We stayed up late that night, later than we were normally allowed. Under any normal circumstance, this would have been thrilling: the freedom! But, as we stayed up later, I felt as if a heavy cloud was settling over my lungs and squeezing, a fish out of water. Powerless. I was only 11 years old and I had no idea what was at stake, but I still could not get enough air as I watched everything unfold.
We were all gathered in my living room, the TV on, casting a quiet glow on the nervous faces. Chips sat on tables forgotten, drinks stayed clasped in white knuckles. During commercials, between breathy laughs and the small shaking of hands, the conversation was light and meaningless. No one would remember what had been discussed the next day and certainly not in the years to come. It was just to distract us from what we were seeing — what we could not believe we were seeing. During the race it was quiet anger and bated breath. Small curses, that parents would later deny, when the results kept coming.
Every time the faces in the room flashed blue there was a sigh of relief as a fraction of the tension was released from adult shoulders. But, just as soon, there would be a sharp intake of breath as the screen flashed red, and the race tied itself back up. My parents' reactions told me everything I needed to know as I watched the country cut itself up, bleeding red and blue.
As the night wore on guests began to leave before the race had even finished. I didn’t know that our friends were leaving because they were defeated. I had no way of knowing. I held out hope because that’s what my parents told me to do as I went to bed without protest. I lay in my bed safe in the knowledge that nothing bad could happen, because bad things only happened to people who did bad things. He could not win because he had done bad things. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
The next morning I came down. I didn’t know. My mom was sipping her coffee in front of her computer, but she wasn’t working. She got up when I walked in. I asked.
“Who won?”
I watched her face change. It quivered, and then when she started crying I knew. But, I couldn’t understand. It didn’t feel real, as if it wasn't actually happening. Not to me. Not here, in the United States, with liberty and justice for all. I didn’t know when my country had become so hateful. Something had gone terribly wrong.
I walked forward and I hugged her. It hurt as I stood, an 11 year old comforting my mom, something that was not supposed to happen. It hurt as I felt powerless, wishing to be able to change the past. But, most of all, it hurt as I felt ashamed of what our country now stood for and the piece of my identity that had changed as an American.
In the following years, everyone kept saying that we were “living through history.” Usually, events only became significant afterward, in retrospect. You never realized that what you were witnessing would become a moment that historians would scrutinize for years to come. But this time somehow everybody knew that we were watching unprecedented events unfold before our eyes; things that were disgusting and corrupt. Sometimes I didn’t want to have to watch. It wasn’t history that I wanted to be living through.
Standing in the kitchen, holding onto my mom, already trying to find something solid to hold onto during the storm, I thought I knew what it meant, now that he had won. But, how could I? I was too young to be told everything because the role model of the country had done things that would not be appropriate for an 11 year old to hear. And really, how could anyone have known? Nobody expected things to be the way they are. Even trying to conjure up the worst possible scenario, everybody expected something better than what is happening. Nobody could have expected worse than the worst.
Now it's 2020. This time has to be different. Not again. Don't let another generation of 11 year olds come down to their mother crying in the kitchen.
We were all gathered in my living room, the TV on, casting a quiet glow on the nervous faces. Chips sat on tables forgotten, drinks stayed clasped in white knuckles. During commercials, between breathy laughs and the small shaking of hands, the conversation was light and meaningless. No one would remember what had been discussed the next day and certainly not in the years to come. It was just to distract us from what we were seeing — what we could not believe we were seeing. During the race it was quiet anger and bated breath. Small curses, that parents would later deny, when the results kept coming.
Every time the faces in the room flashed blue there was a sigh of relief as a fraction of the tension was released from adult shoulders. But, just as soon, there would be a sharp intake of breath as the screen flashed red, and the race tied itself back up. My parents' reactions told me everything I needed to know as I watched the country cut itself up, bleeding red and blue.
As the night wore on guests began to leave before the race had even finished. I didn’t know that our friends were leaving because they were defeated. I had no way of knowing. I held out hope because that’s what my parents told me to do as I went to bed without protest. I lay in my bed safe in the knowledge that nothing bad could happen, because bad things only happened to people who did bad things. He could not win because he had done bad things. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
The next morning I came down. I didn’t know. My mom was sipping her coffee in front of her computer, but she wasn’t working. She got up when I walked in. I asked.
“Who won?”
I watched her face change. It quivered, and then when she started crying I knew. But, I couldn’t understand. It didn’t feel real, as if it wasn't actually happening. Not to me. Not here, in the United States, with liberty and justice for all. I didn’t know when my country had become so hateful. Something had gone terribly wrong.
I walked forward and I hugged her. It hurt as I stood, an 11 year old comforting my mom, something that was not supposed to happen. It hurt as I felt powerless, wishing to be able to change the past. But, most of all, it hurt as I felt ashamed of what our country now stood for and the piece of my identity that had changed as an American.
In the following years, everyone kept saying that we were “living through history.” Usually, events only became significant afterward, in retrospect. You never realized that what you were witnessing would become a moment that historians would scrutinize for years to come. But this time somehow everybody knew that we were watching unprecedented events unfold before our eyes; things that were disgusting and corrupt. Sometimes I didn’t want to have to watch. It wasn’t history that I wanted to be living through.
Standing in the kitchen, holding onto my mom, already trying to find something solid to hold onto during the storm, I thought I knew what it meant, now that he had won. But, how could I? I was too young to be told everything because the role model of the country had done things that would not be appropriate for an 11 year old to hear. And really, how could anyone have known? Nobody expected things to be the way they are. Even trying to conjure up the worst possible scenario, everybody expected something better than what is happening. Nobody could have expected worse than the worst.
Now it's 2020. This time has to be different. Not again. Don't let another generation of 11 year olds come down to their mother crying in the kitchen.
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