A few days ago, as we cast our votes for the 2020 election, my normally reserved and unflappable partner was pretty much a wreck.
As he wrung his hands and talked about the possible demolish of our democracy, I was unusually silent. “What is going on with you?” he asked. “Why are you so calm?”.
I am a fighter.
It’s partly nature and partly nurture.
As a child of the 80’s, living in a rural area, I grew up with functioning alcoholism as a key component of my community.
It wasn’t until I decided to pursue teaching that I realized that growing up in such an environment turned me into an archetype.
I am a hero.
I try to fix things. I try to bring normalcy to traumatic situations by engaging in reformation tactics.
So you see, it was more than strange that I had been so quiet during this election cycle.
Being the hero led me to pull away from my rural, conservative hometown and throw myself into “issues” that I believed I could help fix.
I moved to a city and studied, through literature and first hand, all of the ways the white patriarchy oppresses people around the world.
I tried to become an ally to everyone all at once.
I failed…a lot.
The more I failed, the more I opened my eyes to the work that needed to be done, not only in the grand scheme of the United States, but inside of me.
I am used to failing. I am used to losing. It happens all of the time in the cycle of addiction. You see, the hero takes these failures and turns them into the will to DO MORE. To fix more.
It’s one of the things that I believe makes me excel in my teaching.
There is a certain hope that lives in children who have watched family members get sober that is extraordinarily powerful.
We believe.
That belief also makes the disappointment of relapse hurt much, much more. It rattles our identity and often throws us into deep, dark places that are hard to claw our way out of.
I learned long ago to tuck away my hope, and instead, march forever forward.
Being a hero means protecting your heart.
Then came the 2016 election.
For the first time in a long time, I let my unbridled enthusiasm loose.
I believed.
I believed in the goodness of people.
I believed that my fellow Americans could not vote for a man who was at best, a bully.
I believed that if America could elect a Black man, that the country was less prejudiced on a whole than when I was a child.
I believed that an educated, experienced candidate was a benefit to our country.
I believed that it was time for women to take their place in the White House.
But my America relapsed.
My America failed me.
Not only did it fail me, but it abused me.
Just like drugs or alcohol, it loosened the tongues of hateful hearts around the country.
Just like drugs or alcohol, it helped give people an excuse to cause physical violence to the weak and the oppressed.
Just like drugs or alcohol, it created chaos in everyday life.
So, as my husband, and many of my (white) friends wring their hands, get angry, “can’t believe people would vote for this hate again.” and get sick over the vote count, I can’t muster the strength.
My heart and my hope has been locked away for too long now, not because I march forward as the hero, but because I’ve needed to survive.
This realization sits heavy with me.
Though I can’t be sure, I think that I was able to hold on to my hope a lot longer than my Black and brown brothers and sisters.
They’ve had to survive a lot longer than me.
Tonight and tomorrow we’ll watch as the mail in votes are counted in key states.
I believe we’ll see a glimmer of childlike hope as America sobers to the binge of destruction the past four years have caused.
But I fear, even then, we’ve lost too much.
With every assault against women, LGTBQ and Black and Brown Americans, some of our heroes fall, not because they are beaten, but because they need to survive.
Rebuilding America will take more than this Presidential vote.
It will take a real life hero- and they’re in short supply.
Peace,
Kelly
urbanesl 