The Cracks in The Ceiling and The Mirror Covered Up with Dust

As I’m writing this, it’s early morning the night after Election Day; I slept poorly, and finally gave in to the desire to check news around 4:45, as if there’d be an answer to what had happened, who had won. There wasn’t, of course.

It’s both melodramatic and honest to claim that my heart broke watching the results come in on Tuesday night, upon realizing that so many fucking people had voted for Donald Trump. It was far more upsetting than 2016, when he’d proven himself to be a terrible human being but it felt understandable that some could have fallen for his lies, not knowing any better; maybe that says something about my own prejudices, that I’m far more comfortable thinking half of the country is ignorant and easily led than simply selfish and cruel, but… but.

I genuinely can’t get over the desire to yell, you’ve seen how bad he is at every Trump supporter. Not just how bad he is meaning bigoted, vile, greedy, ignorant, and any of a number of accurate condemnations, each of them ready to fit: bad in the sense of inept, and unable to do what’s asked of him competently. And yet, and still, millions upon millions of Americans looked at him and thought, “Yeah, that’s our guy.” What the ever-living fuck.

(I’d say something here about it being a good thing that Trump and his administration was so inept, how it likely prevented things over the last four years from being even worse, but the fact of the matter is, so many are dead of the coronavirus because of the administration’s inability to do things right that it feels in poor taste.)

The cynical part of me expected Trump to win through, bluntly, obviously, theft. There’s still the possibility that will happen, sadly — never lose hope! — but the limbo we’re in, where it’s more clear than ever that almost half a country just wants him to win, is… endlessly, exhaustingly sad to me. And not because I slept so poorly.

“That Stubborn Thing Inside Us That Insists, Despite All The Evidence to the Contrary”

I have always believed that hope is that stubborn thing inside us that insists, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us so long as we have the courage to keep reaching, to keep working, to keep fighting.

America, I believe we can build on the progress we’ve made and continue to fight for new jobs and new opportunity and new security for the middle class. I believe we can keep the promise of our founders, the idea that if you’re willing to work hard, it doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from or what you look like or where you love. It doesn’t matter whether you’re black or white or Hispanic or Asian or Native American or young or old or rich or poor, able, disabled, gay or straight, you can make it here in America if you’re willing to try.

Seriously. That man can make rhetoric sing.

I didn’t realize how nervous I was about the election last night until Obama won, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me, I have to admit. That line about “the triumph of intellect and romance over brute force and cynicism” (Craig Ferguson’s summation of the appeal of Doctor Who, in case you were curious) has never felt more true to me than watching Obama triumph last night.