Recalibration and Reflection

Recalibrate: verb; to adjust the settings on a device that precisely measures, senses, or moves. 

It's been five days since the results of the 2024 Presidential Election.  Being a #bluedot in a red state, and being a public school educator, wife, mother, aunt, ally, and woman in this nation, I've had my physical and emotional states wrung through the wringer repeatedly since I spontaneously woke up around 3:30 in the morning on Wednesday and checked my phone for election results. 

We were supposed to have our first woman president.

We were supposed to move closer to actual liberty and justice for all.

We were supposed to choose expertise over a political phony. 

We were supposed to be able to trust that the President was someone in control of their mental faculties. 

We were supposed to lock away fascism for at least four years, in the hopes that our neighbors, family, friends, and colleagues would come to their senses and realize that there were plenty of important reasons our founding fathers and mothers opposed dictatorial leaders who regularly forcibly suppressed their opposition. 

We were supposed to be able to tell our daughters and show them actual evidence that yes, they really could grow up and become President.

We were supposed to move ourselves forward, acknowledge our shared problems, and continue to work together to solve them.

*****

Shirt can be found here

On Wednesday morning, I cried.  Sobbed. It felt as if danger was gleefully smiling and dancing upon the front porch. I was grateful to have taken the day off from work in order to accompany my youngest to some appointments, but it was difficult being out in public.  After having our senses assaulted by a kid in a monster truck hauling ass and burning rubber through downtown, honking and screaming "Trump! Trump! TRUMP!" while an oversized campaign flag flapped in the breeze over his bed, my son bought me tiramisu at a nearby bakery.  I ate half of it for dessert after dinner. I didn't watch the news.

Thursday found me hastily making safety pins adorned with small blue ribbons, a signal to others that they remain safe with me. I finished the remainder of my tiramisu for breakfast, and gladly focused on cataloging and in-processing new books that were waiting for me on my circulation desk.  I discovered the #bluebracelet movement later that afternoon, and found many women disagreeing over their intended symbolism on social media that evening. Few were discussing the intention of those of us who want to provide and need to create a sense of safety in our community.  Critics' anger, disappointment, and fear fueled their raw responses.  I couldn't blame them, but I couldn't bring myself to join or intervene in their arguments either. I went to bed and read.  I didn't watch the news.

It was Friday morning when I began berating myself for my optimism, newly dashed hopes, and obvious naiveté, which was difficult because I was also tasked for the second day since the election of supporting the social-emotional needs of elementary school students. Kindergarteners "so glad" that "evil didn't win" (yes, our youngest students weren't spared from their parents' fascist ideology and proudly repeated it, multiple times) sat in chairs that were later occupied by fifth-grade girls who earlier in the week had proudly worn Ruth Bader Ginsberg shirts to school. If my colleagues were pleased or disappointed in the election results, it appeared they were either sharing their feelings behind closed doors or were bottling up their emotions and opinions for the sake of professionalism.  I visited the local bakery again and bought two more pieces of tiramisu. No, I didn't watch the news.

On Saturday morning, I found a meme that helped me begin to articulate a truth about my current state of being:

A better articulation for me would be "I no longer see just the good in people, I see the truth of them." I was able to watch the weather report on t.v. before my husband suggested we go out for breakfast. I wore a meager attempt at humor:

I added some Irish Cream to my morning coffee. I bought groceries, yarn, and two magazines. Self-medication from start to finish.  I crocheted for most of the afternoon.  Deactivated my account on Twitter/X for good. Began reorganizing and redecorating parts of my craft room.  Ate a piece of tiramisu. Started laundry. Joined my husband and son at a nearby restaurant for dinner.  Remembered I was a Blue Dot in a red state, a Blue Dot in a fascist-leaning country. Came home, showered, and climbed into bed to read.  No, I wasn't ready to watch the news, and I certainly did not stay up to watch Saturday Night Live. 

Today is Sunday, and no, I'm still not ready to watch the news. I doubt I'll watch the recording of SNL. I've peeked at the social media of the experts I appreciate (actual historians, actual educators, actual lawyers), I've had some coffee sans liqueur, and as I look around my craft room, I'm inspired to continue what I started yesterday. Maybe I'll put up a glimmer of Christmas in here, my silver tinsel tree with pastel and vintage ornaments, to give me something beautiful to look at as I craft and crochet holiday gifts. Or maybe that can wait another week. 

*****

Rage hasn't hit me yet, but if 2016 and the death of my mother are good indicators, it'll be coming around the bend soon. I know not to make huge, life-changing decisions while grief-stricken, and my instincts are still telling me to hope for the best while absolutely preparing for the worst. This is why I need community, something I don't have much of in my immediate vicinity. A community not made up of individuals who are already realizing that their "savior" is the reason their holiday bonuses were just canceled because their employer has to purchase and stockpile as many supplies as possible before the tariffs hit. Not the people who "just" realized that it's the states that will determine the quality of public education their children in special education will receive, and that not every state is trustworthy about money. Not the individuals confused as to why big businesses aren't buying up plots of land in the U.S.A., instead choosing to move their production facilities to countries like Vietnam. And certainly NOT the people who are trying to laugh off and minimize "your body, MY choice" as "boys will be boys." 

It's. Sexual. Harassment.

It's. The. Threat. Of. Violence.

See?  Right there, percolating under the surface?  Rage.

(sticker found here)

As much as I resent the need for this personal recalibration, I know and accept that it's been done successfully before. I will miss the days of la vie en rose, but I don't intend to pine for them. Four years is four years, and it will take a lot of hard work and shared power to endure and thrive. Those of us who lost in this election need one another, and those who believe they won are going to be finding out how wrong they are. I'll be fifty-five next month, and can't yet tell you that I'll choose to be polite, gracious, or forgiving as they continue to grow in numbers, moaning, wailing, and insisting that they "had no idea." I hope that I'll be able to internally achieve calm acceptance and peace while I refuse to let him or his ilk take away the joys of family, creativity, positive and productive endeavors, learning new things, and true belonging... but I'm going to be sorely tempted to unleash a barrage of sarcasm and pointed blame if folks at fault for what's already on the horizon come to me for sympathy.

I'm a woman, with the blood of Indigenous American Peoples running through my veins, the parent of incredible children, wife of an American veteran, an educator and school librarian, and ally to minorities abused and neglected for being different. I'll be wearing blue bracelets, safety pins with ribbons, rainbows, and inspiring quotes, and I will continue to stick out like a sore thumb, because hell... when have I not?

I'll also continue to eat tiramisu. That's some good shit, right there.