This man will never be my fucking president.

Unedited, rough, and angry. But I had to say something. Welcome back to my blog.


Two days ago, I was in San Antonio, Texas, wrapping up a long weekend with three of my very best friends, two of whom I hadn’t seen since New Year’s of last year. We discussed the election, of course—the insanity that has plagued America for the last year and a half and what we were hoping would happen on Tuesday, November 8. We are four young women ready to see a woman in the White House, ready to close out bigotry and hate. In my Democratic bubble, with only small forays into what I always thought of as the “dark side” of Twitter or Tumblr, I was sure Clinton would win. The closest I thought I would come to a Trump presidency was the uptick in pro-Trump commercials I witnessed whenever I walked past a TV in Texas.

On Election Night 2016, I was supposed to be in French class, but I knew I’d never be able to focus. The work day had passed with much hand-wringing and tears shed over the potentially historic evening to come. So instead, I drank two margaritas and ate some enchiladas with friends, all the while checking for live updates on closing polls and feeling like someone had reached their hand into my chest and squeezed my heart with every new poll that was announced.

After that, I sat on the loveseat in my childhood living room with my mom sprawled on our couch, and came to the slow, horrified realization of just how broken our country was, that half of the people in this country had thrown their support behind a man with no public service experience and zero military service, a businessman who has failed dozens of times over and whose company was built by the grace of his father’s money. He alienated half of our country, but the half that was able to take comfort in his words put him into power. They rejected a candidate who had dedicated her life to public service, a former First Lady, Senator, and Secretary of State.

Because she was a woman? Because she was a Clinton? Because of the goddamn emails? I cycled through fear and rage and sadness and, eventually, an eerie, frightening numbness, a calm before the coming storm. It was bleak. It still is.

Quite possibly the most under-qualified candidate to ever run will become President of the United States in just two short months, despite a popular vote that suggests that our country is ready for continuing progress. He will be backed by a Republican-controlled House and Senate. There are some things he cannot undo, but I do not doubt that he will continue to harass people who do not look like him and to paint targets on the backs of those he and his supporters do not deem acceptable.

At midnight on Election Night, a good friend called me and talked about how disgusted he felt, how lost he was. We hardly had the words to explain how we felt. I cried—a lot. We shared dark stories of what we think will come. He told me that he didn’t know what would come next for either of us, but that we would not walk alone.

And then he told me he loved me.

I don’t know what comes next, but the images I paint for myself are not pretty. I don’t expect to be allowed to hold onto my right to choose for very long. I cling to the slim autonomy I hold over my own body now with fingers like talons. I don’t expect some friends to be able to marry whom they choose, or to openly love whomever they love. I don’t expect many of us to escape this unscathed in some way. I am afraid. And I’m not even in the deepest minorities. I will not be the most oppressed.

I am still full of such hope that I—and all my fellow Americans—will be able to cling to their rights and civil liberties come January 2017. But just in case I do not retain my right to free speech, or we do indeed descend into the deepest, blackest void some believe we may be headed for, I’ll say this now: I do not want this man in the White House. I do not want him to represent me and my loved ones on the international stage. I do not want my children to have to learn about this man in their history classes.

Beyond that, I do not want to live in a country that frightens and disgusts me. I don’t want to have to spend every day living with these people surrounding me who were so afraid of an “other” that they willingly elected a bigoted bully to the highest office in our nation. This ignorance and this hate and this violence—in actions and words—cannot stand in what was once meant to be a land of the free.

This morning, I received an email. It said that, in light of the devastation of November 8, 2016, we must “simply hope for the best.” I refuse to do that. It’s incredibly hard to see light in the darkness right now, but with every message of fear I send or receive, I feel anger growing in my chest. I will turn that anger into action, in whatever way I can. My heart is hurting, but it will heal. Our country is broken and our system is flawed, but if we despair, then it all falls apart. I refuse to be bullied into submission. I don’t quite know what I can do, but I’m going to start small: Volunteer with my local Democratic Committee. Read up on the policies this man plans to put into action. Protest when I can, even if no one is listening. Vote in the midterms in 2018. Refuse to back down. Show compassion. Spread love.

This man is not and will never be my fucking president and I want to make damn sure he fucking knows it.

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