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Visitors react as they follow on television the U.S. election night broadcasts, during an American breakfast buffet at the Nieuwspoort press center in The Hague, The Netherlands, on November 6, 2024.
This is a moment of radical uncertainty. No one knows. For many of us, that’s terrifying. Simply acknowledging this, rather than insisting on forced optimism or self-righteous action, feels necessary.
This is neither plan nor polemic. I am as lost as anyone in the face of Trump 2.0. I fluctuate between deep grief, existential fear, anger, privilege guilt, and Go mode.
I’m living on a tiny blue island in the middle of a sea of white nationalism in the Pacific Northwest. In just the last few years, synagogues have been attacked, a predominantly Black women’s NCAA basketball team was verbally harassed, books are being banned, trans athletes are being benched, and a militia rolled up on a Pride parade. There are real enemies living right around the corner, and they are emboldened.
We don’t have to decide whether Trump 2.0 is same ole, same ole or apocalypse now. We can recognize both can be true.
So, I am less interested in the election blame game than in figuring out how to prepare for what’s coming. Still, I’m compelled to reject the way the left, ”identity politics,” and ”woke agendas” are being scapegoated yet again as the reason the Democrat lost. That plays into the hatemongering on the right that is causing real harm. As Debt Collective organizer Astra Taylor wrote: “The fate of democracy is too precious to leave in the hands of the Democratic Party.”
I’ve been casting out a line hoping to reel in The Answer to meeting this moment. That’s where I think I get it wrong. I am trying to find solid ground, a correct position, a strategy. After an initial beat of stillness in the morning after, many answers are now on offer. Often, they are presented in contrast to what they are not. Two dominant themes keep reemerging.
Some are stressing that the U.S. has always been an “imperialist, white supremacist, capitalist patriarchy.” They counter liberal surprise with “you are awakening to the same country you fell asleep to. The very same country. Pull yourself together.” I’m reminded that after Donald Trump’s 2016 win, Native scholar-activists offered, “Welcome to the Empire. Where did you think you were living?” A week after this election, Mishuana Goeman told those of us gathered at the American Studies Association (ASA) conference in Baltimore, “The empire is meant to crumble.” She and other scholars reminded us of Indigenous survivance, generative imagination, kinship, and generational time.
Others are underscoring this moment as new, as a rupture, as a sharp right turn into authoritarianism. While not denying the history and on-going structures of U.S. state violence, they are encouraging us to recognize the difference of this moment. At a post-election event in Oakland, Angela Davis offered, “This is terribly new. It’s new with a terror.”
Many people are talking about resting in this post-election period, with various commitments to rejoining the fight. They are stepping back, disengaging from organizing, turning off the news, unplugging from social media (I’m not talking here about those who are overwhelmed, paralyzed, or permanently checking out). I hear this from liberal white colleagues. And from mainstream media stories about Black women stepping back.
Exhaustion seems to be the biggest motivation for stepping back, but a few others are circulating. Some question whether Trump really wants, or will be able, to follow through on his campaign promises. Others worry that believing the autocrat and focusing on what he says he’ll do could add to a sense of despair or panic. Still others are cynically signaling that voters deserve what’s coming.
Some are counseling, as they did in the pandemic, that we don’t know what light might emerge from the darkness—that the only constant is change.
At the other end of the spectrum, many are urging us to dig in, to (re)build networks, to strategize, to provide resources to those already under direct attack (e.g. Palestinian solidarity activists, DEI practitioners and educators, immigrant and trans communities). They note that the shock and awe campaign has already begun, the chaos is calculated and lying is the point. We are meant to feel overwhelmed—it’s literally part of the plan.
Some are focusing on things the Biden administration, Democratic governors, and local governments could be doing in this window before Trump takes office. There’s also the caution that, in an authoritarian context, institutions will not save us and so we need to organize to save ourselves. As one organizer put it, “We have everything we need. The fight is long, but winnable.”
I’ve been examining the arguments, trying to determine which I should commit to, but they all have merit. I am remembering to be skeptical of binaries, to think beyond either/or, to cultivate humility, generosity, and imagination. This is particularly critical considering the vicious attacks on nonbinary and trans folx, and the way Democrats have thrown them under the bus.
We don’t have to decide whether Trump 2.0 is same ole, same ole or apocalypse now. We can recognize both can be true. We don’t need to choose between resting or fighting. We can remember we are part of larger intergenerational collectivities that can hold us while we do both.
Like the pandemic, this is a moment of radical uncertainty. No one knows. For many of us, that’s terrifying. Simply acknowledging this, rather than insisting on forced optimism or self-righteous action, feels necessary. It’s also a more humble, generous stance. If we learned nothing else, the pandemic absolutely showed us we need to build systems of care, networks grounded in revolutionary love. Barbara Ransby encourages us to remember that “most importantly, we have each other.”
