For many minorities, we are waking up to this seemingly dystopian new normal and we’re struggling to find our role in the post-election nightmare of a Donald Trump presidency.
I’m terrified. I’m sad. And I’m angry.
I’m terrified that millions of Americans, and even some of my own friends, did not rebuke this outwardly racist, bigoted, sexist, xenophobic person and instead promoted him to the highest office in the world.
I’m sad. Saddened that this country and many of my own friends failed to either understand – or just flat out didn’t care enough about – the full ramifications of nominating a man endorsed by the KKK into the Oval Office.
I’m angry – enraged, really. I’m incensed with indignation that Donald Trump is now the most important and powerful man in the world.
Mostly, I’m concerned of what this means for my young daughter and what this means for her place in a country which outwardly chose to accept a man that doesn’t care for minorities, or women, or decency.
She’s too young to understand all of this vitriolic behavior exhibited by Trump’s most ardent supporters. My little 15-month old can barely figure out how to weigh the consequences of picking yogurt over applesauce let alone the repercussions of choosing the next leader of the free world.
But one day, she will be old enough to comprehend. She’ll be old enough to read about the hatred and anger that fueled this mostly racist and xenophobic campaign to propel Trump to power.
When that day comes, she’ll be looking to her father for guidance and support. And she’ll need answers to some burning questions.
I’ll have to explain how one November night in 2008, her father cried tears of joy and relief while our nation celebrated one of our finest hours in electing Barack Obama as the first black President of the United States.
I’ll have to then explain how many in our country fueled racist hatred toward President Obama and his family and pushed forward to vote for the polar opposite of inclusion and progress by choosing Trump as his replacement.
I’ll have to explain to my daughter how the man succeeding President Obama in the Oval Office is a man that called into question his own predecessor’s true citizenship for no other means than to delegitimatize him in order to excite a base of supporters that would lead to more votes.
Unfortunately, I’ll also have to explain to my daughter that too often these are consequences we face in life as the minority.
Thank God she is too young for these conversations, because right now, my emotions are too raw for the discussions that many parents are forced to have right now. I’m too engulfed with my own anger over this fantastic slap in the face of our rights and the well-being of millions that do not look like the people filling Trump’s rallies.
My anger got the best of me in the early hours of the hangover. My anger led to lashing out on social media like countless others in protest of the ill-fated and seemingly blind decision to nominate this man into office.
Many of my closest friends are white. I come from a mostly white suburb of Tampa – a home to many that chose to put that checkmark next to Trump’s name on the ballot. In the post mortem of this monumental shift, my white friends gloat over their victory and implore the “losers” to fall in line and support the office of the president. “It is what it is,” they’ll say to their minority friends and instruct us all to “suck it up” and “deal with it.”
Of course, it’s easy to say these things, because they are in a comfortable place to deal with the ramifications of bigotry and racism in this move towards white nationalism.
My wife works in midtown Manhattan, just blocks from Trump Tower, and across the street from where many of Trump’s supporters gathered for his victory rally on Election Day. Many of my friends don’t understand that I actually feared a bit for her safety and hoped she’d come home from work a little early to avoid coming into contact with any of the most deplorable of advocates for the man that now occupies the most important seat in the world.
And as the results turned to our darkest fears on election night, my wife and I had a discussion that many of my white friends will never have to consider: the idea of bringing another black son or daughter into this world.
What many born into this white privilege don’t realize is that this is much bigger than Trump. One man certainly cannot change 240 years worth of progress on his own. But due to the emboldening hateful rhetoric we’ve already seen post-election from the Trump-faithful, we’ve discussed that perhaps the best course of action is to refrain from having more children that would face this type of terrifying blatant disregard for respect.
I’m saddened that this is even a conversation my wife and I have to even consider in the 21st Century.
Perhaps my anger in the hours after waking to this nightmare makes me no better than Trump’s biggest fans. In the heat of the moment, I didn’t care. However, as I grapple with how to move forward, I realize that’s not how to settle into my role as a model for my child’s future.
I need to think bigger picture.
I’ve written before on this very platform about my own upbringing in a mostly white suburb and how I had to deal with racism throughout my entire life. I wrote about how bullies threatened, insulted and even spit on me because of the color of my skin.
That was the past. While I was optimistic that my daughter would not have to deal with the level of ignorance that I witness as a teenager and young adult, the harsh reality is that this is likely not the case.
Instead, it feels like that school-aged bully won today. And I’m saddened over the prospect of what that means going forward. However, much like President Obama asked of us to pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off and live to fight another day, I vow to fight. I have to fight because the well-being of my daughter depends on how many parents like myself respond in the face of this adversity.
I admit fully that I didn’t do enough this election cycle. I didn’t challenge the falsehoods for fear of looking like a political hothead or perhaps because I wasn’t sure I’d make a difference. I didn’t voice more opinions and share more facts over the dangers of letting this man take the reigns of our country. I didn’t stand up enough to say, “enough” of this racism and sexism and xenophobia.
Today that ends. I must do more, and I will. As my daughter comes of age, she looks to her parents for direction. My direction is towards the positivity and love that will overcome in the face of hate.
My anger is still palpable and my fear is still very real. But my emotions will give way to passion and urge many like myself to share that passion, too. I’ll use my platform to write and hopefully inform anyone that will read.
President Obama famously encouraged supporters during the campaign to refrain from booing and to instead use that energy to vote.
Don’t sit at home during the midterm elections, let your voice be heard in 2018 and cast your vote for Congress to hold politician’s feet to the fire.
Don’t stay silent of the next two years, be comfortable with having the uncomfortable conversation in hopes of maybe educating another person. All it takes is one.
Don’t let others be apathetic in the face of adversity, either. Encourage friends and family to get registered and hammer home the importance of mobilizing and voting and letting our voices be heard.
Get up. Get moving. Get ready to dig our heels in and fight like our lives depend on it for the better of our future. Because, frankly, our lives and the lives of our sons and daughters do depend on how we respond to this challenge.