The Undercover Introvert

On Being Black, Female, Terrified, & Hopeful in 2020

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I’m pretty anxious about the upcoming election. That’s both the understatement of the century and an accurate description of my current state of being. I spend my day ping ponging between nausea-laced despair and regular despair — despair zero: all of the flavor without any of the pesky calories. If I’m awake, I’m worrying about a few hundred things at once, each one enormous, the cacophony beating along the inside of my skull.

And, yet, I still feel hopeful for some reason.

This is despite being a Black woman at this moment in America.

This is despite all evidence to the contrary.

In fact, let’s take a handful of seconds to go through some of that evidence, and then I’ll make my case for why we should keep on trucking in the direction of the light I’m looking forward to finding one day at the end of this long, strange, narrow tunnel.

After limping through the last four years of an incompetent megalomaniac occupying the White House (when he’s not occupying various golf courses, that is), there appears to be nothing to look forward to, no reprieve, no magic bullet, no hope of any kind. We’re living through a global pandemic that has killed more than 230,000 people in this country and sickened many more, kept us away from family and friends, turned our economy upside down, and financially destroyed millions of American families. Even before the pandemic bulldozed its way across the country, we lived in a state of perpetual dread at what irresponsible, bigoted, and/or outrageous thing the so-called leader of the free world would do next. Racism isn’t new, but Trump sure has managed to make it great again, hasn’t he? Ditto for sexism. And homophobia. And transphobia. And Islamophobia. And xenophobia. You get the point, right? It’s a truckload of isms and phobias. Not to mention the courts are packed to the rafters with conservative judges, we’re not doing one goddamned thing about climate change, and we’re the butt of every joke on the international stage.

But, here I am, hopeful. Nauseous as I maniacally check every election related metric imaginable, but still hopeful.

Part of this hope is directly related to what I do for a living. Back in 2016, as I watched the political train careen off the track and into the canyon below, I had absolutely no way to influence the process past my vote. Don’t get me wrong. One person’s vote is important. But back then I believed voting was all an American needed to do in order to claim engagement in the process.

I learned how wrong I was the hard way.

I felt hopeless and scared the morning after Election Day, and when that despair turned to anger, I didn’t really know what to do about it. By the middle of November, I’d found my people — other pissed off folks (mostly women) that hadn’t been involved before but wanted to fix that lack of engagement in a hurry — and that started me on a path I’m still traveling to this day.

Another reason I’m hopeful is that I finally understand the full extent of my power now, how it’s amplified when I stand shoulder to shoulder with other people like me who want things to be different, fairer, better. Not just a return to the pre-Trump era, but a reimagining of what we could be as a country if only we eradicated racist and sexist systems that have been in place since the nation’s founding.

Every time we lose a fight or take a hit that should leave us down for the count, I feel that abiding, stubborn flicker of hope intensify, and we get back up again. If you’d told me 4 years ago about this persistent little flame, I’d have waved you off, disbelieving. How could such a thing exist, I’d ask, given everything that’s wrong? But now I think it only exists because of what’s wrong. The fixing is fuel, and there’s so much that’s broken.

So, what about this election?

I voted weeks ago, and we’re shortly running out of work that can be done that might influence the direction of this election. But I’m going to keep pushing. I plan to leave it all on the field this year.

Before getting sucked into the world of politics, I’d never experienced the feeling of helping to shape history. Of being part of a movement that could bend the arc of the moral universe a little further towards justice. I feel that now. We’re making history, all of us, together. And we’re a few short days away from the fruits of our labor. I really believe that. I have to. That little flame demands it.

And after Election Day?

We keep going, fighting, pushing to create the country as it should be. There’s so much damned work to do, but I’m grateful to be able to do a small part of it, and I’m even more grateful for the people that are doing the work right along with me.

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Good Riddance: On the Death of 2018

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As the end of another year looms, I feel the familiar urge to reflect. You know, for the sake of auld lang syne. If, as the worn cliche states, life is a journey, this year was the part of said journey in which I veered from the road less traveled and into the actual wilderness. Here I am, bedraggled, checking the sky for familiar stars by which to orient myself, stumbling through the underbrush, thorns tearing at my clothing, smeared with dried blood and dirt. But I’m still pushing forward, powering toward 2019 as I contemplate the death of the old year and the impending birth of the new.

As always, approaching the precipice of a new year triggers deep reflection of the year that’s passing. This, in turn, triggers the desire to share what I learned, my struggles, and hopes for the days and months to come…

You can’t win them all.

I spent the year working on political campaigns, toiling for 80+ hours a week to get folks elected that I truly believed could change my state and country for the better. These were people for whom I was willing to bleed, sweat, and cry. After the fire that was this election cycle went out and the ashes settled weeks past election day, it turned out that there was more losing than winning, and some of those losses were crushing. I understand that this isn’t the type of work you do for a short while, that it takes a lifetime to create the lasting change you want to see in the world, but the losses still land like a sucker punch to the gut. After you recover your breathing, however, there isn’t much to do besides learn from what went wrong, celebrate what went right, and get on with the next initiative.

