"Chill out."
"Relax."
"It's not the end of the world."
"Get over it."
"Calm down."
"It won't affect us."
"You're being ridiculous."
"Everything's going to be fine."
These are only a small fraction of the comments that I have
heard and read in the past two weeks, directed at me, my friends and millions
of others in the wake of the Presidential Election. To everyone who has said them:
STOP IT. Now. Please.
Years from now, the night of November 8, 2016 will be the
subject of a elementary school student's "Where were you when..."
question. My answer? I was in a bar with some of my closest friends trying to
enjoy my first Presidential Election not working in a newsroom. We were nervous
but cautiously optimistic that by the end of the night, we'd see the first
woman elected as President of the United States and a hateful, racist,
misogynistic demagogue reduced to nothing more than a narrowly-averted disaster
in the history books. Oops. We stood in shock and disbelief as the hope we'd
been desperately holding onto like a security blanket slowly-oh-so-slowly
unraveled before our eyes. We drank more. We held each other close. Tears
started to fall. Dejected, we eventually went home to sleep off this
unfathomable nightmare. I woke up in a cold sweat at 5:00 a.m. on Wednesday and
immediately grabbed my phone, hoping against all odds that somewhere, someone
discovered a few million ballots for my candidate overnight. But as we all
know, that didn’t happen. It wasn't a dream. This was real life. And I promptly
proceeded to spend the next two weeks alternating between uncontrollable crying
fits and long periods of deep reflection.
The outcome of this election has shaken me to the core. To
say I'm emotionally exhausted would be an understatement. I'm having
full-fledged nightmares. I can't focus on anything. I can't stop feeling.
Everything: sadness, disbelief, outrage, disappointment and hurt. So. Much. Hurt.
"Amy, stop being so dramatic."
No, YOU stop. Seriously.
While I disagree with most of what the current Republican
party stands for, I'm not upset because their candidate won. While I wanted to
see that ultimate glass ceiling shattered more than I even admitted to myself,
I'm not upset simply because a woman lost. I'm upset because I have the
capacity for empathy. And because apparently so many people don't.
 |
| Source: Merriam Webster Dictionary |
Have you ever been "grabbed by the p---y?" I have. By a man who did not have my permission to do so. In a country with a culture where "they just let you do it" (to borrow another phrase from our future Commander-in-Chief). The man had a machine gun. I couldn't retaliate. While I was fully clothed and it only lasted a moment, I have never felt so violated in my life. Until two weeks ago. When a man who finds sexual assault entertaining was elected to this country's highest office. A man who won the votes of people I respected. People I loved. Because their capacity for hatred was greater than their capacity for empathy. They were so busy hating the idea of a woman in power...so busy hating a career politician...so busy hating her husband...that they couldn't see who they were hurting. You may not hate women, but by voting for him, you condoned his behavior. And in doing so, you told every woman in your life that you're willing to gamble not only with her body, but with her peace of mind. Just so you can "shake things up in Washington." Tell me to calm down again, I DARE YOU.
The thing about empathy is that it works both ways. As angry as I am right now, I don't think everyone who voted for the Sweet-Potato-Elect is a woman-hating racist who plays the banjo and hoards guns in the basement. They're mothers and fathers and sons and daughters who work really, really hard trying to provide for their families and pay their bills. They can't afford the college degree, so they can't get better-paying jobs. They're stuck in a rut and it feels like no one is helping them, so they cast their ballot for a man they thought would change things. And he probably will (although not in the way most of them hope, but that's a topic for another time). I grew up in a small, New England town full of blue-collar white people. I understand where they're coming from. That doesn't make condoning his behavior okay. And it sure doesn't make the fact that all the gun-toting, banjo-strumming misogynistic white supremacists who do exist are coming out of the woodwork any less terrifying. But it's important perspective.
