Elections Are About People: Listen to Them

On the morning of November 6, many of us found ourselves facing the seemingly inconceivable fact that Donald Trump had become the next president of the United States of America—again. Not only had he won the electoral college, but he had won the popular vote as well. There were no stories we could tell ourselves this time to explain it away. It was a clear victory and a clear loss.

As the hours and then days passed, I sat with this truth, and as I did, I came to realize that this outcome had never been inconceivable. In fact, we should have expected nothing less. We had been heading down this path for too long, so blind to reality that we hadn’t even stopped to check the map before finding ourselves utterly lost.

We didn’t begin this journey when Biden agreed to exit the race. We didn’t begin it when it was clear Trump would run again. Not even after the first Trump win. No, we had been hurdling down this road toward a complete disconnect with large swaths of the American people for quite some time. Looking back, the clearest indication to me was the Wikileaks release of Democratic National Committee (DNC) emails showing their bias toward Hillary Clinton. That moment should have forced a reckoning. But none of us stopped long enough to reflect on how broken our party had become. Instead, we blamed Russian interference for forcing us to hold up a mirror to our own issues.

We did fail. This is no one’s fault but our own. This is not Trump’s fault. This is not the fault of those who voted for Trump. This is our fault.

The Democratic party is the party of organized labor. The party supporting civil rights and protecting minorities. The party of the working class, immigrants, the disenfranchised. But over the past two years, as we watched how the party chose to run the Biden campaign and then the Harris campaign, it was hard to see that party.

I truly wanted Harris to win, of course I did. She would have championed many of the issues I feel passionately about: job creation and economic growth; social and economic inequity; well-funded social services to protect the poor, the elderly, children, and other vulnerable populations; combatting threats to the civil rights of minorities, immigrants, and the LGBTQ+ community; affordable health care options; sensible gun legislation; women’s reproductive rights; and climate change. I disagreed with her refusal to speak out against the war in Gaza and for not insisting a Palestinian-American speak at the Democratic National Convention. But I knew how dangerous any alternative would be. And, not for nothing, I needed to see a woman become president.

Unfortunately, the DNC didn’t allow us to choose our candidate. In silencing our choice, many felt detached from the entire process. By skipping the Iowa caucuses, it was impossible for anyone to challenge Biden’s candidacy. When he left the race, the candidacy was simply given to Harris rather than allowing Democrats to feel like they had made her their choice. At that point it was too late for her to introduce herself to the American people, to make her case, to earn our trust and our vote.

Harris’s campaign spent nearly a billion dollars. Focusing on celebrity endorsements and concert rallies only served to prove Trump’s message that Democrats were the elite, out of touch with everyday Americans. In the final days of the campaign, Harris went on a “blue wall” tour with Liz Cheney to win undecided independents and moderate Republicans. Meanwhile, alienated voters in mining towns, inner cities, and immigrant communities across the country didn’t get such royal treatment. Their votes were assumed. They shouldn’t have been.

On election day, I knew I needed to find some way to occupy my time rather than checking CNN every few minutes and watching the minutes tick by until the polls closed. I was fortunate enough to be able to work the phones from 6:30 a.m.–8:00 p.m. with Drive Your Ballot, a volunteer-run organization in Philadelphia. For thirteen and a half hours I fielded 125 calls from people who needed a free ride to the polls, regardless of their circumstances or political affiliation. When I finally sat down to watch the results come in that night, I should have known what the next day would bring. I feel foolish now not to have known.

We can’t afford to continue to make these same mistakes. We must do what Americans seem so loathe to do—stop and reflect. I know there is an immediate battle ahead, but we must assess how we lost this one first. Because we did lose. We did fail. This is no one’s fault but our own. This is not Trump’s fault. This is not the fault of those who voted for Trump. This is our fault. We didn’t listen. We presumed we knew better.

I wrote a poem a couple days after Trump’s victory and Harris’s loss. In writing through my sorrow, anger, and pain, I was able to hear the voices of those my party is meant to represent, protect, and listen to. We must do better.

Election Day

I wake early, phone lines opening at 6:30.
140 miles north
cars idle on the streets of Philadelphia—ready.
If you want to vote today, we’ll get you there.

For twelve hours, call after call after call.
The sick, the elderly, the infirm.
Disabled, addicted, blind, homeless.
Some broken, some lonely.
Some desperate for an opportunity,
any opportunity.

A woman who speaks little English
knows two words very well
and repeats them emphatically:

“No Trump. No Trump. No Trump.”

A couple at a crappy motel outside the city,
snipe at each other as we talk.
They’ve been travelling too far, are too tired,
have been looking for a ride for too long.

“I think I got to get into this mess today.
Gotta jump into this voting thing,”
a blind man tells me.
“But can’t drive myself, now can I?”

A soft-spoken girl asks,
“Can my driver please be a woman?
I need it to be a woman.”
So, when the next young woman calls
I make sure to ask if she needs any
special accommodations,
“No,” she laughs embarrassed,
“I just don’t have no money.”

The moment I hang up,
the next call comes in.
One after another after another
after another after another
after another.

Until they stop.

The next morning the sun inexplicably rises,
shining down on a state awash in red—
the City of Brotherly Love,
a blue bruise in the corner.

We failed.

We failed Auntie Audrey, 102,
whose niece didn’t own a car.
She’d seen so much in her lifetime,
but not a president that looked like her.

We failed the homeless mother of two,
desperate to traverse the city from her shelter.
“The car needs to be big enough for all of us.
I need to bring my kids.”

We failed because someone forgot.
Forgot who we were fighting for.
Forgot who needed protecting.
Forgot our soul.

They forgot those five men
at the inpatient addiction facility
who needed a second chance.

They forgot that damn couple
in that crappy motel
who went from yelling at each other,
to yelling at me
because their ride hadn’t shown up.
They were hungry. They were done.

We all need to remember.
Because when we forgot,
we didn’t just fail Philadelphia.
We failed our entire country.