The day fear piled up furiously

I’m scared. I’m sure plenty of parents are, too. And yes, as a parent you’re always keeping watch over the world, hoping everything is placed perfectly so your child doesn’t step in any land mines. But this isn’t that.

Relatives — close ones, in fact — voted for Donald Trump in the presidential election. They had their reasons, most notably a disgust or serious trepidation about his opposing candidate, Hilary Clinton. Trump, who had never engaged in politics outside of his previous presidential campaign, looked like an interesting wild card, an outsider who could bring needed change to Washington.

I would’ve been one of the first to tell you in early 2016 that Washington needed change. The two-party political system doesn’t necessarily work. Our politicians are still too swayed by lobbyists and not enough by their own constituents, those without the funds, who simply want to see a better life for themselves and those in their community. I voted for Bernie Sanders in the Democratic primary because he seemed to be the only candidate speaking to me, a young adult with high student loan debt and, while idealistic, realistic about the problems facing social America. I was wary about Clinton’s foreign policy record, while Sanders was openly speaking to Black Lives Matter. He was openly embracing talk about white supremacy. To me, the greatest war we wage is in our hearts, and hate on our soil to our people is the most heartbreaking reality of modern America.

But once the general election rolled around I voted for Clinton. My reasoning was twofold: first, Clinton wasn’t a bad choice, just not the best in a good year; second, there was absolutely no way Trump should’ve ever been president.

Election night is forever seared in my memory. I grew more worried as the night progressed, then went to bed sometime around midnight. At 3 a.m., as four-day-old Genevieve woke up crying, I read the news on Twitter. Sarah cried. We held Genevieve and kissed her.

So Tuesday, after white supremacists protested the removal of a Robert E. Lee statue in Charlottesville, Virginia, and counter-protesters showed to oppose the white supremacists, and after a white supremacist drove a car into a crowd of counter-protesters, killing a woman who’s my age, and after two state troopers died when their helicopter watching the protests crashed, and after our own president, a man the people elected to serve the country, actually put blame on counter-protesters and showed sympathy for the white supremacists, and after he doubled down on those statements, despite the fact that white supremacy — and everything it birthed and surrounded including slavery — was and remains the biggest social stain in American history, I became scared.

I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. I want to run, go on vacations and immerse myself in leisure. But then I want to join the protests, continue resisting, and help my neighbor. Meanwhile I have a 9-month-old daughter who has no idea what’s happening out there. She has no idea.

And as all this was swelling Tuesday — though I was driving and wasn’t aware of Trump’s latest comments — my phone started ringing. I checked the messages. I pivoted.

As scared as I’ve been lately, nothing prepares you for “Your daughter is in an ambulance.”

Genevieve had an allergic reaction while eating lunch at day care. Possibly to the mango in her yogurt, though we’re still unsure. Though she was completely lucid, breathing well and generally having a good time, her face and body had broken out in hives. Our day care — which is a small home day care — did the right thing by calling for help, but still, hearing that your daughter is in an ambulance to the hospital rips you in half.

I hustled to the hospital, where after filling out paperwork and getting our insurance in line, I saw a very happy, easygoing Genevieve who’s face and body had completely cleared up. The hospital released her within a half-hour. This morning Sarah took her to the doctor, who said Genevieve’s breakout reflects a reaction that’s relatively manageable. She’s fine. Well, not only that, but she’s great. She’s healthy, active and ahead in her development curve.

But “Your daughter is in an ambulance.”

That changed everything. For those two hours between hearing the news and arriving home with Genevieve, I was singularly focused on ensuring Genevieve’s welfare and safety. Work stopped. Life stopped. The world stopped.

The problem is that the world never stops, especially today, when a president’s very words shake any comfort we felt we could grasp. The reality is that the comfort is plastic — there has always been racism, there has always been inequity, there has always been white supremacy, for as long as America has been America. Moreover, no matter how many victories we may feel, there’s always work to be done. If we believe that all people are created equal and should be treated equally, then there’s always work to be done. And it’s exhausting. It’s scary. I have the privilege of my whiteness. I can hide behind it whenever I’d like and never feel threatened. Saying “it’s exhausting” and “it’s scary” may be lesser phrases out of my mouth, but the truth is I’m exhausted and I’m scared.

But at some point Tuesday, after the hospital visit and the worries, and after Genevieve was happy and safe at home, we had to begin engaging the world again. And right there was our white supremacist-defending president. Sarah would nod and sigh after I told her the most recent quote. The day didn’t quite hit until she put Genevieve to bed that evening; as I washed dishes, Sarah appeared at the kitchen door in tears. It was a tough day. The toughest in a long time.

I’ve said that I’ll do what I can do, especially as Genevieve’s father, to navigate and act in this fast scorching society. I’ll expose her to non-white-European-American cultures. I’ll teach her the history of our country and the world in hopes she understands the full story, not simply what a textbook may preach. I’ll give her opportunities to volunteer and help those with fewer privileges. I’ll hope she feels that all of us deserve the chance to live a fully realized, peaceful life.

But I’ll have to keep one eye here and the other eye there. We’ll balance what we can. We’ll consider our future while acting in our present. And we can be scared — that’s only human — but we can’t let it paralyze us. I can’t run, I can’t hide, for I’d be like so many before me. And I don’t want those after me to think that running and hiding is the answer.