“It Doesn’t Really Matter”

Correction: It actually does

A few weeks before the 2016 election, we went to a surprise party for an uncle (we’ll call him Uncle A); he was turning 70.

When he noticed I was there, he chanted “Trump, Trump, Trump!” and laughed. I laughed and shook my head back at him, and chanted “Clinton, Clinton, Clinton!”

“Happy birthday,” I said, as we hugged.

“You know, it doesn’t really matter,” he said, referring to the upcoming election.

At the time, I thought Clinton was going to win, so I agreed.

But now we know: It matters. It matters a whole fuck of a lot.

Although, I wonder if Uncle A would agree with that sentiment now, in 2020, with an election nearly 40 days away. With 200,000 dead Americans, and millions more sick and with long-term health issues. With police killings and the resulting protests. With rampant unemployment, remote work, remote school, and an economy again in freefall. With the daily lies and scandals, the casual cruelty, the outright hate and discrimination.

With a vacancy on the Supreme Court.

Uncle A’s life probably has not materially changed in four years. He’s a white man, married, in semi-retirement; he lives in the suburbs. He had heart surgery right before the pandemic hit, and his wife and adult son made sure he was safe and taken care of.

Materially, my life hasn’t changed too much either in four years. Financially, we may ever be a little better off.

But elections aren’t about ourselves — not if we are part of a privileged class. In some ways, Uncle A is right; it doesn’t matter to us who the President is. The laws made and signed in Washington aren’t likely to impinge too much on my rights — although, once you get away from the white, straight, and Catholic part of that identity, it can go sideways pretty quickly.

As a person with a womb, I am vulnerable to legislative decisions made about women’s bodies, reproductive healthcare access, employment rights, and laws about assault and harassment. As the mom of children all over the gender spectrum, I have a horse in the race around LGBTQ rights. As a person with empathy, as a believer in something bigger than myself, I want to fight for the rights of minorities, for social and racial justice, for equal rights for all.

I have been angry for four years. I have relived so many traumas since a man who openly admits to sexually assaulting women ascended to the presidency. Over and over again, I have felt rage — and in its wake, utter hopelessness. Once the votes are in and inauguration day has come and gone; once the powers that be in Washington decide not to indict, there is nothing for me to do except be angry.

I have made the phone calls, and written the emails, and used ResistBot. I have tweeted and retweeted.

Nothing matters. Once that vote is cast, if your person isn’t the winner, there isn’t much to do.

I’ll put signs in my yard so that other people know where their allies are. I will hand deliver my mail-in ballot to the County Elections Office and I hope I did everything right so it is counted. If selected to work the polls, I will show up and do my duty until I am told to go home.

For all I know, Uncle A and other conservatives felt this way while Obama was in the White House — this rage, this hopelessness, this urge to act. I don’t know. We don’t talk about politics much with Uncle A and other family members who vote Republican and who likely voted for Trump. It gets too heated, too quickly. It got heated when Obama was President too, for different reasons. Maybe if Biden wins in November, the despair will rise again on the other side.

I can’t say I will feel that bad if it does, though. My empathy doesn’t extend as far as it used to. I will be relieved, and maybe sleep better for a while. My anxiety will return to manageable levels. I will have hope that America can turn back into a benign republic, at least until progressives can start having some policy influence.

I can stop being so angry and so scared. And pray that those who are angry and scared on the other side get over it. But I won’t really care if they don’t.

Photo by Element5 Digital on Unsplash