Some are counseling, as they did in the pandemic, that we don’t know what light might emerge from the darkness—that the only constant is change. At the ASA conference Roderick Ferguson offered: “What we believe to be the nadir may also be the emergence. Plant seeds, walk away, don’t hover, trust your planting... Teach others to plant seeds.”
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This is neither plan nor polemic. I am as lost as anyone in the face of Trump 2.0. I fluctuate between deep grief, existential fear, anger, privilege guilt, and Go mode.
I’m living on a tiny blue island in the middle of a sea of white nationalism in the Pacific Northwest. In just the last few years, synagogues have been attacked, a predominantly Black women’s NCAA basketball team was verbally harassed, books are being banned, trans athletes are being benched, and a militia rolled up on a Pride parade. There are real enemies living right around the corner, and they are emboldened.
We don’t have to decide whether Trump 2.0 is same ole, same ole or apocalypse now. We can recognize both can be true.
So, I am less interested in the election blame game than in figuring out how to prepare for what’s coming. Still, I’m compelled to reject the way the left, ”identity politics,” and ”woke agendas” are being scapegoated yet again as the reason the Democrat lost. That plays into the hatemongering on the right that is causing real harm. As Debt Collective organizer Astra Taylor wrote: “The fate of democracy is too precious to leave in the hands of the Democratic Party.”
I’ve been casting out a line hoping to reel in The Answer to meeting this moment. That’s where I think I get it wrong. I am trying to find solid ground, a correct position, a strategy. After an initial beat of stillness in the morning after, many answers are now on offer. Often, they are presented in contrast to what they are not. Two dominant themes keep reemerging.
Some are stressing that the U.S. has always been an “imperialist, white supremacist, capitalist patriarchy.” They counter liberal surprise with “you are awakening to the same country you fell asleep to. The very same country. Pull yourself together.” I’m reminded that after Donald Trump’s 2016 win, Native scholar-activists offered, “Welcome to the Empire. Where did you think you were living?” A week after this election, Mishuana Goeman told those of us gathered at the American Studies Association (ASA) conference in Baltimore, “The empire is meant to crumble.” She and other scholars reminded us of Indigenous survivance, generative imagination, kinship, and generational time.
Others are underscoring this moment as new, as a rupture, as a sharp right turn into authoritarianism. While not denying the history and on-going structures of U.S. state violence, they are encouraging us to recognize the difference of this moment. At a post-election event in Oakland, Angela Davis offered, “This is terribly new. It’s new with a terror.”
Many people are talking about resting in this post-election period, with various commitments to rejoining the fight. They are stepping back, disengaging from organizing, turning off the news, unplugging from social media (I’m not talking here about those who are overwhelmed, paralyzed, or permanently checking out). I hear this from liberal white colleagues. And from mainstream media stories about Black women stepping back.
Exhaustion seems to be the biggest motivation for stepping back, but a few others are circulating. Some question whether Trump really wants, or will be able, to follow through on his campaign promises. Others worry that believing the autocrat and focusing on what he says he’ll do could add to a sense of despair or panic. Still others are cynically signaling that voters deserve what’s coming.
Some are counseling, as they did in the pandemic, that we don’t know what light might emerge from the darkness—that the only constant is change.
At the other end of the spectrum, many are urging us to dig in, to (re)build networks, to strategize, to provide resources to those already under direct attack (e.g. Palestinian solidarity activists, DEI practitioners and educators, immigrant and trans communities). They note that the shock and awe campaign has already begun, the chaos is calculated and lying is the point. We are meant to feel overwhelmed—it’s literally part of the plan.
Some are focusing on things the Biden administration, Democratic governors, and local governments could be doing in this window before Trump takes office. There’s also the caution that, in an authoritarian context, institutions will not save us and so we need to organize to save ourselves. As one organizer put it, “We have everything we need. The fight is long, but winnable.”
I’ve been examining the arguments, trying to determine which I should commit to, but they all have merit. I am remembering to be skeptical of binaries, to think beyond either/or, to cultivate humility, generosity, and imagination. This is particularly critical considering the vicious attacks on nonbinary and trans folx, and the way Democrats have thrown them under the bus.
We don’t have to decide whether Trump 2.0 is same ole, same ole or apocalypse now. We can recognize both can be true. We don’t need to choose between resting or fighting. We can remember we are part of larger intergenerational collectivities that can hold us while we do both.
Like the pandemic, this is a moment of radical uncertainty. No one knows. For many of us, that’s terrifying. Simply acknowledging this, rather than insisting on forced optimism or self-righteous action, feels necessary. It’s also a more humble, generous stance. If we learned nothing else, the pandemic absolutely showed us we need to build systems of care, networks grounded in revolutionary love. Barbara Ransby encourages us to remember that “most importantly, we have each other.”
Some are counseling, as they did in the pandemic, that we don’t know what light might emerge from the darkness—that the only constant is change. At the ASA conference Roderick Ferguson offered: “What we believe to be the nadir may also be the emergence. Plant seeds, walk away, don’t hover, trust your planting... Teach others to plant seeds.”
