As I write this in the limbo of Election Day, I know I’m not the only person who’s gone through the past week or longer feeling off. This day has loomed on the horizon, growing as it neared, and its shadow seems directly over us at last. I have found it hard to make plans, the calendar a tiled expanse I cannot trust to hold when I come to the next square.
My ballot off, I feel just as adrift. It is strange to feel this helpless despite the platform at my disposal, to know there is no case I could make, no turn of phrase that could move someone who will not hear it. There is no way to make strangers care about the lives of other strangers once they have decided not to.
I should be excited to vote for Vice President Kamala Harris, a Black and Asian woman presidential candidate. And I had been — in truth, while I could imagine America electing a Black woman president, I didn’t think I’d see us so close to having an Asian president in my lifetime, saddled as we are with the myth of perpetual foreignness. But my excitement at the prospect and the milestone has been undercut by uglier realities.
Election Day and the days that follow bring not only a decision (one hopes), but myriad maps and charts, drawing an ever-finer portrait of my fellow Americans’ voting, broken down by location and demographics. And in that portrait is illustrated a flesh and blood legion of those who would harm me and mine, or at the very least, wave flags on the sidelines. It’s not a surprise exactly but it’s a queasy feeling to see it laid out before you.
Eight years after the 2016 election and nearly four years out from the Jan. 6 insurrection, it is impossible to pretend, straight-faced, that Donald Trump, and through its slavish devotion, the Republican party, have not made misogyny, racism and anti-LGBTQ hate integral to their theocratic platform, punching down on vulnerable groups. No one can tell us otherwise.
The Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network estimates an average of 463,634 Americans are sexually assaulted every year. That’s one year. Every survivor in America — including the ones you know, whether or not they’ve told you — has had to see the rallies, cheering and support for a man who has been found liable for sexual abuse, has bragged about committing sexual assault and has publicly mocked and shamed women who have credibly accused him of assaulting them.
Here in our communities, survivors have seen the lawn signs and online comments of neighbors who support a sexual abuser. People of color, immigrants and the children of immigrants have heard the racism and anti-Semitism, the enthusiasm for mass deportations. LGBTQ folks whose basic right to exist has been threatened have seen trans people cynically villainized and further endangered through ads and speeches to gin up votes. And we’ve all seen how quickly having ovaries reduces the value of our lives.
When the election is over — what does that even mean post-Jan. 6? — the ghosts of those signs and the echoes of those conversations will linger. We will remember the people we’re not safe around. We know who’s willing to sell us out.
Our responsibility to each other does not end in voting and, however it feels as we wait for final counts to materialize, we are not helpless. So I will make the only plan I can make, the only one that doesn’t rest on the choices of those I cannot reach. Whether or not nearly half — or slightly more than half — of this country decides to do so, we can still commit to protecting the most vulnerable among us. We can take their safety seriously instead of telling them to calm down, and recognize that institutions will not save us. As we’ve seen with the U.S. Supreme Court, they cannot reliably save themselves.
If you’re waiting to hear about unifying, keep waiting. I am locking elbows with the people who need support. Reach out to your pro-Trump neighbor, coworker or relative if you feel safe doing so. I do not.
Whatever happens in the coming days and weeks and months, abortion rights are still in peril. And here in Humboldt, rights or no, access to abortion is severely limited. Our daily lives — and the very stolen land we live on — are still impacted by racism. LGBTQ folks are still facing discrimination and threats. Adults and kids are still struggling with housing and food insecurity. From volunteering to calling representatives to dropping off a meal, there is need and work to do in every direction.
Today, with my belly roiling and the polls flashing on a muted TV, I don’t know how this election will turn out. But I know we will not be done.
Jennifer Fumiko Cahill (she/her) is the arts and features editor at the Journal. Reach her at (707) 442-1400, extension 320, or jennifer@northcoastjournal.com. Follow her on Instagram @JFumikoCahill.
This article appears in ‘Powerful’.
> We will remember the people we’re not safe around. We know who’s willing to sell us out.
I have felt that way since October 7th. I’m still trying to figure out how to rejoin in some efforts I’d abandoned, for fear of my “allies.” It is challenging but necessary.