The True American Horror Story

This morning I sent a text message to my little sister apologizing for the world she woke up to today.

I apologized not for our nation’s betrayal, but for our parents’. For the people who were supposed to love and protect us. For the mother, father, aunts, uncles, and cousins who traded our lives, our health, and our autonomy for their fear and hatred.

I watched the ship sink last night as I tried to scrape the inside of my skull for words of distraction, as I tried to focus on writing and art. I cried myself to sleep at 11, more scared that I have ever been in my entire life.

This is a massive statement considering last year, I thought my autoimmune disorder would kill me. It didn’t. But now it’s got the chance to try again.

I did not fight this fucking hard to lose my rights to an orange man in a cheap wig.

I woke at 3 to find that the world had ended. That my neighbors and coworkers had taken off their smiling masks and donned their truths: their racism, their bigotry, their misogyny, their xenophobia, their homophobia.

I sent texts to my friends saying I was sorry and telling them I loved them. As a cis-gendered, straight, white woman, I’m terrified; I can’t fucking fathom the fear and anxiety and pain my black, queer, Muslim, and Hispanic friends feel.

I love you and I’m sorry and I’m listening.

I woke this morning knowing that I’d reached the end of the line.

From this point forward, my family consists of the people I’ve chosen, not the ones I was born to. I wish I were more heartbroken about this, but when you voted for a shit-spewing hate-monger, you threw the baby out with the bathwater.

Tell me you love me with a straight face. Tell me you love me knowing that you’ve bargained away my rights. Tell me it’s not about race or religion. Tell me I don’t matter.

Because at least, then, I’d hear the truth from you.

And maybe you’re okay with sacrificing me.

Tell the boy we work with, the one you claim you love, the one you call your best friend, the one you accused me of “stealing” (and yes, I know you mean it as a joke but I can read between the lines), that you love him.

But not enough to protect his rights. His status as not only a citizen, but a human.

His right to live.

And know, under no uncertain terms, that I’m going to fight.

I have art to make and love to spread and time to give to things I believe in. I have people who do love and support me, and those I love and support in return. I’m going to continue to celebrate diversity. I’m going to continue writing queer characters, POC, and I want YOU, reading this now to tell your stories.

We need diversity. We need diverse stories. We need diverse voices. We need you.

We mourned last night. We’ll mourn today, and tomorrow, and however long it takes.

I’m with you. And I’m going to fight like hell for you.

And if you’re reading this, gloating because you candidate won, get the fuck out because I don’t have time for you.



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