An election is a watershed event. A continental divide that separates us not so much by geography, but by our version of what America has been and our vision of what we want it to become.
It’s a long and tiresome season, ending in a day of anxiety and an evening watching the states change color, telling us we’ve been right all along, or let down again, or lied to, or cast aside.
Many of us are trying to figure out how we integrate this new information into our lives. November 6th is an overwhelming day, perhaps no matter where your political loyalties lie. It’s almost a phantom, a thing that exists but just barely. The long and loud campaigns have ended, but our ears still ring with the media clips and stump speeches. The voting’s over, and the results are in, but we’ve not yet held them in our heads or hearts long enough to make sense of them.
And then it’s November 7th. The day after the day after.
Whether you’re excited by the election result, dismayed by it, or devastated, November 7th is an interesting day. The world has continued to spin. The sun has risen again, the coffee shops have opened, and businesses have unlocked their doors. We’ve logged in and started the meeting we always have on Thursdays. We’ve prepared our curriculum and have stood at our classroom doors waiting for our students to fill the room. We’ve loaded the rakes and leaf blowers into our trucks and have headed out toward our first customer of the day. We’ve dropped our cars off at the oil change place, or pumped gas. We’ve made a grocery run, or at least started making the shopping list for the weekend.
It’s not just business as usual on November 7th, but life does go on. We keep moving. We must.
For those who are excited by the win, consider its cost. Consider what it’s meant to win. What was necessary to do so. Consider the fallout for those impacted. For many, it’s not an “oh shucks” moment; it’s the beginning of a long season of questions, uncertainty, or fear. For some, the win was predicated on their dehumanization. Consider those in your community that become political talking points, who lost their individuality as they became a statistic or a straw man. How might you meet them in that space, showing compassion rather than crowing about a win for your team, seeking connection rather than confirmation of your party’s dominance?
For those who are crushed by the loss, I have less pointed advice. I know my position in society - in terms of my race, age, education, sexuality, gender expression, socioeconomic class, and other facets of my identity - allows me the privilege of minimal impact. I’m able to float above the fray in a way I know many others cannot. I’m not apologizing for it, but I am aware of it.
I hope you are able to find connection with people who create space for you, who speak to your individual value and significance, and who are able to hold your grief, or anger, or confusion without judgment or need to fix. I hope your community and friends are a visible and present support to you. I hope to be that to mine.
There may be some meaning in movement, in not getting stuck. Though it can feel strange, it’s reassuring the world has moved forward on November 7th. We get another day, and likely another, and another, and another, to make sense of the world that is, and pursue the world that we want it to be.
And, I’m sure there’s meaning in stillness, in purposefully not moving forward. Stillness doesn’t have to be stuck. Though I seek to understand, I know I cannot fully appreciate the weight that many are feeling right now. I would never want to push someone to move on from a place that deserves to be stayed at, rested on, considered, grieved.
We, all of us, get to choose how we show up in the world today.
Comfort over celebration.
Compassion over gloating.
Connection over isolation.
Community over division.