I am an employed, educated, straight white woman. I recognize how privileged I am. I've lived my whole life in a happy little bubble of privilege. I'm not ashamed of that. Because in my case, I believe my privilege has given me perspective and the ability to empathize. I was fortunate enough to graduate from a respected university with a diverse student body. I was fortunate enough to live abroad during that time. I was fortunate enough to have been raised by parents who taught me that learning was fun and being selfish was the worst thing I could be. I have met people from all different backgrounds, cultures, races, sexual orientations and life experiences. When I come across something or someone new, I don't back away, but rather ask questions to better understand. Because until we can all listen to each other - EMPATHIZE with each other - nothing will ever change. And that goes for all of us.
While I don't apologize for my privilege, I do apologize for how I've used it. Instead of lending power and a voice to the marginalized, I've hidden behind my privilege, protected myself with it. Screaming from the safety of a Facebook post that only people who follow me will see. Ranting about injustice at a dinner table full of like-minded friends. Well-meaning, perhaps, but ultimately ineffective. Until we can extend our empathy beyond the boundaries of our privilege, progress cannot and will not be made.
Well, consider my pretty little privilege bubble burst. From here on out, I promise to do better. I will not hide. I will say things that make you uncomfortable. I will do things that make me uncomfortable. I will ask my friends and community for support. I will be an ally. I will say something when I see something. I will hold myself and others accountable. I will march, rally, scream, shout and call my lawmakers. I will spread kindness with the same enthusiasm that I express my outrage at injustice...because I don't believe the two should be mutually exclusive. And someday, I will look back on the generation of powerful, diverse, beautiful and empathetic Americans that rose from the ashes of the garbage fire that was the 2016 Presidential Election and say proudly, "I was a part of that."
The thing about empathy is that it works both ways. As angry as I am right now, I don't think everyone who voted for the Sweet-Potato-Elect is a woman-hating racist who plays the banjo and hoards guns in the basement. They're mothers and fathers and sons and daughters who work really, really hard trying to provide for their families and pay their bills. They can't afford the college degree, so they can't get better-paying jobs. They're stuck in a rut and it feels like no one is helping them, so they cast their ballot for a man they thought would change things. And he probably will (although not in the way most of them hope, but that's a topic for another time). I grew up in a small, New England town full of blue-collar white people. I understand where they're coming from. That doesn't make condoning his behavior okay. And it sure doesn't make the fact that all the gun-toting, banjo-strumming misogynistic white supremacists who do exist are coming out of the woodwork any less terrifying. But it's important perspective.
I am an employed, educated, straight white woman. I recognize how privileged I am. I've lived my whole life in a happy little bubble of privilege. I'm not ashamed of that. Because in my case, I believe my privilege has given me perspective and the ability to empathize. I was fortunate enough to graduate from a respected university with a diverse student body. I was fortunate enough to live abroad during that time. I was fortunate enough to have been raised by parents who taught me that learning was fun and being selfish was the worst thing I could be. I have met people from all different backgrounds, cultures, races, sexual orientations and life experiences. When I come across something or someone new, I don't back away, but rather ask questions to better understand. Because until we can all listen to each other - EMPATHIZE with each other - nothing will ever change. And that goes for all of us.
While I don't apologize for my privilege, I do apologize for how I've used it. Instead of lending power and a voice to the marginalized, I've hidden behind my privilege, protected myself with it. Screaming from the safety of a Facebook post that only people who follow me will see. Ranting about injustice at a dinner table full of like-minded friends. Well-meaning, perhaps, but ultimately ineffective. Until we can extend our empathy beyond the boundaries of our privilege, progress cannot and will not be made.
Well, consider my pretty little privilege bubble burst. From here on out, I promise to do better. I will not hide. I will say things that make you uncomfortable. I will do things that make me uncomfortable. I will ask my friends and community for support. I will be an ally. I will say something when I see something. I will hold myself and others accountable. I will march, rally, scream, shout and call my lawmakers. I will spread kindness with the same enthusiasm that I express my outrage at injustice...because I don't believe the two should be mutually exclusive. And someday, I will look back on the generation of powerful, diverse, beautiful and empathetic Americans that rose from the ashes of the garbage fire that was the 2016 Presidential Election and say proudly, "I was a part of that."
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