I’d like to apply for the resistance, please…

I knew it was an odd response to the election results, but it felt right. On the day after the election, I walked up to my neighbors’ houses, most of whom I don’t know, and left flowers on their doorsteps.

I felt such despair when I woke up Wednesday morning, but I was determined to not scare the children. When Trump was elected in 2016, I cried every time I looked at the twins, which didn’t help anyone. This time around, I woke them up and simply apologized for our country. After we got them to school, I sat down to write, but could only come up with, “America, I hope you’re happy. You are about to get the country you deserve. Stupid **********,*****, ******!!”  

Since my writing quickly devolved into name calling, I needed some way to process the election results. I knew that I couldn’t bear to listen to the “what went wrong” punditry or look at the pictures of the Howard students’ stricken faces. I knew that imagining Kamala writing a concession speech would only make me cry harder. I knew that I was too gutted to try to understand the seventy-two million people who looked at Trump and thought, “This is the guy we want. Again.” 

I got quiet for a minute and wondered what would make me feel less alone. I remembered one thing that is different now than in past elections: I now live on a street that is swarming with Democrats. There are at least a dozen houses near me with Harris/Walz signs in their yards. Before I could talk myself out of it, I drove to Trader Joe’s, bought a ridiculous amount of flowers and made fifteen arrangements in my kitchen. I wrote notes that said, “It’s a tough day, but your Harris sign gave me hope. Thank you—Anna.” I didn’t want to talk to anyone or ask anything of them: I just left the flowers and ran. I had a feeling that they were also grieving. 

I certainly am grieving who I thought we were as a nation and who I now know we unquestionably are. I’m reminded of essayist Sarah Vowell’s words, “When I think about my relationship with America, I feel like a battered wife: Yeah, he knocks me around a lot, but boy, he sure can dance.” I felt afraid and disgusted in 2016, but this feels so much worse. I can’t excuse it by saying “Maybe they don’t know how racist, homophobic, ableist, misogynistic and downright hateful he is.” We do know. We also now know that he’s a convicted felon and a sexual predator. We know from the January 6th insurrection that he’s willing to incite violence to get his way.

So, yes, I’m angry at all the people who voted for him, even the ones who say it was for economic reasons. I do not care. As a mom of Black kids and gay kids and kids who will need reproductive care and kids who are tender-hearted, I can’t forgive them for choosing greed over the human rights of my kids. And their kids, too. With a bully in office, all of our kids will be less safe. Again. 

I do believe life in America is going to get worse for people of color, the LGBTQIA+ community and immigrants. But also for so many of the people who voted for Trump: the elderly with chronic health issues who are underinsured, the young adults who are living paycheck to paycheck, the people whose skin color and accents match immigrants, the young women who will need medical care after miscarriages or ectopic pregnancies. Doctors cannot ignore laws against abortion because the women are white or because they voted Republican. There is going to be so much unnecessary suffering.

But I’m also upset because I’m having to face (once again) how big the coming changes will be. Deep down, I know that I’m going to have to get tougher, stronger and more collaborative. After Trump was elected in 2016, I became more politically active. I brought my twins to the Women’s March in downtown Athens; we participated in the local “March for Our Lives” the next year. By the time Black Lives Matter protests and Pride parades came around, my kids were good at making signs. I was intense about voting and dragged my family to multiple run-off elections. I trained to be a poll watcher for the Democratic Party of Georgia and helped in four different counties. I had to grow into a new person once I realized that so many things I thought were “handled” most definitely were not. 

My civic engagement is tiny compared to what Black women have been doing for decades, if not centuries. If I feel disappointed in my fellow Americans, I can only imagine how tired and angry Black women are. When I looked at the racial statistics of who voted for Kamala and who voted for Trump, I was beyond discouraged. Once again, white people left a Black woman out to dry. She would have been an amazing President, y’all. Maybe in time, my heart will soften and I’ll be less bitter. But not today. Today, I’m still grieving. 

The good news is that the other side of grief for me, at least, is a fiercer love. After the chaff is burned away, I can access a steeliness that is useful. I don’t have the time or energy for people who will inevitably break my heart. Even just two days after the election, I have a clearer sense of what is my work to do and what is not. Convincing my fellow citizens and “Christian” brothers and sisters that my kids and people like them are worthy of respect and protection isn’t my assignment any more.

I feel like a big group project has been dropped back in our laps. We had a brief respite, but our work isn’t done. We’ll do it, of course; because really, what’s the alternative? But I want more say this time about who is in my group for this endeavor. I’m tired of carrying the entitled, slacker frat guy across the finish line. I’d like to apply for the resistance, please. I want to partner with people who carry integrity in their hearts and hope in their bones. Even though I cry a lot, I promise to work even harder. As a middle-aged woman, I’m at just the right age and stage to be a menace. I can be ready to ride at dawn, sporting the emotional equivalent of a revenge dress. I’ll bring the flowers.