Written by Nabintou Doumbia.
Wednesday, Nov. 9th, single-handedly carried me through stages of grief that I had never previously experienced. From being utterly shocked and denying what was happening to returning to shock and then simply being pissed off—not a single moment of it was familiar. Perhaps, in many ways, we can call this privilege; up until that point in my life, I had been privileged enough to have never been met with such a reality headfirst.
Trust. I over-trusted a system built against me in so many ways. I silenced the alarming sirens of mistrust as I walked into my polling place on Tuesday morning. And I swallowed the lump of anxiety surfacing too close to reality for my liking.
Now, since the nightmare has begun, we heal the multiple blows of reality that awaited us. I knew not with certainty that history books would be freshly printed with “First Female President” embedded in them. But man, did I hope so.
Maybe that’s why it hurts so much—because many of our expectations were painted with refined strokes of hope. Now, though, it’s not the hope that still burns; nor is it the crude betrayal that aches. It is the normalization that we’ve managed to introduce into our minds and, God forgive us, our hearts.
Sixteen days. Sixteen. It took all of 16 days for us to begin settling, acting as if we must eat from what we’ve been served. We do not eat from the dishes of cowards. And we sure as hell don’t eat with them. We cook.
A fascist to hold one of the most powerful positions in these United States of America is and will never be normal. Tell it to your family, friends, kids, classmates, associates, and strangers. Write it on a walk, desk, or staircase. Shout it in a chant, song, or poem. Do what you got to do to remind yourself: WE DO NOT NORMALIZE OPPRESSION.
Trial does not breed acceptance, it breeds revolution.
Impregnated with hardship,
we bloomed into Mary.
The date trees are extinct.
Now, we shake the world to deliver.