On Monday night, I could not sleep. My mind whirred endlessly in excitement; my tiredness was swept away by currents of opportunity. And running on fumes of sleepless joy, I couldn’t help but smile nervously across the day, for I would wake up the following morning to a new sunrise. The dawn of an age where a woman who couldn’t vote 104 years ago could be President of the United States.
On Tuesday night, I could not sleep. My heart was off tempo, missing a beat each time the Wall Street Journal decided to notify me of a swing state turned crimson. My tears resumed the following morning at the historic victory, the first time a convicted criminal would stand at the helm of such a powerful nation.
I called my mother in distraught despair, and she asked, “Why waste tears on this?”. At the end of the day, I’m Puerto Rican, and the policies enacted under Mr. Trump’s second term would hardly impact me directly. And in my own country, for the second time in our history, a woman could call herself our rightfully elected governor.
But my tears were not for myself. They were for the hope of so many. I wept like an idiot because I truly, honestly, and naively believed that the American people would choose an overqualified woman over a convict. Over a liar, over an enemy of democracy, over a rapist. I cried because my anger pathetically bubbled over at witnessing the abominable example that’s been set for younger generations. To boys, no matter who you use and what atrocities you commit, you can sit in the most powerful chair in the world. To girls, no matter how hard you work or how much experience you have, you do not have the same privilege.
On Wednesday, my shell-shocked self dramatically wore black and kept quiet (a true rarity for me). Because who needs reproductive rights, anyway?
But my emotions would simply not settle. I tried to fuel my sorrow into something more productive, listening to rage-fueled anthems at maximum volume in an attempt to drown out the screams of my disbelief. As I went to bed, my heart still had not regained a steady rhythm. The Pandora’s Box had been opened, my emotions were unleashed, and I simply couldn’t get them back inside the box.
On Thursday morning, I realized that one tiny ember remained within Pandora’s Box. The twins of grief and rage had turned into something far more powerful. The duplicity of hope and determination.
Sure, many might consider what happened on Tuesday a travesty, but more than that, it was democracy. Donald Trump (even as a convict, liar, and rapist) will move back into the White House come January, and that is ok. And I won’t talk about the economy, abortion, or immigration, because there are people far more educated than I to decide how certain issues are handled. But, along with half of the United States population, I am a woman. And that is the issue I will never shut up about. That is the fight I have hope for, that is the mission I am determined to further.
I’ve attended an all-girls school my entire life and have been raised by generations of women far stronger than I’ll ever be. And there are not enough words in my vocabulary to describe how inexplicably grateful I am for that stroke of luck. Grateful to have watched girls use their voices, fists, and minds. So thankful that my mother taught me to take a fall and get back up. So thankful that my aunts honed my tongue into my sharpest weapon. And so thankful that my grandmothers have taught me not to tolerate even the slightest disrespect.
Do not mistake this mere lost battle for victory, for this loss does not even make a dent in the generational war for women’s rights. It's a fight that has made it so, so far, and still has leagues to go. So, the presidency? Take it. Women across history have been stripped of far more.
On Friday, I tilted my head up to the sky and with tear tracks now dried, appreciated the warmth of perhaps not a new era, but a renewed fight. We will now walk with our shoulders just a little further back. Our steps will be certain, and each stride will bring us one step closer to equality. We will continue to teach young girls that the world is theirs for the taking and that while they’ll inevitably trip on the path, they’ll get up stronger each time. Together we must carry on the forgone dreams of foremother's past, and the following generations will push it even further, until no one questions that a woman rightfully sits in the Oval Office.
Because across each lost presidency, across rage and despair, what remains in Pandora’s Box is the most important of them all: Hope.
Much love,
A Girl
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