For a moment (or three days), I was really, very scared that this would be a very different post.
I have been cautiously optimistic about the outcome of the presidential election for months. However, 2020 is The Worst (as we know) and I had a dark sense of anxiety floating at the back of my mind – what if the cherry on top of this year was that somehow, we were in for four more years of the same? Four more years of falsehoods, baseless accusations and vitriol, of hatred and bigotry and the incitement of violence. Four more years of seemingly every day bringing some new scandal, seemingly engineered to make us forget about the last. In the best of moments, I got a semi-horrified laugh out of whatever Jimmy or Trevor or Seth was commenting on that day. In the worst, I stared open-mouthed, disbelieving that what I was hearing could really be coming from the mouth of someone elected to be America’s president. Many times, those moments overlapped.
In the lead up to Election Day, I was nervous, but felt good. I had cast my ballot, tracked it, corrected a signature issue, and verified it was counted. I was anxious for polls to close and results to start pouring in. Tuesday night, we turned on the TV and made jokes about the ridiculous “too early to call” declarations and graphics, seconds after polls closed. We expressed our admiration for Steve Kornacki and his smart board (turns out, he was just getting fired up). I was working on my home video digitizing project (still underway, more details when I’m done). It was all great fun.
Then, states started turning red. I had read all the information about mail-in votes, was listening to the anchors tell us about how many ballots were still outstanding, how long it was going to take to do the count, but it didn’t matter. My vision started to blur. I got tense, and I couldn’t stop watching. Rick suggested we turn off the coverage, seeing how upset I was. I refused. I couldn’t look away. All of a sudden, I was back in 2016, so sure that there was no possible way that Trump could win, but watching it happen. I felt a crushing sense of fear and paralysis. The group chat that my mom and sisters and I had been updating all day had gone silent – I don’t think any of us wanted to put any of what we were seeing into words. At some point, I had to put the baby to bed and I pulled myself away. The West coast polls closed and that helped, but I still was in shock. I forced myself to go to sleep.
I woke up around 3:30 am and made myself take a breath and a moment before I rolled over to check my phone. I had hope, but was scared for what I would find. Luckily, things looked better. I was able to go back to sleep.
As Wednesday stretched into Thursday, I was irritable and sad. I had a headache, my face broke out. All my energy went in to taking care of the baby, singing her songs and giving her all the snuggles I could – there wasn’t much left in the emotional tank for my husband, so I snipped and sighed at him, which he didn’t deserve. I was surprised by the effect that the whole situation was having, to be honest. I thought that I had prepared myself for the days-long process, for the uncertainty. Midway through Thursday, though, I started to understand the disconnect I was feeling. My heart was hoping for an immediate landslide victory – I’m talking 0% votes for the sitting president. Rationally, I know that that’s not realistic, but I was emotionally jarred by seeing millions of people vote to uphold something that I find so terrifying and dark. I shouldn’t have been – I know people who voted that way, and I even understand parts of why (even if I think they’re grossly misguided), but when I started to see the numbers on the screen, I got scared.
I kept hoping. I cried, midday Friday, when I felt like I could breathe again. I dripped tears on my baby girl, who was screeching up at her best friend the ceiling fan (as per usual) – “It’s going to be ok. I think it’s really going to be ok!” I laughed at some more Padma Lakshmi tweets. I cooked dinner. I managed not to refresh the various news outlets every thirty seconds. We waited for the call, but it didn’t come. This morning, when I saw that the race had been called, I whooped and cried – sobbing tears of joy and relief. I shouted to Rick and we hurried to turn on the news coverage, excited to hear something other than “too close to call.”
On Thursday, I had posted on Instagram: “I’ve got to say… I have a newborn and I have absolutely not been as exhausted (mentally and emotionally) the entire time she has been alive as I have been the last two days. BIPOC (particularly women) and LGBTQ+ who deal with this weight (x1000) literally every day – I salute you. Now, I’m gonna kiss my baby and get ready for bed. Sleep is what we need right now.” I’m not sure if those were the perfect words* for what I was trying to say, but what I meant was this: I’m a privileged-ass white woman. The fear and anxiety that I was experiencing was crippling and scary. I had a hard time functioning properly, and I didn’t feel like myself. I have listened to people describe how crucial this election is, what the gravity of the situation is for their families and their very lives, but I will honestly say that I don’t think I really understood the emotional magnitude until this week. My fear was based on a privileged hypothetical – scared that something could happen to affect my rights. That’s nothing. Going about every day life, managing to grow and thrive, not to mention (in many cases) taking on the mantle of advocacy and education – all while shouldering the very real threat to your rights and/or your life? That’s incredible. Really, truly, incredible and honorable. It shouldn’t be that way, though – no person should have to live like that.
Tonight, I listened to the President- and Vice-President-elect speak about unity, about hope and faith, and about healing. Like any political speech, there are a lot of promises to be kept and a lot of work yet to do. I have hope that we will be able to hold the new administration accountable to the goals and values that they have promised. I have faith that we are turning a corner to something better – maybe not best, just yet, but better. I fiercely believe that things can get better, and that the work that each person does, both individually and in the community, matters. I hope that I am right. In the meantime, I am doing my best to push away the lingering fragments of “what if” and what could have been, like the remnants of a bad dream when you wake. I’m being realistic about the fact that the next few months will likely be bumpy and ugly. That, I hope I am wrong about. As with all things, I’m going to hug my baby girl tight, talk to her about all the amazing things she can do, if she chooses, and text my family, hoping to make them smile. 2020 is still The Worst, but tonight… I’ll give it a break.
*These still may not be the best words. If there is a way that I can improve this to be more inclusive, better tone, etc. please let me know. I am still learning and practicing, but I want to get it right!
Hickmans at Home 