Don’t tell anyone this, but I’m a bit of a sucker for nostalgia. I love finding old photos, home videos, my notebooks from seventh grade—and I really love the kitschy “One year ago today…” Facebook feature. I’m the one who watches the “Friend-versay” videos, who delights in her ludicrous middle school posts. But a few days ago, Facebook reminded me of something different: what I had been thinking on Nov. 9, 2016, a day after the election of President Donald Trump. I had written a status.
When Trump was still just one of the many potential Republican candidates, I watched the debates with my 8-year-old sister. After a particularly vitriolic debate, she pointed to Trump, turned to me, and said, "Well, that guy is mean. We can't elect someone who's mean, right?"
I told her that she was right.
Beyond all civic and military duties, a president is a role model. Kids grow up wanting to be the President of the United States. I know I did.
My sister woke up this morning to a president-elect who is mean. That, above all rhetoric and venom, makes me sad.
One year later, and I don’t know if I was entirely truthful—Nov. 8, 2016 made me more than “sad.” It made me hopeless.
When asked the quintessential “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I was the one who emphatically answered, “President!” As I grew up, my response to that question gained a bit more nuance, but the sentiment remained the same—for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a political actor. The days preceding the 2016 election were unbearable for me—it felt like one long inhale, waiting to watch a female face finally occupy the presidency.
I remember the afternoon of Nov. 8: I was walking past Perkins with a friend, and in the middle of our conversation, I stopped and turned to her. “We’re going to have a female president by tonight.”
“Tonight” never happened. At 2:35 a.m., Hillary Clinton called Donald Trump and conceded the election, and I collapsed into my bed. The questions of “how” and “why” hadn’t entered my mind yet—all I could do was feel, and what I felt was empty. Everyone had a connection to the election—some were worried about Planned Parenthood, others about the Paris Accords, many about immigration. My connection was that I had just witnessed the most competent, well-qualified candidate to run for the office in years—who happened to be a woman—get defeated by an erratic, unqualified man. If Hillary couldn’t win the presidency, how could I ever become a player in politics?
Hopeless (adj.): inadequate, incompetent.
But when I reread my Nov. 9, 2016 status, I did not feel inadequate, nor incompetent. One year later, and I am no longer hoping. I am believing.
It started, as it always does, with my little sister. Now nine years old, she called me a few weeks after the election; as usual, she began regaling me with stories of school, new gymnastics routines, her latest painting. But just before we said goodbye, she inhaled sharply. “Cameron! I almost forgot,” she squealed. “We have school elections this week! And I’m running for President!” In the middle of West Union, I found myself beaming at my phone. “Chloe, that’s amazing! Good luck, my little one!”
A week later, she called me. She had won.
It was this, the absolute tiniest of victories, that let me begin seeing what I couldn’t see before. In the wake of the election, I had been laying down and giving up…but others were not. There were marches, demonstrations and protests across the country, and these weren’t just transient or symbolic. There were droves of women—young women—signing up for campaign training programs. There was my little sister, weeks after Hillary’s defeat, beating five boys in her fourth grade class elections.
Before Nov. 8, I’d always suspected that many of us didn’t really care about politics—maybe we tuned into the debates or even watched the news every night, but we never had any real control over the decisions of our officials. Even if we felt strongly, we couldn’t do much.
I was wrong. Care breeds action, and action breeds change—the Affordable Care Act demonstrations this summer and the January Women’s March (the largest protest in American history) prove as much. All we need is people to care, and we do. We powerfully, genuinely do.
When I finally started to get up and act myself, it meant something different than before the election—my action wasn’t out of anger, but out of an unswerving belief in what we can do. I needed the 2016 election to confirm that we care, and that our care can change our reality. I needed to lose hope to gain belief.
Cameron Beach is a Trinity sophomore. Her column runs on alternate Mondays.
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Cameron Beach is a Trinity sophomore. Her column runs on alternate Mondays.