The Undercover Introvert

On Losing and Hope, Pt. 2

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Here we are again, back at the drawing board.

Our minds are reeling from losses that feel like vicious assaults to common decency and essential fairness. Many of us are stunned and saddened. Others are furious. Still others feel set adrift on a churning sea of despair.

We’ve been here before — feeling lost and bewildered as half of the voters around us are celebrating a win for racism, for sexism, for bigotry in all its forms. Not to mention the danger these losses pose to the already fragile environment. Access to healthcare. Critical funding for public education. The list goes on, and just thinking about it makes our stomachs twist into knots and our bones grow heavy with sorrow. The thought of curling up in the fetal position and just giving up altogether is overwhelmingly appealing.

Here’s the thing: there is still so much hope.

You just have to look past the immediate, staggering losses in order to see it.

Here in Florida, more than 60% of Sunshine State voters passed Amendment 4, putting an end to the Jim Crow era lifetime voter disenfranchisement of former convicted felons. That opens the door to 1.5 million potential voters to join the rolls in time for the 2020 election cycle. In a state where gubernatorial and senate races are often won or lost by 1 percentage point, adding event fifteen percent of those brand spanking new voters could be a seismic shift to the electorate.

Nationwide, Democrats picked up enough congressional seats to give them the majority in the House.

I’m going to repeat that for those folks in the back:

DEMOCRATS NOW HAVE CONTROL OF THE HOUSE.

This is what we’ve been working for since November of 2016. It’s our check on the Executive Branch. No one expected us to win the Senate, but this win means we will set the agenda in the House, and nothing will get passed without Democratic support. No more rolling over us. Having the chambers split the way they are will force compromise, which is how government is supposed to work. No more winner takes all. Get ready for bipartisan legislation that will move our country forward. Or complete gridlock, which won’t bode well for you know who in 2020. This victory was a crippling blow to the Executive Branch and a big win for grassroots organizers everywhere.

Also, y’all, we elected over 100 women to the House for the first time ever. And many of them are women of color. Representation matters. Having more women at the table will prioritize issues that impact our communities. We need diversity of thought, of representation, of socioeconomic and cultural backgrounds. We are closer now than we’ve ever been to true representation in government, and that’s incredibly satisfying and uplifting.

Nothing about this work is fast or easy. As the old cliche goes, this is a marathon, not a sprint. Marathons are grueling. They take so much out of you and leave you wondering why in hell you are even bothering to do this in the first place. I can tell you why I’m bothering to do it: because I don’t have any other choice. As a black woman, these fights are personal. Any movement backwards puts people who look like me at immediate risk. But it’s not just about me. It’s about every marginalized group, every working class family, every child who deserves a quality public education, every senior who shouldn’t have to choose between their medication or their mortgage payment. We’re all at risk. That’s a lesson we learned the hard way in 2016.

I find motivation from looking backwards to those who fought harder than I could ever imagine. Those who risked their lives in the hopes that, one day, someone like me could have the opportunities that I enjoy without a second thought. I draw strength from their sacrifices and leadership. They didn’t give up when the cause for which they were fighting could literally cost them their lives. I’m not going to give up either.

History is a wheel, y’all. I see that more with every passing day. And change comes slowly…but we have to keep pushing for it. We have to keep shedding our blood, our sweat, our tears.

Take the time to lick your wounds, mourn your losses, learn from mistakes made and challenges not overcome. But celebrate the wins too. They are everywhere.

The first Muslim women elected to Congress. The first Native American women elected to Congress. The first openly gay governor. The first Democratic Latina governor. The first black woman elected to Congress from the state of Massachusetts. Guam’s first Democratic female governor. Texas’s first Latina Congresswomen. Iowa’s first ever women elected to Congress. We flipped seats nationwide, y’all, and put more women into positions of leadership and power. And we had real wins in our local races too. City, county, and state seats matter.

If you can’t see the hope yet, give yourself some time. But don’t stop looking for the light in the darkness. Find that light and hold it closely, because there’s so much work to be done.

I’m ready to get back to the hustle (after a day or two of Netflix binge watching and a nap). I don’t know where the hell this optimism comes from, but I feel it, and I know we need to get back to work. Nothing will change until we change it ourselves. This is our time.

