The Morning After
Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash
November 08, 2024
On the morning after Election Day 2016 I was at my station near the stage in the all-purpose room of the urban public charter school where I was a resident teacher in training. At 7:30 the doors opened and the students piled in, most remembering to walk instead of run to their designated classroom sections of the floor, where they sat cross-legged in rows. Then the principal entered, stood in front of the stage, faced the roomful of PreK through fifth graders, and began her regular morning greeting. But on this day it was not regular.
She made some introductory remarks about the situation. Then she said to these students, nearly all children of color and at least a third of them immigrants, “Don’t worry. You are safe here. We will keep you safe.”
Last Saturday, Elissa Altman shared her memory of that day:
We all went to bed the night before, tired but relieved. We tucked our babies in; we called our elders. We took the dog out for a last visit to the yard. We kissed our partners and spouses, turned off our lights, and went to sleep certain of safety and, if not safety, at least democracy.
And then we woke the next morning and discovered: we were wrong.
In this essay she recalls her early morning flight from New York City to Minneapolis and the class she went there to teach.
My class began the next morning, and as we gathered around the square workshop table, a tall blonde woman came in, took a seat, and said, in a voice just above a whisper, Am I safe here?
I had never met this woman before, nor had the other students, who were all women. We nodded our heads. Yes. You’re safe here. We all knew exactly what she meant.
Two days ago, Washington Post columnist Monica Hesse began her column titled “The bones of America” with this:
When Donald Trump won his first election in 2016, I remember two very specific things. The first is that I left The Washington Post’s newsroom just after the race was called, at about 2:30 a.m. Halfway home, my cabdriver, an immigrant woman, turned off the radio, stopped the car and quietly vomited by the side of the road.
(Yes, I still check TWP for writers like Hesse. The journalists are not to blame for Post owner Jeff Bezos’s blocking the editorial board’s planned endorsement of Harris. Not that I trust the legacy news publishers—I don’t.)
Yesterday evening a local organization hosted a Zoom call to discuss immigration implications of the election results. After the 2016 election this organization focused mainly on protecting immigrants from deportation. Since 2020 it had shifted its attention to broader immigration issues, but now its members are preparing for another era of deportations.
The executive director of another local nonprofit, the Chesapeake Climate Action Network, wrote this in an email to members:
It feels like 2016 all over again. Only worse. The country was fully warned this time and was offered a smart, joyful, country-saving alternative. Thank you, Kamala Harris.
But now you’re terrified — terrified that half of this country supports a climate-denying tyrant for President — again. Take whatever time you need to process that fear and sadness and pain. Take a long walk in the woods. Spend more time with your loved ones. Eat your favorite meal.
Then, as you get back up, let this message sink in: We — in this region — are NOT going back. Seriously. It may take a few days or weeks for you to believe it, but Trump's horrifying win will NOT defeat us on climate, on justice, on freedom. Not here. — Mike Tidwell, Executive Director, CCAN Action Fund
I’ve been reading a lot of similar encouragement and exhortation over the past few days. Also, lists of self-care practices, artworks, prayers, and poems. Here are a few sources that I’ve found helpful as I begin to consider my role going forward in the work of repairing the world.
Stephanie Raffelock wrote this paragraph summarizing the feelings and the actions.
In his essay I Am Tired Jemar Tisby, PhD says, “In the midst of the exhaustion, the message is not ‘work harder.’ The message for today is: Rest. Grieve. Lament.” He also shares his 11-point plan for plan for “this day, and the next day, and the next.”
Kelly Deutsch, director of Spiritual Wanderlust, shares in an email the wisdom of the Talmud: "Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly now, love mercy now, walk humbly now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it."
I need this prayer, by Nadia Bolz-Weber
Sari Botton gets my vote for the best blog title, referencing the beautiful line in Kamala Harris’s concession speech, “… only when it is dark enough can you see the stars.” Sari’s title: “While Waiting for Brilliant Stars in the Darkness, Substitute Glitter Mashed into Slime...”
And I love this art from Austin Kleon.
Yesterday as I walked to my car after my early morning exercise class (self-care), I saw this in the parking lot.
Obviously, the intrepid weed has been there for a while, growing out of the concrete, but I never noticed it before. Now, all I can say is “thank you” to the benevolent universe, for this reminder that life grows and thrives in the most inhospitable places.
