Say Anything (Seriously. Any. Thing.)
“Well. Hopefully.”
Two words that ended an political discussion this morning, sending co-workers, heads down, on return paths to respective offices, cubicles and desks, corners and stalls. Two words that succinctly summed up a national tectonic emotional shift over the preceding fourteen hours.
In these two words are two truths, truths beyond “all human wisdom.” The first is that, with her electoral loss, Hillary Rodham Clinton has contributed to the beauty and promise, to the history of the United States of America more than she would have were she elected its President last night.
During her concession this morning, Clinton thanked the women who had stood alongside her. She urged girls to continue believing in themselves, in their worth. One of these girls or women will shatter “that highest of glass ceilings,” Clinton said. This is true. And when that happens, it will be not be soon enough. What’s more, when it happens, because of what Hillary Clinton has selflessly sacrificed, metaphorically presenting herself and her family for crucifixion more than once, it will be less spectacle. Less care will be given to pantsuits and hairstyles. Less apology offered for ambition. Clinton, having absorbed those whetted slings and arrows of distraction, will hold proudly her injurious bounty of spite, allowing that more heed be paid to the future president’s character — less to her gender.
An uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling will settle upon Mrs. Clinton in the coming weeks. The feeling will be open public compassion. Something she’s not felt from the greater population of America maybe ever. This will generationally cascade. It will be the footing upon which we right any sins we collectively committed this week. The fecund burial site of Clinton’s campaign will support a bloom of democracy greater than any presidency ever could.
The second truth is, perhaps counter-intuitively (and for some painfully), President-elect Donald Trump is a greater Candidate of Hope than was President-elect Barack Obama eight years ago.
The majority of that hope (and I genuinely don’t for a moment believe Trump would fault me for writing the following paragraphs) lies in Trump’s brilliance. If the election is a game, he played it flawlessly, using any tool or gambit, traditional and (more often than that) unorthodox, within his reach: fear, demagoguery, racism, sexism, theism, jingoism, nationalism, fuck you.
The hope now is that Donald Trump transforms from a bitter candidate into a good president. Good in every sense — from competent to kind. The hope now is that Donald Trump tells people like David Duke to go fuck themselves. The hope is that Trump was playing America’s stupidity to his (and our) advantage.
Listen. We’ve known for a long time America is dumb. We thought it was an adorable kind of dumb, an eating-paste-during-arts-and-crafts kind of dumb. But, nope. Turns out it’s a first-thing-you-do-when-you-train-for-a-marathon-is-chop-off-your-left-foot-with-a-rusty-chicken-head-ax-so-you’re-lighter-and-faster kind of dumb. The kind of dumb that drools into a sippy-cup while watching reruns so that they’ll have something to drink with dinner. The kind of dumb that makes Forrest Gump ask, “What the heck were you thinking?” The kind of dumb that sees how hot a fire is by putting their collective hand inside. That uses a roll of paper towels for their geography notebooks. That tastes the bottoms of shoes to decide if that’s mud or shit. That high-fives mirrors. More than once. That licks their I Voted stickers. The kind of dumb that thinks they have the stickers because they clicked a Facebook link for Team Adam on last week’s The Voice. The kind of dumb that’s literally too stupid to insult.
That’s not calling out any single group. That’s us. That’s all of us. And now we have to hope we’re more than that.
The hope is that Donald Trump was campaigning. The hope is that he will govern differently. The hope, completely frankly, is that Trump was lying for the last 16 months.
Because, when you get down to it, really get down to it, the only horrifying part of Trump’s victory is the possibility that this morning hate and bigotry are pardoned, that somewhere some little boy says he’ll grab a girl by the twat, and he’s not ashamed of his demeaning words, he doesn’t think twice; that somewhere some little girl laughs when he says it because, hell, it’s her fault because she’s a woman …
The horror comes with one mind-shitting thought: Donald J. Trump was serious.
I hope more now than I did eight years ago. I hope it’s all rhetoric, all bravado. All intended to prove a point, not to state a mission.
The point proved may be depressing. It may make you question your neighbors, doubt your leaders, fear your future. But it should also make you open your fucking eyes, make you put down your fucking drool cup, make you stop fucking assuming people think like you or want to think like you or even should think like you.
It should, in the hopeful words of Hillary Clinton, make you “never stop believing that fighting for what’s right is worth it.”