Introduction

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I stayed up ‘til 2:30am on November 8th. My kitchen was full of eight women alternating between tears and tirades. We watched the map of the United States electorate, hitting refresh every minute or two. The blue receded. The red began enveloping, county by county. We waited for Michigan to show her true colors. Pure Michigan, Go Blue, etcetera. Washtenaw remained true, evidence of the liberal, affluent college campus that had been molding us for three and a half years. But it was a solo endeavor. Save a small eight like-minded counties, Michigan turned red. It was a nasty red, a red that symbolized bigotry, patriarchy, and progress rewinding.

 

There was a pattern in the words that peppered the barrage of anger, the outbursts of injustice. We spoke of grabbing women by the pussy, defunding Planned Parenthood, and America’s embarrassment in international eyes. We spoke of a wall built to keep out those born on the “wrong” side, our Islamic friends taken aside at every airport, and a tasteless Twitter post on Cinco de Mayo. Then hindsight set in. Hillary did have sketchy business ties. She did use a private email server while holding public office. She accepted a cheating husband. For her, a theme appears – lies, hypocrisy. The rhetoric surrounding Hillary lacked variation. I could sum up my feelings regarding her wrongs in a sentence or two. Trump, however? That would take years.

 

And that gave me pause. America had spoken. America had spoken, despite the feelings of rage, disbelief, and injustice felt by eight middle-upper class, educated white women and around 50% of voting Americans. It was evident that something happened, that something had been sitting, turning, fermenting, that was beyond our limited scope. While being blinded within the bounds of a world-renowned institution of learning should be an oxymoron, in this situation it was true – we had been unable to see the extent of Trump’s reach, nor the public’s discontent.

 

And so, at 2:30am on the eve of a historic presidential upset, we eight shut our computers, silenced our outbursts, and locked our doors. We awoke still mulling in silence. Some robotically made the trek to class. Others couldn’t, and sat instead in the safety of home pouring over the news, re-analyzing again and again what had occurred that night. In that time, it was becoming clear that it wasn’t about last night.

Retrospect is a beautiful thing. With it, we can compile the media headlines, note each candidate’s career contingencies, and begin dissecting the labeling cycle that creates single narratives. But in order for retrospect to work, we need awareness.

 

The following evening, the family room began to fill with college women as was want to happen after we’d each gone about our days. Fueled by company, the murmurings grew louder, with no apparent purpose at that point other than to prove each more unhappy than the other regarding the catastrophe that had stricken America. Except a few remained silent. It began to dawn on me that a few women in the room had contributed to this result. They had been touched enough by the rhetoric of lies and hypocrisy surrounding conversations regarding Hillary Clinton to vote against America’s first female presidential candidate. And so they sat in their home, listening to feminist rants. Those initial eight were in disbelief, disbelief that any individual could vote for the human representation of an archaic monster. But those voices with the potential to enlighten the display of incredulity remained silent amid the barrage of judgments.

 

And so we found ourselves at an impasse.