High Hopes

I had such high hopes.

This week I cried lots. For my friends who suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed. For small children who don’t understand. For myself, who also didn’t understand.

People keep saying, “Let’s see what happens.”
But I can’t think about what will happen. I’m still stuck on what did happen.

I voted for someone.
Not just against someone.

I voted with my vagina.
But also with my brain and my heart.

I worked hard to set aside the baggage both of them had. Emails. Bankruptcies. Benghazi. Lawsuits. Labor violations. Tax evasions disguised as strategy. I gave them both a hall pass on the past so I could focus on who they were as people. As leaders. As potential presidents.

I reasoned that if you want to change the game, you should at least understand the rules.

If something needs fixing, you hire someone who’s actually fixed things before.

If you’re going to negotiate with world leaders, you should respect the delicate threads that hold the world together instead of tugging on them to see what snaps.

I believed leadership required both a firm hand and a humble heart.
I believed diplomacy was not the same thing as “the art of the deal.”
I believed you can’t serve two masters: you’re either in it for us or for you.

So I voted.

I voted for someone who devoted her adult life to public service.
Someone who knew the Constitution without needing Cliff notes.
Someone who believed America is already great, but maybe not evenly distributed.
Someone who felt that rules applied to everyone.
Someone who understands that love transcends race, color, creed, gender, and who you love.

I voted for someone who wasn’t going to let the government supervise my girlparts.
Because frankly, we’ve had enough committee meetings about my uterus.

And yes — I voted for someone who has a vagina.

Because it’s fucking long past time that a wildly qualified woman run this country without being evaluated like she’s auditioning for America’s Next Top Pantsuit.

She lost.

Not because she lacked experience.
Not because she lacked stamina.
But because a lot of people decided disruption was sexier than preparation. Because anger felt better than nuance. Because “outsider” sounded exciting.

And because, apparently, women who make mistakes are monsters… while men who do worse are “bold.”

That part absolutely sucks.

For a few days I shut it all off. No news. No TV. Sad music on repeat like I was recovering from a breakup – which, in a way, I was. A breakup with the future I thought we were choosing.

What I thought I could bear it, I finally watched her concession speech.

There she stood. Graceful. Steady. Head high. Not scorched earth. Not vengeance. Just resolve.

I cried even harder.

Because that’s what leadership looks like. Even in defeat.

So I turned my phone back on. Logged back into Facebook. Still not quite ready for cable news, but taking baby steps.

This isn’t over. There is still goodness. Still decency. Still grace.
A million loud, arrogant, tiny-handed old white men can’t extinguish that.

And someday, whether it’s 2020 or 2040, we’ll try again.

Me and my vagina will be there.

Meanwhile, bless you, Hillary Clinton.

And FUCK YOU, Susan Sarandon.