When all else fails, read.

I’ve been an avid reader from early elementary school, and, as I grew into adulthood, it was normal for me to read 75+ books per year, devouring them as soon as I could get my hands on them. There isn’t much I value above a well formed collection of words, and I’ve fallen into many a book that has left me breathless with the author’s fantastic prose. Even less earth shattering books will do, provided they can hold my interest.

In 2017, however, I found myself so nerve-shatteringly busy that I only read 2 books all year. I haven’t read so little for pleasure since I learned how to read. I was ashamed, dismayed, and determined not to repeat the mistake in 2018. I knew I’d be busy, so I set a modest goal of 30 books. I’m happy to report that I surpassed that goal by 7 books (working on number 38 right now). Next year, I’m shooting higher, and I plan to make reading a little every day (and not just articles about how the country is on fire) a priority. Reading calms the chaos in my head. I need it to live well. That’s something I had to relearn this year.

Not everyone on your side is a friend.

Democrats, y’all know how we are. We may be a big tent party, but say the wrong thing around the wrong group of Dems and you’ll be knocked out of that tent and onto your ass.

My home state happens to be one that had a very contentious gubernatorial primary, and, more broadly, many Dem incumbents were challenged in their districts by so-called ‘more progressive’ candidates. So, that created a perfect shit storm of division, hate filled rhetoric, grandstanding, prolonged character assassinations, and higher than thou pronouncements. Once the primaries ended, we were all supposed to go along to get along, and I think many of us did, but it damned sure wasn’t comfortable — like jamming your feet into a pair of shoes a size and a half too small. The constant sniping, back biting, and tearing down of other Democratic candidates created an environment similar to 2016. It would be a massive understatement to say that this was an extremely frustrating and exhausting experience.

I don’t know how we successfully move forward as a party, but I’m willing to commit myself to doing whatever it takes. However, I have come to understand that just because we are all Democrats doesn’t mean you give a shit about what would make life more equitable for black folks, for women, and for other marginalized groups. It’s depressing, but real. But the work must continue, even if the conditions make it difficult to stay positive and productive. That’s what happy hour is for, amirite?

Buy into selfcare or perish.

Selfcare isn’t some new age bullshit that can be written off with the roll of your eyes. I say that because I used to think of the concept in those terms. Being busier than I ever dreamed possible has quickly disabused me of those tired, narrow minded notions. There were many days that I woke up brittle and weary after a decent night’s sleep, simply because the exhaustion was all consuming and had settled into my very bones. To combat this, I created pockets of spaces that I used like temporary sanctuaries — dinner with friends, a movie with my folks, the quiet commute to the office or an event while I listened to an audio book in peace — and, next year, I plan to further carve out these pockets, to expand them into spaces large enough for me to fully occupy, if only for a short while. We need these spaces in order to go on being productive. And being an introvert only amplifies this need. This is yet another lesson I’ve learned the hard way this year.

You can figure most things out along the way.

How does a person go from never working on a political campaign to working on three in quick succession, the titles getting better and more responsibility-laden as she moves along? Well, there is a whole hell of a lot you can learn to do if only you’re willing to introduce nose to grindstone, set fire to your personal life (for a few months at a time), and jump all the way in, caution be absolutely damned. This is literally what I did this year, and, inexplicably, I found myself holding my own as I worked closely with people who have been doing this kind of work for years. I spent 2018 soaking up everything of value, pinpointing things that weren’t working, and then improving upon them. I believe a fresh set of eyes combined with the willingness to work 7 days a week for months on end created the space for me to grow much more rapidly than I ever believed possible. It also helped me move beyond the obstacle of my own doubt, and it’s a beautiful thing to see that stumbling block in the rearview instead of perpetually up ahead. Now I’m in this shit, and I have so many ideas for how to make things even better. More on that in 2019…

A sense of humor is vital.

In my family, you can’t hang unless you can crank up the sarcasm and crack jokes just about every 30 seconds. My sense of humor is very particular, and it’s not for everyone (their loss). So, I know I’ve found the right people when they get my sense of humor and, even better, counter it with their own. This year, I was fortunate enough to work with all kinds of funny, interesting, intelligent, irreverent people. Working fifteen hour days isn’t so bad if you’re laughing and trading jokes all day. I want more of that next year, and every year.

Changing the world is possible.

This is the best lesson learned over the last couple years, but this year I actually got to flex my skills and put them to focused use. Change is possible, and I can be part of what ushers it into existence. It might mean working for the rest of my life, but I’m okay with that. It beats the complacent alternative. I’ve had too many years of inactivity already. For me, the hustle will continue until the day hustling becomes impossible.

I’m not sad to see 2018 go (it’s last call, after all), and I value the lessons learned this year, including the losses, because there is more to learn in losing than in winning. I truly believe that. I want to slough off all the frustration that has built up over the last 12 months and enter 2019 with renewed spirit and fresh perspective. There’s so much work to be done, and I can’t wait to get started. Onward.

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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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