“First time farce, second tragedy.” ~ Bill Kristol

I hate this post and I hope you hate it, too.

We’ve been here before, but this feels different – even worse than 2016 – and I didn’t think that was possible. Imagine the unimaginable – or is it the unmanageable?

This time is different. Hillary Clinton was a flawed candidate even though I enthusiastically supported her. You know what I mean – her emails and that deplorable comment – although to be fair, she nailed that one in spades.

Kamala Harris was a magnificent candidate and she ran a great campaign in 107 days. Trump’s campaign was almost two years long – it only felt like seven. Donald Trump won a free and fair election and I’m not going to take a dump on Mike Johnson’s desk to protest his victory – even though I feel shitty today. And yesterday. And tomorrow.

The people have spoken, only they’re not my people – even if I’m friends with some of them or even related to them. I have always viewed my vote as an affirmation of my values and I clearly don’t share the values of what is now a majority of Americans. They chose immorality – felony convictions, sexual harassment, vulgarity, insurrection, lies, more lies, Arnold Palmer’s big putter – over decency and democracy – oh, and the reproductive health of women. But hey, I get it – the price of eggs is apparently a deal breaker for folks who don’t really believe in deal breakers.

In the cold dark hours of Wednesday morning, when it became apparent that we are going back after all, I sat on my couch and felt like I was teetering on the edge of the abyss. My dear wife had gone to bed because she had to go to work the next day and see a full slate of therapy clients. Silver lining – I’m feeling good about her job security with Trump’s victory. We’re going to need hella lot of therapy. And Kit Kats.

Writing is how I process the world – the good, the bad and the apocalyptic. And even though I could hardly see through my fear (not a typo) smudged glasses in the dark, I tapped out a Facebook post trying to capture my feelings. I didn’t intend to publish what I wrote, but I think I needed to connect with my people – the people who believe in deal breakers. The post went viral – at least by my modest standards. Over 40 people shared it and almost 200 commented on it. Let me be clear – this doesn’t mean I’m a great writer – but don’t let me stop you from thinking that. So, this blog post is an extension of that election night post because, well, I had more to say. And maybe you want to hear it.

It became very clear to me when I knew that Donald Trump would be president again that I could not allow him to live in my head for another four years. Enough. I’m evicting him and his rot. Think of it as an intervention on Hoarders. I’m taking out the trash. I guess you could say that I have a concept of a plan of how to go about this. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

Avoid cable news like it is radioactive

I cannot listen to his “They’re eating the cats and dogs” droning voice any longer. I cannot look at his spray tan trainwreck of a face. I will miss my TV wife Nicolle Wallace the most, but it’s time to say goodbye. Talking heads is not news – even if it is on MSNBC. I will listen to some selective podcasts and read the NY Times on my phone – until Maureen Dowd drives me to hit the cancellation button once and for all. I already ditched the Washington Post when Jeff Bezos left Democracy to die in the darkness of his billions. My gay husband suggested I subscribe to NPR’s Up First newsletter and podcast as a sort of methadone clinic for political news junkies. I might do that, but for now, I’m staying with British crime shows and Seinfeld reruns.

Become a Disinformationbuster!

I know this sounds like a fulltime position with bad hours and no benefits, but I do think that disinformation – deliberate, of course – was a major factor in this election. Let’s take for example, those ads vilifying transgender people. If you live in a battleground state, you saw them in your sleep.

AdImpact, an analytics firm, reported that Republicans spent nearly $215 million on anti-trans network TV ads alone – not including the spending on cable and streaming ads. There are about 1.6 million transgender people over 13 in the United States – representing 1 percent of the U.S. total population. And yet the Trump campaign spent more money on anti-trans ads than any other issue. Overkill? Nope, just the standard playbook for Republicans as Nancy Pelosi noted in a recent NY Times interview – “guns, gays, and God.” Once again, Republicans hammered Democrats on cultural issues to stoke the fears of conservative voters. I can tell you that being used as political collateral – again – by the GOP is not a good feeling.

And Trump repeatedly made the absurd claim that schools are secretly sending children for gender-affirming surgeries. What the absolute fuck? And some people with a college degree still voted for him – although I’d like to see their GPAs. We have got to stop normalizing these lies because the mainstream media is not going to do it – at least not loudly enough.

So, when my friend from high school who never left the little town we grew up in posts about Democrats supporting after birth abortions and adds the prayer hands emoji for good measure, I’m going to respond with FACTS. No more free passes because you’re old or we’re related or we’ve been friends for so long. Nope. I will be respectful, but I will not ignore your participation in the promotion of these often dangerous falsehoods.

Do something!

Unlike Melania, I’ll give Michelle Obama credit where credit is due.

I’m not just going to keep howling at the moon. Now is the time for everyone to use their particular set of skills to help protect the most vulnerable among us in an even more dangerous Trump administration. I’m a writer, so I’m going to write more. Lots more. I’m thinking about starting a weekly newsletter type piece – sort of a Dollar Tree local version of Heather Cox Richardson – only without her blazing intellect and amazing context of history. The content would be a combination of pith (again, not a typo) and vinegar, but also useful information about what we can do locally as the opposition. I’m still working out the details, but the response to my election night post made me think there’s an audience – albeit a small one – for this type of content. So, stay tuned.

