(Image Credit: Toronto Star)
On October 6, 2016- I cast my vote for Hillary Clinton. I was on my couch with a ballot that the North Carolina Board of elections had emailed me as an absentee voter, I grabbed a binder to write on and my pen was running out of ink- so it lacked some of the gravitas that might have come in a proper booth. But it happened, and it was a moment I’ll never forget.
I don’t really know how to put my love and admiration for Hillary into words, or at least words with an ounce of eloquence but I guess I’ll try. It’s her poise, her commitment, her grace under fire. I find her relatable- a quality I’m aware, is not often put upon her. I see her as someone who is not a natural attention seeker, not the life of a party, not particularly cool or captivating but who cares- a lot. I see her as a listener, which always made up for her deficits as a speaker. I’m well aware that she is not perfect; I’m well aware that she has made mistakes; I’m well aware that at times she can be overly political. But I think about how I would have handled the level of scrutiny she has been put under for the past thirty years and I can hardly blame her.
And this is where I find Hillary Clinton to be the least relatable person in the world. I let my lack-of-attention-seeking-ability and my blaring uncoolness stop me from ever trying in the first place. Hillary puts herself out there knowing she will be criticized and attacked more than anyone else on the stage and keeps going, because she cares- a lot.
Sufficed to say November 8 was not an easy night for me, and the months since haven’t been great either. Besides sadness and fear I felt really stupid for believing that the country I love was somehow better than this. And because I am not Hillary Clinton- I let it destroy me. I would wake up significantly later than I should, go to class, sit by myself, and then go home and lie on the couch crying. I was every jubilant Trump voter’s idea of a delicate liberal snowflake.
I knew I wasn’t alone, I knew there were millions around the world who were even more heartbroken than I was- many had much more to lose in this election. I knew this in theory; but when 52% of white women vote for a man who bragged about sexual assault you don’t really know what to believe anymore.
When I first heard about the Women’s March on Washington I thought it was a nice idea, but so was the Wisconsin recount or the plea to the Electoral College all of which were ineffective. So I couldn’t help but think how was this going to be any different? Plus there’s the fact that I am not much of a “joiner.” I don’t like to sing along at concerts, public dancing is my worst nightmare, even commenting on someone’s Facebook photo seems overly personal. And I am not one for protests- I don’t enjoy shouting or crowds or people in general very much, so I’ve always figured what’s one more person going add? But as I saw my nails disappear throughout the trainwreck that was the transition I figured I needed to do something other than tweet about wanting Melania to have a Lorena Bobbitt moment.
I arrived at Queen’s Park at 11:30 am with my mother and a group of her friends wearing my Nasty Woman t-shirt and the pink hat I knit myself. Honestly, I wish they chose a more complex pattern to better show off my knitting ability but that’s for another article. There was a mass of pink hats and clever signs worn and carried by men and women of all ages and races. Even a non-joiner like me was amazed by the magnitude of the crowd. As the march commenced along University after a series of speeches at around 1:00 pm to Annie Lennox’s “Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves,” I was briefly reminded why I do not normally attend these things. Leaving Queen’s Park was rough even for someone like me whose normal walking speed is approximately two miles per hour. There was a lot of bumping shoulders and stepping on heels, plus it got abnormally warm very quickly. But luckily I was up for it because I was still running on the latte I drank half-an-hour before. Then we started marching and I no longer felt the urge to roll my eyes at the girl behind me recording her commentary on Facebook live. It was insanely powerful seeing people protest something that in many ways isn’t their problem- it wasn’t their country that elected this monster. I can’t say that I was all of a sudden a joiner- I didn’t carry a sign even though I could’ve made a very cute one, and I refrained from chanting “Hey Ho, Hey Ho! Donald Trump has got to go.” But I did feel a part of something, and it was a surprisingly empowering feeling.
About a week after the election, the first time I could even partially gather my thoughts I wrote a letter to Hillary Clinton expressing my gratitude and admiration of her. I never sent this letter possibly because I felt embarrassed, possibly because I didn’t have a stamp, and possibly because it meant accepting the reality of the situation. It all felt so pointless. But I have decided I am finally going to send this letter and I am publishing this in order to keep my word. I know there is a very good chance that she will never see it just as I know the Women’s March would’ve been exactly the same whether I had joined in or not, but it will make me feel a lot better knowing it’s out there. I also know writing a nice letter isn’t enough.
After the election the idea of a silver lining seemed ridiculous to me- 20 million people will lose their self insurance, people will be separated from their families and Roe vs. Wade could be repealed, but hey, at least Trump might shake things in Washington! My worldview had basically turned into life sucks, nothing is fair, so just hang in there until climate change kills us all. But seeing the crowds of people in pink hats and clever signs in Toronto, Washington, across the United States, and across the world; hearing the numbers- 60,000 in Toronto, 500,000 in Washington, 750,000 in Los Angeles, 250,000 in Chicago, if not silver it’s a definite bronze. And it reminded me of something that was initially one of the more depressing facts of the election but I’m going to choose to see it as a positive- we’re the majority by 2.8 million votes.
The idea of Trump getting elected made we want to denounce America altogether. Stay here after I graduate, live off the grid in a small cabin up north. Being here as my country is in crisis has been an interesting experience. On one hand I am slightly comforted to be away from it all because I can’t imagine living in North Carolina, a state that voted Trump, would be especially good for my mental health. On the other hand this march has made me want to be a part of the fight; I think it’s time I bring out a little bit of a joiner spirit. I need to start taking some cues from Hillary, to show her that the majority cares as much as she does.