Look At Where We Are, Look At Where We Started
TODAY IN HISTORY: We lost the battle, but we’ll win the war. A look at where we are today and where we were a year ago.
Look At Where We Are
Who Won (an incomplete list)
Virginia — Ralph Northam, Justin Fairfax, Mark Herring, Danica Roem, Kathy Tran, Karrie Delany, David Reed, Kelly Fowler, Hala Ayala, Chris Hurst, Lee Carter, Jennifer Carroll Foy, Elizabeth Guzman, Dawn Adams, John Bell, Nikuyah Walker
New Jersey — Phil Murphy, Sheila Oliver, Steve Fulop, Ravi Bhalla, Vin Gopal, Troy Singleton, Joyce Watterman, ballot measures to fund libraries and to keep funds won in environmental settlements where they should be — protecting the environment
Maine — MEDICAID EXPANSION (stay tuned on whether or not it’ll actually be implemented…)
Elsewhere — Larry Krasner (Philly DA), Andrea Jenkins (City Council of Minneapolis), Deborah Gonzales and Jonathan Wallace (George State House), Bill deBlasio (mayor of NYC), Lydia Edwards (Boston City Council), Vi Lyles (Mayor of Charlotte), Lovely Warren (mayor of Rochester), Wilmot Collins (first black mayor in Montana, elected mayor of Helena), Jonathan McCollar (first black mayor of Statesboro, Georgia), Manka Dhingra (Washington State Senate — flipping control back to the Democrats)
Look at Where We Started
Taekia
I believed that she would win.
November 8, 2016 — “I could have kids before I ever vote for a white guy for president!” I said with a laugh over a glass of wine as I sat down with friends to watch the 2016 election results come in.
We weren’t going to jinx it. We planned a quiet night in. I wore a “more female heroes” t-shirt. There was wine, but no champagne. There was CNN and MSNBC and NYTimes.com and FiveThirtyEight. There was political Twitter in the days before the incessant punditry and projections had exhausted all but the most stalwart. It was a well practiced dance, of hope and anxiety and shared experience.
My friends and I, we came of age in an era of thoughtful discourse, of fair outcomes, of partisanship and struggle and stagnation, yes, but where we still believed that when “we are met with cynicism and doubt and those who tell us that we can’t, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of the American people — yes, we can.” As 27 year olds, we had no idea that sometimes you can’t.
We had made calls, we had talked to friends, and most importantly we had voted. When we sat down on election night we expected an uncomfortably tight election, maybe, but we could never have expected what happened. Hour by hour as polls closed and votes were tallied and counties and states were called, what was a light air of jokes and half-attention turned sickly thick and oppressive with anxiety and fear and the choking recognition that people had cast their votes for this. And in that moment, sitting there in shock and short of breath; sitting there as a woman of color, there was nothing about it that didn’t feel like an attack.
They hadn’t just voted for Trump.
They had voted against progress and opportunity.
They had voted against people like me.
And as I sobbed and a piece of me broke and my fears of life under this administration — that said women were objects you could grab, that we had no autonomy over our bodies, that said Mexicans were rapists and all blacks were from crime riddled inner cities — took root, another piece of me grew and hardened.
They had attacked first. But I would attack back.
Sara
We thought we were going to elect the first woman president. We thought that we had seen the face of evil and been properly chastened. We wanted to believe that we could subdue our worst impulses, shove them back into the obscurity of network prime time television and move on with our lives.
When the returns started coming in last night in the Virginia and New Jersey elections, the knot in the pit of my stomach tightened. I didn’t believe the pundits on Twitter, or the chyron on MSNBC. I didn’t believe the cautious optimism I saw from my friends. Like each time we beat back a piece of horrendous healthcare legislation, I wasn’t sure when I could believe it. What was the deadline? What hour would I know we were safe?
Joy and relief are not the same. I was prepared to feel overwhelming joy if Hillary won the election a year ago. I was prepared to feel the triumph of a first woman president, the resounding defeat of evil, the victory of a compassionate, caring government. I wasn’t nervous enough when I pulled open the New York Times to track the polls, when I joined in the debate about whether we’d take to the streets or have a dance party. But I wonder now if this insidious, creeping dread hadn’t started earlier, if my joy at Hillary’s victory would have felt more like relief instead.