This is neither plan nor polemic. I am as lost as anyone in the face of Trump 2.0. I fluctuate between deep grief, existential fear, anger, privilege guilt, and Go mode.
I’m living on a tiny blue island in the middle of a sea of white nationalism in the Pacific Northwest. In just the last few years, synagogues have been attacked, a predominantly Black women’s NCAA basketball team was verbally harassed, books are being banned, trans athletes are being benched, and a militia rolled up on a Pride parade. There are real enemies living right around the corner, and they are emboldened.
We don’t have to decide whether Trump 2.0 is same ole, same ole or apocalypse now. We can recognize both can be true.
So, I am less interested in the election blame game than in figuring out how to prepare for what’s coming. Still, I’m compelled to reject the way the left, ”identity politics,” and ”woke agendas” are being scapegoated yet again as the reason the Democrat lost. That plays into the hatemongering on the right that is causing real harm. As Debt Collective organizer Astra Taylor wrote: “The fate of democracy is too precious to leave in the hands of the Democratic Party.”
I’ve been casting out a line hoping to reel in The Answer to meeting this moment. That’s where I think I get it wrong. I am trying to find solid ground, a correct position, a strategy. After an initial beat of stillness in the morning after, many answers are now on offer. Often, they are presented in contrast to what they are not. Two dominant themes keep reemerging.
Some are stressing that the U.S. has always been an “imperialist, white supremacist, capitalist patriarchy.” They counter liberal surprise with “you are awakening to the same country you fell asleep to. The very same country. Pull yourself together.” I’m reminded that after Donald Trump’s 2016 win, Native scholar-activists offered, “Welcome to the Empire. Where did you think you were living?” A week after this election, Mishuana Goeman told those of us gathered at the American Studies Association (ASA) conference in Baltimore, “The empire is meant to crumble.” She and other scholars reminded us of Indigenous survivance, generative imagination, kinship, and generational time.
Others are underscoring this moment as new, as a rupture, as a sharp right turn into authoritarianism. While not denying the history and on-going structures of U.S. state violence, they are encouraging us to recognize the difference of this moment. At a post-election event in Oakland, Angela Davis offered, “This is terribly new. It’s new with a terror.”
Many people are talking about resting in this post-election period, with various commitments to rejoining the fight. They are stepping back, disengaging from organizing, turning off the news, unplugging from social media (I’m not talking here about those who are overwhelmed, paralyzed, or permanently checking out). I hear this from liberal white colleagues. And from mainstream media stories about Black women stepping back.
Exhaustion seems to be the biggest motivation for stepping back, but a few others are circulating. Some question whether Trump really wants, or will be able, to follow through on his campaign promises. Others worry that believing the autocrat and focusing on what he says he’ll do could add to a sense of despair or panic. Still others are cynically signaling that voters deserve what’s coming.
Some are counseling, as they did in the pandemic, that we don’t know what light might emerge from the darkness—that the only constant is change.
At the other end of the spectrum, many are urging us to dig in, to (re)build networks, to strategize, to provide resources to those already under direct attack (e.g. Palestinian solidarity activists, DEI practitioners and educators, immigrant and trans communities). They note that the shock and awe campaign has already begun, the chaos is calculated and lying is the point. We are meant to feel overwhelmed—it’s literally part of the plan.
Some are focusing on things the Biden administration, Democratic governors, and local governments could be doing in this window before Trump takes office. There’s also the caution that, in an authoritarian context, institutions will not save us and so we need to organize to save ourselves. As one organizer put it, “We have everything we need. The fight is long, but winnable.”
I’ve been examining the arguments, trying to determine which I should commit to, but they all have merit. I am remembering to be skeptical of binaries, to think beyond either/or, to cultivate humility, generosity, and imagination. This is particularly critical considering the vicious attacks on nonbinary and trans folx, and the way Democrats have thrown them under the bus.
We don’t have to decide whether Trump 2.0 is same ole, same ole or apocalypse now. We can recognize both can be true. We don’t need to choose between resting or fighting. We can remember we are part of larger intergenerational collectivities that can hold us while we do both.
Like the pandemic, this is a moment of radical uncertainty. No one knows. For many of us, that’s terrifying. Simply acknowledging this, rather than insisting on forced optimism or self-righteous action, feels necessary. It’s also a more humble, generous stance. If we learned nothing else, the pandemic absolutely showed us we need to build systems of care, networks grounded in revolutionary love. Barbara Ransby encourages us to remember that “most importantly, we have each other.”
Some are counseling, as they did in the pandemic, that we don’t know what light might emerge from the darkness—that the only constant is change. At the ASA conference Roderick Ferguson offered: “What we believe to be the nadir may also be the emergence. Plant seeds, walk away, don’t hover, trust your planting... Teach others to plant seeds.”