I miss Hawthorne maybe the most on Election Day. Voting has always been a family affair, and it hurts that they aren’t here to take Lucy to the polls with me.
It’s a stunningly gorgeous day; it’s already 63 degrees, sunny, with pretty wisps of clouds that don’t create any shade, and fluttering cascades of orange and gold with every breeze. It feels too beautiful for things to go wrong today.
But the leaves that are left on the trees tremble, and the mid-morning shadows are deep. Schools are closed to students and open to registered voters, and the roads feel strangely empty. My mind darts wildly from work tasks to what feels like imminent violence to wondering if this is the last election.
Shit’s scary, and I want to escape, but that’s not possible. The internet says America is waiting for an STD test, a biopsy result. That this time is equivalent to waiting in an airport, where there are no rules and calories don’t count. They say democracy is at stake, that rule of law is questioned, that we have learned nothing from history. They’re right.
The news reports are scary – footage of invoking religious dog-whistles, targeted ads designed to cultivate fear and distrust, pundits outright inciting panic and violence.
My workplace sends out emails reminding me of the benefits of deep breathing, community, and exercising as ways to combat election stress. Shockingly, it’s not helping.
Everywhere I walk and drive, there are signs – on lawns, on billboards, on cars. Even those that support a viable candidate make my stomach clench.
I had to turn off NPR last week when they played a clip of Ben Carson warning that Christians are being persecuted for their politics, just like Trump is, but that God sees that and knows who is standing strong (I’m paraphrasing, because I refuse to look it up). I wanted to vomit.
I am physically ill over this election. I know I’m not alone in that; I have been hearing about the increase in anxiety and suicidality, in anger and violence, in people seeking help to deal with all the unexpected ways the stress is manifesting.
I have educated myself on the ballot questions, and I have cast my ballot. I cannot give any more of my attention, energy, or spoons to this – and that in and of itself is an action. I am choosing to try to distance myself from the pervasive politics, and that makes me feel guilty. I have been of the mind – as was Hawthorne – that the political is personal. When your rights have been decided by court decisions, it’s important to pay attention.
I still agree.
And.
I need to put on my oxygen mask on first. Right now, that means trying to avoid anything else to do with the election until the results come in
My kid has gone to the polls with me for every election since they were born. Their first, I embroidered RBG’s dissent collar on their black onesie – it was days before the first Covid lockdowns, Town Meeting day in Vermont. It was the only election that the three of us were able to vote together in, and Hawthorne’s last.
Eight months later, the onesie didn’t fit anymore. The babysitter and I met up at the polling location to swap kids, and I cast my vote before taking her home and getting each of us a bottle.
2021 saw us in a new home in a new state with a new polling place. We were able to walk to cast our votes, but it was too cold to go to the adjacent playground.
In 2022, the primaries were on Lucy’s first day of preschool. We walked again, jumping in the puddles the warm fall rain had left.
Last year was the first election I missed. My mental health was terrible; it was all I could do to keep things together, let alone leave the house after getting home from work. Lucy was enamored with watching Frozen II and didn’t understand why I was weeping on the couch from both guilt and inertia.
We also missed the primaries this year, because I had been in the hospital just the day before with a significant issue, and I was out of commission. I honestly don’t think I thought about it, but my memory of March 2024 is mostly nonexistent.
But we went back this fall.
It was after work, and I was running late for some reason. My friend picked up the kids from their school and we met up at a playground so she could run in and cast her vote, before I took Lucy across town to do the same. We talked about what was for dinner and what we were doing first. It was the first time my kid has been old enough/verbal enough to really engage in a conversation about elections and voting, and they were much more interested in if I had fresh dill (aka “the spiky leaves”) for the salmon we were going to eat. I hadn’t, and was told, “well maybe you should think about that next time, Mama.” (No, I have no idea where they get their attitude from.)
Now here we are, on a day that feels like the tipping point, and I don’t have any confidence in what tomorrow will look like. I’ve had my plan to vote, and my aftercare plan for tonight, for several weeks.
Even though we were starting our day at the dentist, this morning my kid had a million questions about why we had to go vote before I took them to school. They just had a birthday, so I’m truly living “explain like I’m 5” these days. I said voting is one of the most important chores a grown-up has; it’s when we choose the people to make decisions for our town, state, and country, and when we get to agree or disagree with changing certain rules. We talked about “little d democracy” from the book “A is for Activist,” and I hoped we will still have one by time our library books are due.
We had to take the highway between the dentist’s office and the polling place. We passed under a bridge where Trump supporters waved flags and held up signs about protecting children and Jesus is their Lord, but Trump is their president. There were uniformed officers standing with them; road safety did not seem to be the reason, and there was not enough of a crowd to warrant control.
I was reminded of something my friend had recently said: I’ve managed to hide my dislike of spiders so much so that my kid becomes friends with the creatures, but I’m not nearly so good at hiding my distrust of police. In a group chat with others just this morning, a friend raised concern when her 5 year old said that he hated those guys standing on the corner supporting Trump.
There’s a hard line to walk with kids. We don’t want to teach them to hate in any sort of blanket approach; we also don’t want to teach them to fear that way, either. But the kids in my extended village also have lessons to learn that some kids don’t. Our kids are black and brown and queer and trans and neurodiverse. They are going to learn, someday, that they aren’t wanted everywhere, that they aren’t safe everywhere. There are people who will hate them on sight, and we have to teach them to not respond in kind. There are people who wish violence on them, don’t think they should have rights, or even exist; and we have to teach them to protect themselves and those rights. We have to teach them that not only “of course your existence is valid and matters,” we have to figure out how to teach them that “yeah, the ones that hate you and don’t even know you? Their existence is valid and matters, too.”
Obey the uniforms, even if they don’t follow the same rules.
Protect yourself, but don’t retaliate.
The world isn’t fair, but you should treat people fairly.
It’s not “live and let live,” it’s “try to survive, and let live.”
The world is scary, and I’m not sure what this election will bring, and I’m not sure what I am more immediately scared of – four more years of Trump, or what a Trump loss will incite. Either way, I believe we are looking at more violence and discord and a very uncertain future.
It’s a warm sunny day in November, and I am a terrified voter.
Queer Mama Rising 