What to say? What to fucking say.

In typical New York fashion, everyone swept along as if nothing had happened. We all laughed when no one here gave a shit about the bomb, but now I feel resentful of New York’s reticence. When I so desperately cast about on the train for another despairing gaze to mirror my own, I saw only facades of indifference.

I had a comedy podcast on but realized I couldn’t bear to hear laughter from the audience, whose recorded merriment was free of the knowledge that I now hold within my bones: our country has elected a rapist to be president. We value racists over women. After months of watching our own stories acted out in caricature on television – a blustering, entitled bigot spews lies over the calculated, educated truths of an overly qualified woman – we meditated on the presumed fact that all would be redeemed in the end when she won.

And she fucking didn’t win. She didn’t fucking win. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

Last night when it was clear he would win, I went to sleep. I don’t know how. I think my mind was somewhere else, taken away by my new medication that makes sleep inevitable. I didn’t have an overt reaction until I was on the train. I spent a significant amount of time staring at nothing all morning, until I realized I was just staring into the face of the future and broke down.

I turned off my podcast and turned on A Seat at the Table. I bathed in a pool of fear, anger, despair, and love. Anger for the violence of the oppressed body and love for the varied yet collective beauty of the oppressed mind. I thank whatever is out there that I have A Seat at the Table, I have Moonlight, I have Lemonade, I have To Pimp a Butterfly. I have Carol, I have Jane the Virgin, I have Brokeback Mountain, I have Atlanta. Many of these artworks are and were not made for me, but they give me the chance to peek behind the curtain from a distance I am so privileged to have.

For the first time, I cried on the train. Even with all the fucked up shit that has happened to me in New York, even with the crippling anxiety I have been harboring for months and years, this is the first time I have cried on the train. I cried on the walk from the train. I cried at my desk. I text my friends and family, and I know some are too devastated to pick up their phones and respond.

It hurts.


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