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To Those Spreading Light in These Dark Times

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For those hustling day in and day out to make this world a better place: this is for you.

Because you’re out there, knocking doors, making phone calls, building events that you pray don’t fold in on themselves like the delicate collection of blood, sweat, and tears that they are.

You’re perpetually MacGyvering something out of absolutely nothing, and getting media to cover it, spreading the word, the message, the hope so fragile you dare not speak of it aloud.

You’ve worked all year for this moment. And not just this year. Some of you have been working for decades.

This is the time away from your family, your friends, the quiet moments at home that help maintain your sanity.

You’ve pushed, prodded, cajoled, threatened, cried tears of joy, of sorrow, of despair. You’ve thrown up your hands, cursed, closed your eyes, dropped your aching head, and wondered why you’re still doing this.

But you haven’t given up.

You go onto the next house after one person slams the door in your face.

When the person on the line curses at you and hangs up, you make another call. And another. And another.

You watch precious days of planning, of work, of moments you can never get back, scatter like ashes in the wind, leaving you right back where you started.

And, still, you keep going.

The hustle lasts as long as your belief does. At the end of the night, that belief seems finite, but, in the morning, here it is again, waiting to be actualized as you down a few cups of coffee and head out to face another day that won’t be anything like the one before it. And tomorrow? Who the hell knows what those fresh hours will bring.

Breaking news hits the airwaves — a natural disaster, a curveball of a court ruling or Supreme Court appointment — and everything you painstakingly planned falls apart. You rebuild, stacking events on top of each other to create a workable schedule — the meet and greets, interviews, rallies, town halls, forums, meetings, fundraisers, canvasses, phonebanks, trainings, and teleconferences, the webinars you don’t even remember after they end. You send emails while you listen to another phone meeting, forever worrying about budgets and digital media reach, and social media content, and did you remember to invite the right people to the right events? Have enough attendees RSVP’d? Did you call to confirm? Will media show up? Will anyone? Your skin crawls, your stomach twists, and that dread never leaves you. One wrong step, and it feels like the entire operation will cave in on itself.

You forget to eat. You don’t exercise. You fall into bed at the end of the night exhausted, mind reeling with possibility, with excitement, frustration, and anxiety. You wake still drained, your bones heavy, but you down more coffee, and get back to work.

The. Hustle. Never. Ends.

But you can feel the power in what you’re doing. The purpose. It shivers in the pit of your empty stomach where all manner of caffeine goes to die. The idea of what you’re working towards keeps you going more than the actual details. The details don’t matter. The goal shimmers on the horizon, just out of reach.

And then?

Your initiative moves forward.

You collect enough petitions.

Your event is a well-attended success.

Volunteers are showing up in droves.

Your candidate is up in the polls, is on TV, is blowing fundraising goals out of the water, is turning to thank you for all your hard work.

At that moment, everything is worth it.

This is an ode for those spreading light in these dark times. Those who know how to turn pain into persistence, despair into direction, helplessness into hope. This is for everyone sprinting towards a finish line they can’t yet see.

Keep running, and pushing, and making it happen.

Change doesn’t come to those who wait. Change comes to those who do.

Doers, take care of yourselves, because this hustle never really ends.

But I’m here with you, in the trenches, in the dark searching for the fabled light at the end of a tunnel that goes on forever.

The movement is you, is us, is everything.

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On Losing and Hope

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I’m a pessimist. Just ask anyone who has known me longer than 15 minutes. All can attest to my penchant for envisioning the worst in an effort to stave off disappointment, which I invariably end up suffering regardless. I’m a glass half empty kind of gal, a negative Nancy, a real downer at parties, a perpetual storm cloud in a world of annoyingly sunny days.

Or am I?

Since the devastating results of the 2016 election, I’ve found an odd source of power that keeps on chugging along no matter how low chances seem for success. When the world sucker punches me in the stomach, inviting me to curl up in the fetal position and stay there, that power orders me to walk it off and keep going. The worse things get, the brighter it shines. If I had to name this power, I’d call it hope. And that motherfucker really does spring eternal.

What the hell do I have to feel hopeful about, you might ask? Good question, because the last 2 years have been a doozy.

