What I saw profoundly saddened me.
There were mostly two kinds of #notmypresident supporters.
The first kind were the kind I wanted to yell at. The ones who, like me, have so much privilege. They were affluent white women and men. They were coiffed and with perfect make-up, beautiful clothing, and expensive sunglasses and boots. Their children had Uggs or were dressed in suits with elephant pins, very Michael Keaton. They had #notmypresident’s merch on their heads, necks, and lapels. They were holding flags boasting of an America that needed to be put right. They didn’t look at me as I didn’t have any outward showing merchandise. And if they did look at me, it was to look me up and down from head to toe and either look away before they got to my face OR they would make a snide comment to their companions, something like, “wow. That’s. . . That’s something.” And if one did look me in the eye, I would smile. An act almost never reciprocated except by much older white men. No, I am not making this up.
The second kind? Rural and blue collar. Rural, blue collar with southern accents. The kind I heard, when asking for the price of the t-shirts and scarves, say they couldn’t afford that. Or that they’d be back. And if they did have #notmypresident merch, it was camouflage. The kind who,when we looked each other in the eye, smiled back at me. The ones, when asked by reporters why the supported #notmypresident said, “because he’s going to bring jobs back.” And, “the media lied about the polls for the election, so I believe you are lying now about his approval ratings.” These were the people that would actually talk to the “other side” and answer questions honestly and with no trace of malice towards the asker about their president.
I also believe these are people that will lose with #notmypresident.
And mostly, there were little to no people of color, except for the people putting up the fences or working the security lines or police officer working for these concert attendees’ safety. Seriously.
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There was an African American man selling #notmypresident T-shirts, from a black garbage bag. I was walking alone and he was alone between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. As I walked towards him, I smiled, and he smiled back. I decided to get brave, and ask, “Do you support him?” I tried to use a truly curious tone as I was honestly truly curious.
He broke out into an even wider smile, but bowed his head and shrugged his shoulders forward. If I had to apply a word to his action, it would be “sheepish.” He looked sheepish. . . And here’s what he said next.
“Awww, I don’t know, man. I do know he gonna bring jobs back. That I know. All the rest of that politic stuff. . . Man, I don’t know.”
I smiled back at him and said, “thank you for talking to me.”
He smiled back and said, “thank you, ma’am”
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While I was standing at the corner, watching one of what would be many police escorts of black vans and Escalades or Semi trailers pulling concrete barriers, a youngish man with #notmypresident merch told me I could get a deal today. A one day only deal.
“No thank you.”“It’s a special price, really, I’ll give you a special price.”
“No, I don’t think I’m going to buy any of it.”
“If you buy it, you can burn it.” His realization based, likely, on my tone of voice, one of slightly disguised disgust covered by mirth from such a thought.
“No, but thank you. Really.”
“Just so you know, some of the proceeds go to Breast Cancer research.”
I smile and shake my head a little, thinking he knows his audience, at least. “No, but I appreciate that.”
“You have a good day, ma’am.”
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I went to the American History Museum.
At lunch, I sat across from a young white woman with her laptop open, slouched very low in her seat. The laptop had stickers screaming, “Question Authority” and “Feminist.” If you looked closely, you could see a sticker featuring Hillary Clinton among many other stickers of our today’s youth. But she, herself, looked sad and perhaps a bit nervous. She spent the lunch picking at her food, writing phrases in her book that I am almost certain came from the surrounding #notmypresident supporters. At the end of lunch, I handed her a You Are Beautiful sticker (https://you-are-beautiful.com/) and said, “In solidarity.” It was the first time I saw her smile. I then said, “it’s hard being here today, huh?” She vigorously nodded and then said in a very hushed voice, “are you marching Saturday?” I nodded my head. She smiled again, dipped her head and said, even more quietly, “I’ll see you there.”
And it did feel tenuous at the museum. Strained. There were many families there supporting #notmypresident. Many privileged white kids scoffing at the museum articles. I even heard one very beautiful young girl, while flipping her hair, walking through the civil rights war exhibit, “wow, look at all of these guns. Cool.” Did I mention she didn’t even stop to look at any of the artifacts or read any of the descriptions. And her tone wasn’t sarcasm. Guns are cool. No matter that thousands lost their lives so she could come through this museum free of charge. This may feel judgmental, and it is. I feel sad she doesn’t care. I feel sad no one taught her to care.
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I feel sad I didn’t know to care about politics and history and my country and fellow Americans until now.
I recently watched this video of a young man, much younger than me, rapping about how he’s angry people are angry at him for not caring or being lazy. That it’s unfair that people are angry at him because no one taught him his human rights (I think he even says, “did you know we had that?”). No one taught him how his government actually works. No one taught him how to do his taxes, or what voting meant. And I thought back to my own education.
I grew up in an white middle class mid-western town. I was lucky because it was a college town. A very liberal college town, in a state that usually went blue due to Madison and Milwaukee. I learned how to do my taxes before I graduated, you couldn’t graduate until you knew how to balance a checkbook or do your taxes and for that I am grateful.
But I also remember I had only one civics class. Our teacher was a bullish wrestling coach. And I loved his class. We learned about history through songs like American Pie. But honestly, I don’t feel enough focus on our government process. Though, to be fair, when I was in Forensics, I didn’t do the debate team, I did storytelling. And in my family, back then, I was told, “Voting is a very personal decision, we don’t talk about it.”
And so I didn’t learn. And the first year I voted (which wasn’t the first time I could I am saddened to report), I voted for a Bush. And I did that because the only thing I knew was what was around me. And by that point I was living in a rural community. It was before the internet was really a thing and the people I lived around were Republicans who kept telling me Clinton had ruined our country. I did no research, I read no newspapers, and I only watched coverage of an impeachment that felt more like a circus than government, so of course I voted that way.
Luckily, I started to meet more people. The internet started to be a thing. I read newspapers, had conversations, asked questions, watched proper news reporting. And I voted again.
And I became informed. I voted for and saw the first African American president and equal rights for all to marry the person they want to marry.
In the last year, my best friend became an American citizen, I volunteered and helped set up an office for the democratic party in a depressed area of Pennsylvania and I voted for, who I thought would become the first woman President.
I did those things because I have learned that being informed and involved is how you protect your rights and the rights of others. Despite the fact that many think there aren’t problems in government preventing equality in relation to race, gender, sexual orientation, religion and other marginalized groups, there are. Big problems.
And that is why I will march tomorrow, with my sisters; we will not be ignored.