And I’m going to try and carry the joy and hope of this campaign with me for as long I can. I’ve worked in politics a long time and I’ve never felt anything like these 107 days. I got involved early on with my local Democratic Party and I was gob smacked by the sheer number of volunteers from day one. Some days, you could hardly find an open parking space at headquarters.

Campaigns aren’t all Beyonce and pizza. There’s a ton of grunt work that has to be done – such as assembling campaign literature and collating it into bags for canvassers. I did this several days and I saw the same group of women at the tables every time. They were mostly my age and older – retired but they showed up like it was their job.

It was like a book club sweatshop. They had all gotten to know each other and chatted away as they worked. They shared stories about their children and grandchildren and, of course, they talked politics a lot. I didn’t know any of these women – and yet I did. I knew that they had cried the same hot tears I did in 2016 when Hillary Clinton lost. And I knew that they believed that Kamala Harris would become the first US woman president. There was something so moving about their laser focus and camaraderie. They had waited a long time and they were not going to let it slip away this time. I will miss these women.

Once we had a good inventory of packets, we could start canvassing – knocking on doors for the unacquainted. It’s not for everyone, but I love it. It was even more fun because I did it with my good friend Beth. She moved here a couple of years ago from the bluest of the blue states – California. I think she had some electoral sticker shock when she started to learn more about North Carolina politics, but she was all in.

Yes, a lot of folks don’t answer their door and those dang ring doorbells have become a real buzz kill for canvassers. Also, you can feel pretty silly leaving a voice message for a doorbell. That said, we had a high number of good conversations with voters. I’m such a political nerd that I get really excited and often emotional about talking to voters. I consider it a privilege when they share their thoughts – and sometimes their hopes and dreams.

These conversations stuck with me and Beth and I both thought of the same one when we met for coffee a few days after the election. We pulled up to a modest home one Sunday afternoon when we were canvassing and saw a dilapidated van parked on the grass by the side of the driveway. A Latino woman, probably in her late 40’s, was getting some things out of the van and looked up at us. Her expression was anxious and even a little fearful. I called out a friendly “Hi” and introduced myself and told her that Beth and I were from the local Democratic party. She softly said, “Democrat?” I nodded yes, and the expression on her face immediately relaxed. I explained that we were hoping to speak with the couple on our list who lived in the house. She told us they were not at home and surprised us by volunteering that they had already voted. And then she pointed to the flyer that Beth was holding and simply said, “Kamala.” We all broke into big smiles – and hers was so beautiful. She told us she could not vote because she is not yet a citizen but explained that she was here legally and hopes to become a citizen by February. [Please insert prayers]

She went on to tell us that she loves Barack Obama and that she wants to vote for his wife one day. We laughed and assured her that we all feel that way. Her face was downright beatific when she spoke of how much she admired the Obamas. I want America to deserve that face.

As I thanked her for her time and prepared to leave, I reached out to pat her arm and she gently pulled me in for a big hug. Damn. I long to live in that hug today. Beth and I both spilled a few tears in our lattes as we wondered aloud what would happen to her – this kind other from another country.

There were so many wonderful conversations – the young black student from App State who was so excited about voting for the first time, the 93-year-old man with a thick German accent who was delighted to tell us he had already voted for Kamala and shouted out, “Go girls!” as we walked away, and the woman who said her daughter was coming home from college that weekend so they could vote together for the first woman president. Gulp. Yep, those conversations stay with you, especially when so many dreams are denied.

I’m gutted and I’m angry and I’m scared – some days all of those things at the same time. But you know what? I loved every single minute of this campaign and I will not let the results steal my joy. I love my people and in my daily life, I am blessed that there are way more of them than those other people. So, I’m not going to participate in the post-mortems of why we lost and what we should have done. I’ve endured enough mansplaining for several lifetimes. And at the end of the day, you know you’re on the right side of history if all the worst people are happy.

Lord knows it’s hard. I find myself at the grocery store making eye contact with strangers as they’re picking up that carton of eggs wondering, “Was it you?” I know that sounds a bit like Michael Corleone, but the results of this election do feel like a betrayal of so many of the principles that so many of us hold dear. And I’ll never understand how anyone could have felt good about casting their vote for Trump and the vile and harmful malevolence he represents.

The best advice I’ve gotten as I’ve been wallowing in despair came from my young friend Will, the son of one of my best friends from fourth grade. Will is in his late 30’s and works as an accountant. He is differently abled and like all of us who represent a minority, is worried about what a new and emboldened Trump administration will mean for his community. We love to talk sports – especially since my wife has below zero interest in that subject. He told me the story of how Jackie Robinson was angry and worn down by the racism he was experiencing as the first African American to play in Major League Baseball. Robinson’s wife simply told him, “Keep showing up.”

And that’s what Will said to me at the end of our long conversation late last week when I was feeling so hopeless – “Keep showing up, Addison.”

Okay, I hear you, Will. I’ll keep showing up. And when we show up, we win. Eventually.

Until then, take my advice and stay away from the egg cases.