2008: My first presidential election I sat in a friend's home in a cul-de-sac. Twelve years old, I shook in a chair and watched the votes tallied up state by state. Friends and my family huddled around the TV with an almost primitive intensity. I remember feeling like everyone was holding their breath. Goosebumps raised on my arms, as I tried to understand what was happening before I knew what a swing state was. Obama won and relief calmed my goosebumps. That election, I had my first taste of America's deep patriotism. My passion for politics and justice grew from that moment of hope. After Christmas break we watched Obama’s inauguration ceremony in my first class, History. All of us, the students, stood by our desks and watched as the 44th president of the United States stood in his black skin with his proud black family and was sworn into office in front of a crowd of 1.8 million people. Back in my classroom, most twelve-year-olds applauded. When the bell rang at the end of class, we had trouble leaving the room, caught in the doorway gazing up at the TV. That inauguration symbolized the advancement of the American dream. 2016: I watched the second major election as an absentee participant from an Irish bar in Seville, Spain. They were the only bar in the city that stayed up all night to celebrate the undoubtable success of who would be the first female president of the U.S.A. I sat with a liberal from Tennessee and talked liberal politics all night, and when Florida turned red at 4:00am, I downed two more pints of Guinness before a solemn walk home. I went to sleep with a heavy rock in my stomach, and when I checked my phone the next morning I felt a weight settle on my shoulders. I cried on the walk to class, and my Latin-American Literature professor told us to watch the changes in media coverage for the first signs of fascism. “You won’t notice the changes at first, and by the time you notice it you will not be able to stop it.” Her harrowing prescience of our future shook me, as it was only a retelling of her own history. That winter, while I watched the First Nations protest the Keystone XL pipeline and the Women’s March I felt shame for not joining the fight at home. How could the same country that elected Obama eight years ago elect Donald Trump? Racism and fascism, emboldened by Trump, fight together for political control in ways the U.S. has never seen. CALLING ALL UNITED STATES CITIZENS - 2018: Tonight and tomorrow I will be watching the third major election in my lifetime - the long-awaited 2018 midterms. I cast my vote by email ballot on Sunday - you can do that in Washington state, hoorah for thorough voter enfranchisement! I’ve been sharing article after article on Facebook, preaching to the liberal masses. Local elections matter more than presidential elections (maybe excluding the 2016 election), as they can be far more representative of their constituencies and are much more quick to enact real change. As shitty as it feels to lose an election to a homophobic, transphobic, racist, misogynistic Nazi, it feels even worse if you don’t do your part and, at the very least, vote. Everyone should feel tied to this election in some way - whether you have a gay friend, a brown coworker, a daughter, an immigrant neighbor, people are people who need equal protections and representation. No matter where you are, if you’re a United States citizen, it is your democratic duty to vote in this election. Don't forget that you are powerful, that you have a voice, and that you have a place in this country. Fight for yourself, your neighbors, and your ideals while you still can. Lazarus' quote, forever engraved on Lady Liberty in New York Harbor, reminds us of our histories and what it means to be an American: Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” For the love of God, Allah, Buddha, Jesus, or WHOEVER you believe in (because freedom of religion is still an American right) - VOTE.
1 Comment
I’m writing from Alicante, Spain, where I have been in bed for 16 hours, rolling from one side of my pastel purple mattress cover to the other, considering getting up but instead aggressively reaching for another handful of chocolate covered peanuts.
Whether your period started yesterday or you’re just feeling a little blue (or both, like me), days spent in bed while abroad feel like an absolute waste. I’ve gone back and forth all day about getting out of the house but have only made several trips to the kitchen, the bathroom, and once, to the yoga mat (yoga with Erica Vetra on Youtube, check it). My guilt has doubled because yesterday was pitiful, too - after getting out of the house to go second-hand shopping I bought nothing and felt fat, walked home 30 minutes uphill with cramps, and downed three bottles of wine with some Italian friends only to talk about the state of the world (not positive). The highlight of the night was sitting on our balcony at 3:00, watching the old Spanish man below empty his flooded porch by dislodging Tatyana’s sock from the drain - a surprise to all of us - and we excitedly yelled to him that that was OUR sock, “Perdona, es nuestro calcentine!” Surprised (read: frightened), he tossed it up and I caught it, wet and limp. Today I, unfortunately, am Tatyana’s wet, limp (and nearly lost to the world) sock, personified. Luckily, I’m a little less guilty because I get be living in Alicante and will have many more days to enjoy it. But, on days I’m actually traveling and feeling like a wet sock, this is my 100% flawless feel-better-by-wine-o’clock routine: Wake up and watch all those travelers around me wander out of the hostel to explore, resent myself for being a massive lonely baby and lurk in my dim hostel room until I... A) Take a shower at 2:00, put something stretchy on and find a coffee nearby or B) Sit up at 3:00pm, judge last night’s makeup to be passable for round two, and pair an espresso with one of those cute little European 8oz beers. If, after hours of thoughtless scrolling I choose option A, I bring a good pen and my travel jOuRnaL (“journal” makes me feel like I’m twelve, but “diary” is worse) and sit down with that coffee and catch up on jOuRnaLinG. When done properly, this actually takes a good three hours and completely transforms my mindset. I feel accomplished because I’ve described my experiences in detail, there are a few less pages ‘till the end of my jOuRnAlll, plus thinking about past adventures transforms my stuck wet-sock-self into someone I’d actually enjoy hanging out with. Next step is finding friends and some dinner. It’s pretty obvious where option B gets me - mildly transformed, still holding onto a lil’ bit o that wet sock essence. But instead of accomplishing anything (like jerrrnalling), beer and caffeine solve my attitude issue. Regardless of whether I’ve got a cold, my feet hurt from yesterday’s walking tour, or I’m just down in the dumps, it’s important to come to terms with lying in bed. Plus, where do Europeans lie in bed all day? Europe. |
Her face when She^ talks about politicsArchivesCategories |