I watched a quarter of my country embrace the racist, sexist, POS candidate in 2016, propelling him to victory. I’ve seen Republicans in Congress attack every facet of what it means to be an American in their single-minded frenzy to bolster the 1% by lining their pockets with tax cuts that would cripple the dwindling middle class and further victimize those living in poverty. I’ve witnessed the rising tide of overt bigotry in all its forms. I’ve worked for months for a candidate I truly believed could lead my state in a positive direction for the first time in 20 years, only to watch him lose his bid for office. I feel the country moving under my feet, teetering on an edge beneath which lies utter destruction for people who look like me, for immigrants, for those who identify as LGBTQ. The country is on fire, and yet I’m sitting at a table in the middle of all of it, drinking coffee and thinking: this is fine.

But it really is fine.

Or, at least, it’s going to be. That’s something I firmly believe, and that belief is locked safely away in a place where no logic can penetrate, spreading its pessimistic blackness.

If we work hard, if we keep on keeping on, if we create change with every exhaled breath, with every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears we have to spare, I really think we can hold the encroaching chaos at bay. We can win big in November. We can make this country into a place that also works for people of color, for women, for the LGBTQ, for immigrants, for the disabled, for the working class, for all those struggling to make ends meet.

This kernel of positivity is an unexpected gift, born of utter despair and powerlessness. It’s the hope Barack Obama called so audacious. And it took disaster for me to understand the kind of enduring strength that can truly create change. I see it in the hardworking people around me in the trenches — the ones who are closer to me than folks I’ve known for over a decade. I see it in candidates running for office. I look in the mirror and see it — that flicker; that flame — and I know we’re really going to change things.

One loss is nothing. One setback. One punch to the gut that hurts but teaches us how to avoid the next blow.

We’re going to change things. It’s our time.

I believe it. And so I keep fighting. I hope you believe it too.

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Now That You’ve Marched, Organize

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I marched in one of the hundreds of Women’s Marches on January 21st, 2017, surrounded by thousands of fellow activists. We were pissed off, empowered, and vocal in our demands. For so many of us, it was our first time getting political. Last year, the march felt like the beginning of a movement. It was powerful. You could feel the energy humming in the air, as though change was rushing forward with deliberate speed. We were going to make a difference, that collective energy assured us, and the next 4 years was going to serve as proof of our commitment.

For many of us who marched, the next 12 months bore no resemblance to what our lives had once been. We got involved, we found initiatives to support and groups to join that were doing good, necessary work. We put our representatives on notice, calling, writing, and visiting their offices as often as we could. We tracked legislation. We joined our local Democratic parties and dove into canvassing and phone banking to get good people elected and find additional volunteers. Many took the ultimate step and decided to run for office. Resisting and community organizing became our part time jobs on top of the full time jobs we were already working to support our families. We kept the promises we made to ourselves and each other during those marches, when we could feel the power running through the crowds.

I have to admit, I wasn’t excited for the Women’s March this year. It frustrated me to see that many of the folks who were the most eager to attend were ones I hadn’t seen do much at all in the 12 months since the inaugural march. Some of these folks contact me from time to time to ask when the next march or protest is. They have their signs ready to go, they assure me, and want to know who we’re going to stick it to this time. When I tell these folks about a petition gathering event for a ballot initiative or encourage them to canvass to get a municipal candidate in office, they are not interested in getting involved. I’ve learned over the last year that there are many people who only want to attend marches. I don’t understand this, because marches don’t actually change anything. Hard work and organizing in your community makes change. Getting people into office who will represent your values and do what is best for their constituents makes changes. And, bonus, once these people are in office, we won’t have to march or protest to show our displeasure at how out of touch they are. That’s the point of all this, isn’t it?

Marching is cathartic. The energy is infectious in that big crowd and many of those marching are also working hard in their communities. It’s good to have an event to blow off steam that’s built up over the last several months of bone wearing work. Attending that first Women’s March was transformative for me, and it lit a fire under my ass that is still blazing. I know that to be true for many of my sisters and brothers in arms, and I’m thankful for them because they keep me motivated when the struggle seems endless and futile.

But marching simply to march doesn’t create change. A march without follow on action doesn’t do anything at all.

