Thahabu

I think my initial shock and outrage over Donald Trump winning the election has somewhat subsided. But the image of my friend Jonathan, who is Mexican, breaking down and crying next to me at a bar as we watched Trump take Pennsylvania, is on replay 24 hours a day on the biggest and fanciest IMAX screen in my subconscious, accompanied by the loudest state of art surround sound system.

I swear to you, I wake up every morning now thinking it was all a nightmare, that the election hasn’t happened yet and I’m still underwhelmingly convinced that Hillary Clinton will win. This has to be my brain trying to cope with the trauma, because I can go the whole morning functioning in this state of denial until I leave the comfort of my room, and unfortunately remember I am not a character in Inception. The memory of Jonathan looking at the TV screen jokingly saying, “Oh my God, he’s really winning,” with a hint of consternation, then pausing only to repeat himself as he starts to choke up and cry makes its way to the epicenter of my brain and I start to cry, too. What makes this moment so emotionally charged for me (besides seeing my friend cry) is that it was the breaking point, the point of no return.

Minutes before his breakdown I still thought everything was going to be OK and Trump’s run was a joke. I was laughing. I still thought Hillary could catch up, we still had about two hours until the polls closed. His tears knocked me off my dreamy watchtower. A rapist who ran his campaign based on racism, xenophobia, and sexism is poised be our president after winning the electoral vote. I rubbed his back and began to cry, “We’re not gonna let them get away with this, Jon. This was your country before anyone else’s. We’re gonna fight. I’m gonna fight with you.”

I really thought I was over this, but last night I left tears on the train floor for the fifth time this week. ♦