistic organization. But rather I want to leave with the image of over 100 people staying up all night, desperately reorganizing and packing hundreds of thousands of packets to deliver to hundreds of volunteers’ homes to be put in the hands of thousands of volunteers who would blanket the state of Ohio, going door to door, asking people if they had heard about the election on Tuesday, and if maybe they would lend a hand to stopping Donald Trump before it’s too late.