So, if you find yourself fired up after this year’s Women’s Marches, take that energy and funnel it into organizing in your community. Midterm elections are insanely important and we’re running out of time to get ready. All 435 seats are up for grabs in the US House of Representatives as well as 33 seats in the US Senate. There are 14 gubernatorial races this year, as well as hundreds of state Senate and House seats, and thousands of county and municipal offices. Everything is at stake. Let that electric energy carry you into this year with renewed focus. Get involved, if you haven’t already. It’s not too late. Your local Democratic Party needs you desperately. Your local branch of the ACLU or NAACP. And if no one is organizing in the way you think your community needs, pull some friends together and create your own group. It’s hard work, but rewarding. You’ll meet some of the greatest people you’ve ever known. You’ll be inspired each and every day. And when that change starts rolling in on that fabled Blue Wave, you will know you did your part, which is a feeling I can’t describe to those who haven’t yet felt it.

Marching engenders solidarity, but that solidarity is merely illusory if you don’t turn that heady feeling into action. I’m illogically optimistic for the direction of this country. I’ve seen what can happen in 12 short months when a determined group of ragtag members of the resistance work tirelessly. So, don’t just march, organize.

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Accountability Goes Both Ways

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In the last few weeks, the conversations we’re having about sexual assault and harassment are going seriously off the rails, and I think we need to recenter ourselves and our priorities before we keep talking about this issue. I’m looking at you, fellow progressives, and especially women. We’re ready to throw Roy Moore into a deep, dark hole for his proven penchant for molesting young girls, and rightfully so, but why are we so willing to jump to the defense of a democrat with a history of abusing women?

The problem as I see it is this: folks are either quick to equate child molestation with any kind of allegation of sexual misconduct (such as groping, exposing oneself to female coworkers, etc.) or, worse, they are willing to completely dismiss any behavior that does not reach the level of child molestation. It’s crazy, but here we are. Either way of misrepresenting the issue of sexual misconduct is a serious problem that threatens to derail any hope we have of improving the situation for women, both in the workplace and in their everyday lives.

Roy Moore is an obvious scumbag, and those of us on the blue side of the aisle can all agree that a man who was barred from the local mall as well as the YMCA for going after teen girls doesn’t belong in the Senate and, in fact, belongs in prison. But then the allegations against Al Franken hit the fan and people lost their damned minds. I have to admit, I was upset to hear about his conduct because I was a fan of Franken’s going way back to his SNL days, and I was an even bigger fan of his measured, intelligent performance in the Senate. I’m severely disappointed in his actions (which he has admitted and apologized for, so there is no reason to continually use the word alleged), but I’m not rushing to paint him with the same brush as Roy Moore, who is a child molester. However, simply because Franken’s conduct doesn’t reach the disgusting level of pedophilia doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t be held accountable. He absolutely should, without question, especially if we’re the progressively minded people we claim to be.

Recently, Bill Clinton’s bad past actions where multiple women are concerned has been brought up. It’s amazing to me to see how many people, including women, are jumping to his rabid defense. The selective embellishment of the past is truly an astounding process to behold…but it’s also extremely unnerving. These ardent defenders of Clinton’s honor are the same folks who will call out Moore, Trump, Ailes, and O’Reilly. As long as it’s a republican, we’re ready to drag them over the coals and demand they immediately vacate their posts and recede from public life in perpetual shame. Clinton may be a democrat, but that doesn’t absolve him of past guilt. He is no different from Trump when it comes to his personal conduct–another powerful man who used his position to move in on the women around him. It’s not acceptable when anyone does it–democrat, republican, Franken, or Moore–and while we can appreciate the specific nuances in every case, we shouldn’t give anyone a pass simply because he happens to rest his heels on our side of the aisle.

Let’s get things straight: I don’t see any value in relitigating Clinton’s actions, not because they aren’t important (we should most definitely judge them as unacceptable and disgusting), but because we have men in office right now (or trying to get into office) that we need to worry about keeping out of those powerful spaces because of their predatory and abusive behavior towards the women around them.

We need to demand accountability on all sides, period. We’re currently experiencing one hell of a culture shift, and that means even some of our own will be swept away when we clean out the trash. This is what it means to say that all men can do better. Even men we know, admire, and love. They can all do better. Refusing to admit that doesn’t move us forward. It only knocks us further back.

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