we are still here
I haven’t written or said much online since Election Day, because really, what is there to say? If I expressed any of the feelings currently swirling inside me, experience tells me the only possible responses they would elicit are:
“I’m so sorry.”
“This, too, shall pass.”
“Just so you know, I didn’t vote for him, either.”
“Now is the time we get up and fight!”
“Now is the time we get up and make art!”
“I really thought Black women would save us again.”
“You know, ____________ is the reason she lost ….”
“I know you’re upset, but I’m actually relieved that the right person won,”
all of which, frankly, I cannot possibly deal with right now. So instead, I’ll share this:
Earlier this year, I fell into a deep kinship with a new friend from the Choctaw Nation in Oklahoma. One day, we were talking about the history of Native people and Native culture in America, when he said:
“I really dislike when folks speak of Native people as if we’re from the past. We are still here. We are still here.” He said this emphatically. And of course, he makes an important point.
Although it is obviously not the same thing, I share this story because since the election and as a Black immigrant woman, I’ve been feeling a renewed sense of betrayal. And I know there are many folks in America who feel the same way: folks who are also members of minority communities, folks who love differently, who express their gender differently, and folks who pray differently. Folks who have made it their life’s work to care for disenfranchised people or for our ailing planet. Families whose relatives are impacted by cruel wars waged around the world (many of those wars made possible with the help of the US government). Migrant workers. Asylum seekers. Folks who live in poverty. Women and girls in abusive relationships or living in dangerous communities. And as I think of all of us, my friend’s words keep coming back to me:
We are still here.
We are still here.
I find the words strangely comforting. When I think of them, I do so with a sense of linking arms and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with all of us who are now bracing for impact.
We are still here.
By the time these words are published, I’ll be airborne, on my way to the UK for a few weeks. It’s a trip that was planned months ago, for both work and family, but honestly, I’m grateful for its timing. Over Thanksgiving, Marcus and Alex will join me. It will be good to have some time away, as we consider the implications of this election on our multiracial, multinational family, and the best way to move ahead. But mostly, I’m looking forward to just focusing on each other, and our UK family. Because as I’ve always maintained since writing Lightmaker’s, there’s nothing like connecting with your people to help you feel stronger.
So here’s my wish for all my skinfolk and kinfolk: may this week make you feel connected with each other, somehow.
Because we are still here.
a reminder of cadence.