OPINION | Blowing Bubbles: Don't Know Where We Go From Here, but Here We Be

by Rozella Kennedy

Many people have been finding some cold comfort in the fact that the state of Washington was the only one in the Union that went even more blue in this last election. Pyrrhic Victory! And yet a friend of mine, who lives a little farther east of the Seattle metro, says it doesn't feel blue in her neck of the woods. This reminds me how useless it can be to extrapolate one sole narrative out of a single data point. Honestly, for each data point, someone can find or concoct either a counterpoint or a thesis-busting ambiguity.

For this reason, I have no pithy perspectives on what happened, and even if I did, why would you care? There is so much exhausting finger-pointing, Monday morning quarterbacking, buyer's remorse, and stomping off to one's corner while slamming the door on "them" and erecting a huge "Do Not Disturb" sign — "them" being your relatives who voted GOP; white women (sorry, in a time like this, you may have to accept being perceived by some as a monolith) who once again left all the labor to Black women and did not have their back; arch leftists who would not cast their die; misogynist bros who were chomping at the bit to bust out their repulsive "your body/my choice" vituperations; "can't be bothered" folks who get their worldview from "sources" who have complicated relationships with fact and truth; Christian apocalypse groupies; GOP mainstays who just do what they are told and vote how they are instructed, no questions asked; and on and on. 

The real conundrum is, of course, to "them," "we" are "them." So, if "we" are to survive, literally, I think it's time to take a pause and ponder some laws of metaphysics. Are we both "us" and "them"? Are "they" a little "us"? Do pronouns (of this type) matter at all? Is the notion of simultaneously placating both plutocrats and the working class simply impossible: a physical, logical, economic, and human absurdity that is going to make this country even angrier? 

Good God Almighty.

Shocked? Where Have You Been Living?

One of the things I wrote in my newsletter last week was a little ideological challenge to the non-Black people I know who said they were "shocked." Perhaps it's shocking, but are you really shocked? If you've been living an existence where such an outcome was so unimaginable, might that be a signal that you've been residing in a very privileged bubble? 

Look, I, too, was hopeful; I was clambering for any indicator, any prognostication, any crystal ball apparition. On the eve of election day, the markets were selling chip stocks, or buying chip stocks (something … I don't remember … who cares?), which, it was pointed out to me, was an indicator that the markets knew we were all going deep blue. 

Hmmm, I guess the markets were living in a bubble too.

A friend in Florida (the geographical and political "polar opposite" of Washington), an admirable creative, progressive white woman, thanked me for my message, letting me know it helped her see she was, indeed, living in a bubble. 

We agreed that knowing is the first step to changing. I told her to put the message in her own words and help others step out of that genteel, over-intellectualizing, comforting cocoon of "like bias" (as in, "I like you/you're like me, so what you say matters most"). This bubble, we agreed, is a neoliberalist lullaby, and girlfriend!, the alarm just sounded, and we are jumping out of bed, screaming, cortisol streaming.

Restless Night With the Rest of the World

And speaking of alarm clocks and nightmares, isn't election night just awful for those of us on the West Coast? Most of us were still up at 11 p.m. when the thing was called, whereas all my people on the East Coast had gone to sleep, disgusted and terrified, but praying for the hope that cometh with the dawn. For me, election night (I watched HGTV and periodically clicked over to the AP website, shunning the televised circus as I had most of this cycle) felt like the immediate aftermath of a death; I could only manage seven-minute drops out of wakefulness, jolting my eyes back open with the grim realization that no, babygirl, this is not a dream. Eventually, I grew too afraid of that feeling to allow myself to fall back asleep. 

And I was grateful to have a worldwide network of friends to, as the song goes, "help me make it through the night."

First, I spoke with a local friend, also sleepless in Seattle, for 90 minutes. Next, I turned to a sister-in-law who lives in Oceania; in the middle of her Wednesday, her emotions wavered, from the shame of being American to relief that she was physically far removed to lamentations over what this outcome was going to mean to her adopted country and its people and their economic and health well-being. Then, a one-word acronymous message, "OMFG," to a friend in Mauritius who, having studied in the U.S., understood the moment's magnitude. She replied, gently inviting me to focus on small things: family, nature, etc. She's 20 years younger than me, but I decided in that moment that I wanted to be her when I grew up. A few other friends in Rwanda and Senegal messaged as well: Remain steadfast, my sister, they said, having seen worse (one man I texted with was a former child soldier, a survivor of Kony's army). Keep praying if that was my practice, they said — and for God's sake, get some sleep, because your strength will be needed.

A text from a beloved friend, a philanthropist from the Bay Area: Do you want to talk? She informed me that the smart people in movement spaces had already been planning for a while what the resistance would look like. "It's gonna take a minute," she said, "but we're not gonna lie down." She was actually calling me from Europe, and I half-jokingly conjectured that maybe it was time to trade in that San Francisco address for a house in the French countryside.

Appropriately, the next reach out was the ex-husband from Paris, popping into WhatsApp, offering his connections to get me, my husband, our two adult children, and our dog refugee status in northern France. As if! I told him I was envious because the French came together to defy Marine Le Pen, and I had hoped/believed we in the U.S. would do the same in the face of extreme right-wing zealotry. Thanking him for the momentary distraction of utterly fantastical thinking, I lied and said I was going to try and finally sleep.

Blow the Bubbles, Take a Nap, Prioritize Love

Five a.m. on the East Coast. On the phone with a dear friend from our early-mom days; we'd wept upon Bush's 2004 reelection. She lives in Ohio now, and it's no bubble there! While her wife wept quietly in a corner of the room, we talked about the importance of finding unity across class divides. Yes, she is a gay woman, but her impetus remains to connect with people as a working person first and foremost; their validation of her sexual orientation was not on the table!

We had both clawed our way into elite-ish circles, but we knew what life was like over on that side, and we agreed that our work ahead would involve bridging — at the same time, asserting that we were not ready to start yet. First, we were going to fervidly care for ourselves.

Finally, in the early-dawn West Coast hours, my family checked in. My girls, in New York City: oldest daughter reminding me she has never voted in an election that didn't have that guy's name on it (God, do I hate that!), letting me know her younger sister woke up and vomited. My husband, on a project in Ohio, sorry he wasn't there to rock me into slumber, reminding me to hug the dog. 

I was grateful, over this hellacious night, and will be grateful for the ones to come, for people — people to just hold space with. No diagnoses, no predictions, no excuses, just togetherness, love, and care — that's what people do after a natural disaster, and that is what we were committing to as we faced ideological (and other kinds of) disaster. The ensuing heartbreak, battles, and chaos are imminent. But round the globe, round the clock, I was so grateful to commit to community, to truth, and to resilient love.

Rozella Kennedy is the author of the award-winning book Our Brave Foremothers: Celebrating 100 Black, Brown, Asian, and Indigenous Women Who Changed the Course of History, and the founder of Brave Sis Project. In an act of post-election solidarity and resilience, she has discounted her self-paced course, "Allies, Advocates, Co-Conspirators, Friends, Sisters: A Playbook for Leading, Learning, and Liberation," by 75% all of November with code: RESISTANCE.