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When Trump won in 2016, my then 76-year-old mother was heartbroken.
“I will never see a woman elected president,” she lamented. Now, in 2024, after a sense of renewed possibilities, the election’s outcome hit even harder—for both my mother and my daughter. With a white mother and Jamaican father, my daughter has been profoundly shaken, grappling with a devastating realization about her gender and race. The shared sentiment among three generations of females in my family is painfully clear: women are regarded as second-class citizens by a startlingly large number of Americans, and Black women, perhaps, are valued even less.
On the morning of the election, the three of us were filled with excitement and hope. We had wholeheartedly embraced Kamala Harris’s campaign and her uplifting vision for the country, confident that her message would prevail over the former president’s grim, divisive rhetoric. We believed Americans hadn’t forgotten the darkest moments of Charlottesville, Helsinki, or the pandemic—when isolation, scarcity of necessities, and freezer trucks acting as morgues lining city streets became grim symbols of Trump’s failures. We were sure that the idealism of America would triumph over Donald Trump’s authoritarian tendencies.
But, as it turns out, we had been living in a bubble of misplaced optimism, shielded from reality by the echo chamber of social media algorithms.
Early on election night, I realized Vice President Harris would not win when exit polls revealed that Hispanic men were voting for Trump. I texted my mother, who agreed, and my daughter, who was still stubbornly clinging to hope. But deep down, I knew. I self-medicated, turned off the TV, and went to bed.
When I woke the next morning, despair set in. Having recently retired from a 33-year career teaching Civics and American History at a public high school, I found myself grappling with an existential crisis. I had spent decades teaching that “no one is above the law” and emphasizing the importance of tolerance and progress. I created lessons to demonstrate how the U.S. Constitution provided a framework for marginalized groups to achieve their rights, and, while acknowledging the nation’s flaws—slavery, Jim Crow, nativism and sexism—I highlighted its ideals including the Thirteenth and Nineteenth Amendments, the heroism of the Greatest Generation, and Title IX.
Now I couldn’t help questioning: did any of those lessons truly make a difference?
Will these lessons even be taught in public schools under Trump?
The bad news seemed relentless: Republicans would control both the Senate and the House, and the incoming Cabinet would undoubtedly be filled with unqualified loyalists. The weight of it all felt overwhelming.
The reality is that Americans elected a leader exhibiting authoritarian tendencies.
Policies under consideration could pave the way for detention centers targeting individuals facing deportation and an even further erosion of women’s rights. As Trump’s Cabinet appointments are unveiled, it becomes increasingly clear that the electorate prioritized disruption over competence. Public health may be jeopardized by anti-vaccine sentiments among those in power. International allies could hesitate to share critical intelligence due to controversial appointments within the intelligence community. Meanwhile, individuals involved in the January 6 insurrection might see their sentences reversed. Legal challenges against Trump himself will likely dissolve under this new administration.
The new reality has hit hard, and the consequences will be profound. I’ve rapidly cycled through the stages of grief—from denial to anger to, finally, a grim form of radical acceptance. I now live in a country where at least half the population appears indifferent, if not openly hostile, to the principles of democracy and justice.
I’m reminded of an image from my childhood copy of 101 Dalmatians: Cruella De Vil standing on the seat of her car and cackling with delight as flames consume a house where she believed the puppies to be residing. A part of me feels a dark temptation to echo that sentiment—to revel in the chaos. But the truth is, none of us will escape unscathed in the next four years–we all face the heat, if not the direct flames, of the fire. Celebrating the collapse of what was once a great republic would be futile, offering no solace in the face of what may be ahead, even while providing the sweet revenge of “I told you so.”
I need a mental break from the craziness and chaos, but I also understand that instead of dwelling in despair and surrendering, we must draw inspiration from the civil rights workers, union members and suffragists who came before us, who courageously fought for justice, equality, and the rights of marginalized communities.
The spirits of Ida B. Wells, Mother Jones and Alice Paul call to Americans—and American women in particular—to continue the fight. Their unwavering commitment to creating a more inclusive society serves as a powerful reminder of the impact that dedicated activism can have. By emulating their resilience and determination, we can advocate for our rights and work tirelessly to dismantle the cyclone of disinformation that helped us arrive at the current situation The legacies of average Americans who worked for change encourage us to amplify our voices, support one another, and engage in collective action, reminding us that progress often requires perseverance and solidarity. As we confront daunting new challenges, we must honor the struggle of those that came before us by continuing to push for equity and justice in our communities and beyond. None of this will be easy, but we must forge ahead despite the recent devastating setbacks.
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