A lot of people knew this country was dangerous before Trump was elected, knew it in their bones and in their skin, knew it as they took their kids to school, or as they wrapped up their hair in the morning, as they got married, as they passed a police station, as they went to the doctor. It’s been a year since Trump was elected president of the United States and I thought I knew how dangerous we were. I thought I understood, but I’m still catching up.
But people having been finding joy in the dark places for a long time — joy in victory, and in spite of defeat. It’s been a year of mourning, a year of learning, a year of coping. And none of those things are going to stop any time soon, but it’s also time to get up off the mat. We are fighting back, and we are going to lay waste with our joy.
Tori
One year and one week ago, I voted. My entire family would be traveling the weekend before the election and our biggest fear was flight cancellations keeping us from voting. We all made sure to vote early. I met a friend who also planned to vote early, we marched ourselves into the nearest polling place, and cast our ballots. After laughing about how long the Chicago ballot was, we both admitted checking the box for Hillary Clinton made us more emotional than we expected.
One year and three days ago, I stood in a line with my family. My mom, sister, and I were balls of nerves. My dad, bless him, tried to make us feel better. “We’re going to be fine,” he said. “She’s going to win.”
One year and two days ago, I ran my first half marathon. At the 11-mike mark, a sign made me laugh out loud: IF TRUMP CAN RUN, SO CAN YOU.
One year ago, I limped to a friend’s apartment with a bottle of rosé champagne that we promptly hid in the back of the fridge. We sat and drank and ate and colored and refreshed and switched between channels and held each other and finally had to go home.
One year ago tomorrow, I hid under blankets in the hopes that it was all a bad dream. Dad texted: “Ladies, I know we are all shocked and disappointed in the election results. This illustrates the lack of education, knowledge and understanding of the role our government should have in the lives of our citizens. We are fortunate to live in the greatest country in the world and have rights, freedom and opportunities that many others can only dream of. Our family is very fortunate and I want all of us to continue to have opportunities to pursue our dreams. Let’s take this as an opportunity to better educate ourselves, our family and our friends about the role of good government in our lives. We can make a difference. I love you❤️” I cried for the first time.
Today, we continue making a difference. We continue fighting back.
Kylie:
This was my first presidential election, and I was — and am — so proud to cast my vote for Hillary Rodham Clinton.
I dutifully mailed in my absentee ballot a month early. On Election Day, I donned my pantsuit and Hillary for America t-shirt. I went through my day incredibly giddy. For weeks, the election was the only thing I talked about and the day was finally here — America was going to elect the first woman president and Pennsylvania as going to elect the first woman Senator.
In class that day, I fought with Gary Johnson supporters. Even though I rarely spoke in class, my professor let me yell at my classmate as I fact checked him in front of everyone. When I sat down, another woman in the class stood up and continued my argument. This continued for the rest of class — women across the political spectrum standing up to defend other women. I left class feeling hopeful, and hiked myself to the liquor store to buy tequila.
My friend hosted the watch party and we set up three screens, each showing a different network’s coverage. I had every tracking website open and made electoral prediction maps like my life depended on it. I fought with someone who voted third party, comforted a friend over the phone, and tried to ignore the knot of anxiety in my stomach. By 9:51pm, I knew the election was no longer in our favor. I went home and fell asleep to CNN, waking to see that my nightmare had become a reality.
There was no champagne, no White House victory celebration. Instead, I called out of work, emailed my professor that I wasn’t going to class, and I stayed in bed most of the day. Hillary’s concession speech broke me. There was a tidal wave of tears that would not stop. I felt like the world was over and the Death Eaters had won.
But I began to draw strength out of spite. If the world was going to throw fire at me, I was going to throw it right back. I took a weekend and watched every video clip I could find from the election. I desensitized myself from the paralyzing fear. I crafted my battle armor of feminist pins and pussy hats, witty t-shirts and pantsuits. I showed up on January 20th ready to fight until the glass ceiling is shattered once and for all.
And I’m still with her — and I’m still here, still bitter, and still fighting.
