Permission slip

Yes, you can cry about politics.

I had planned weeks ago to take the day off after election day so that I could go to three important doctor’s appointments. I hoped that, despite some expected exhaustion, I’d be moving through the city with some adrenaline and excitement taking the edge off all of my physical pain. Instead, I dragged myself from appointment to appointment with a perma-frown and a sense of defeat, my body raging at me like normal. 

I felt a familiar sense of despair, except this time it wasn’t about the bad luck embedded inside my broken body, but a shared loss with the millions of people who so desperately wanted a sign that our country was on the right track, that it was going to be better than it had been, that its values were ones we could be proud of.

In some circles, especially the ultra-liberal, it’s thought to be silly and uncool to feel connected to any politician or party, to want so badly for them to win. None of these people actually care about us, we’re told to believe, and thus it’s absurd to care about them. But we connect with these people when they’re good at what they do because of what they bring out in us—the optimism, the hope, the joy. The way they shake our disillusionment and make us eager to participate in the American project once more. Kamala Harris did that in spades. 

Perhaps my heart would break a bit less if I let myself go permanently cold, turned off the stream of 24/7 political news, and gave up on a better world. I’m old enough now to fall into the cynicism trap and stay there, bitter and sad, until I turn to dust. Or, as many people opt to do, I could let my immense privilege be a nice little shade, blocking me from the blinding light of the real world and hoping it doesn’t touch me.

But none of that is in my nature. Not because I’m exemplary in any way, but because like so many people I know and love I care deeply about this spinning planet, with all its contradictions, imperfections, and potential. I don’t half-ass my interest in the world—what’s the point of being here if you do? 

So yesterday as I walked to the subway from a doctor’s appointment and watched Kamala’s concession speech on my phone I allowed myself to cry without any shame or self-consciousness or internal lecture about how being “this sad” over politics (especially if you’re privileged) is silly or self-indulgent. It’s not absurd to yearn for a better country, to give yourself up to hope, or to admire and root for someone who represents those things. Please give yourself permission to sink into that despair for a second, to feel the deep sadness. We’ll look for hope again tomorrow.