The Day After.

By the whorticulturalist.

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It's the day after election day and I'm so exhausted that I can barely focus my eyes on the work I have to do in front of me. I feel sick, my lower back aches, and my eyes are already burning. The blinds are pulled shut and my curtains are drawn. My apartment, which is usually full of music or podcasts, is blissfully silent. I want it to remain that way, I want to preserve the fragile tendrils of certainty and safety I feel.

It's surreal, to say the least, that we've finally made it here. I can still remember this day in 2016, and the feeling of hopelessness and betrayal. I was living abroad in England at the time, and as I went about my day and ran my errands, I was asked by many who recognized my accent what I thought about the election results. I didn't want to talk about it with strangers though, I didn't want to cry in public, so I just told everyone that I was Canadian. I didn't want to take on that responsibility, I was ashamed of how low we'd come.

There was a heavy feeling in my heart, as a woman, a sense of oncoming doom. I already felt tired thinking about the fights that were to be had. Maybe even back then, maybe I was already starting this magazine in my head. Just like back then, this week I'm thinking that this is not the end, but the beginning of something huge. I want to think about all the ways that this election, and this presidency have galvanized a lot of people to participate in their communities in ways they had never previously imagined. And I think about all the thoughtful energy created. People are paying attention, and people are beginning to care.

It's too early to say whether or not we are too late. It's too early to know whether or not we're going to be able to save the world in time. I feel even more lonely when I think about how more people voted for Trump in 2020 than they did in 2016. We need to change this. We need to change it all.

Last night I took a walk through the city to observe what I could. I could see streets that were eerily empty, and sports bars with election coverage on their tvs. I stopped next to a woman who was helping a homeless man, and when she walked away, the man told me that she had stolen his phone. I paused to look at graffiti on the sidewalk and a man leered at me and asked me to get a drink with him. I saw the empty hotels of SF with their rooms selectively lit up to make the skyline a choppy row of glowing hearts. I went home so tired, but I didn't sleep. I didn't sleep at all.

This isn't the end, this is just the beginning. This is us realizing, as we did back in 2016, that there is no end to the work to dismantle patriarchy, white supremacy, and exploitative systems of colonization and capitalism. We are tired, but we are determined. The tide is turning, and we will have our turn.