I Wish My Mom Were Here

Since the election, I have been trying very hard to get over my feelings of betrayal. People I know, love, and respect voted for a rapist and traitor (to quote ML) to lead our country. And they did it knowingly. Which is unfathomable to me. 

I try not to wallow in this kind of grief. The only way out is to clear the air. But I have not tried explaining how I feel to them. It would make me far too vulnerable. That’s what betrayal does. It makes a hole you need to protect. On the other hand, I do find myself pulling away from these people. Somehow I think it is dishonest to pretend that what they did doesn’t matter; to pretend that we can carry on as if nothing has changed.

I guess that is what enlightenment is: a moment in time that changes you, making it hard to fit back into the life lived moments before enlightenment. 

My mother, who died in 2009, would say every time life threw me a curve, “Lil, change is God. Greet her with a smile.” 

My mother had an uncanny ability to make me feel smart and beautiful and loved every day of my life with her. She did the same for Pen who knew nothing of parental bonds and when my mother died we both broke. It took years to piece ourselves back together. 

I have spent many nights since the election wondering what Mom would think, how she would advise me, and how she would console me. Would she chide me for being too insular, too myopic? Would she tell me to grab a backpack and run?

Of course, I can’t help but wonder what Trump voters would be feeling had Kamala won. Would they have felt their country betrayed them? Would they lose respect for the rest of us? Would they be afraid? Unsure of how to prepare for the future?

As fate would have it, I got my answer. At least one answer out of 70 million voices.

At the gallery where I work a few hours a week, a customer came in while chatting to her friend saying something about the libtards. I smiled at them but didn’t offer any help contrary to the two-hour saleswoman training session I had to endure.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t avoid them when they came to the cash register. They were each buying a $5 print of our most popular artist. While I processed the sale, one asked, “are you an artist?”

“I am,” I answered.

“So I guess you’re scared about what Donald Trump’s gonna do. God love him.”

I was taken aback by her assumption and directness. “How would you be feeling if Harris had won?” I’m good at deflection.

She answered without missing a beat. “I’d feel like this country had more stupid in it than smart.”

I smiled. “Then it looks like we have something in common.”