Readers who voted for Hillary Clinton and readers who voted against Donald Trump articulate their shock, disappointment, and fear in the wake of the presidential election.
Supporters of Hillary Clinton at her election-night rally react to the voting results.Drew Angerer / Getty
We’ve heard from scores of readers who can relate to Megan’s letter about feeling responsible for Hillary Clinton’s loss—many of whom offered sympathy and assurances that it’s not her fault, and many of whom (like me) share in Megan’s sense of guilt. One reader, Laura, says she understands where Clinton voters like Megan are coming from—up to a point:
Well, actually I don’t understand, but rather I recognize the behavior. And it angers me, because I thought after all these years of struggles to raise the status of women, all the sacrifice, that women would openly embrace and cheer on Clinton. But indeed, among younger women there was this familiar reticence to openly support Her.
I am 63. As a young woman, I worked with Planned Parenthood to ensure abortion rights, and then for the Equal Rights Amendment, and then organized secretaries’ unions to improve wages and working conditions. Throughout my working life, the right of women to live as equals with men has been a driving force—an inheritance from my immigrant Spanish grandmother, who knew she was equal to men and made sure her daughters knew it as well, even if it only meant she ruled her kitchen.
So when my even slightly younger friends—who are the beneficiaries of all those decades of work—reluctantly, sheepishly, apologetically, expressed their support (or worse, their hatred) for Hillary Clinton, it was all I could do not to slap them with my grandmother’s bony hand—her hard-working hand—and say, “You fool, we’ve worked too hard for this. Be proud, have some pride.”
It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance that I doubt I’ll see again and I am heartbroken—not only to have missed the chance to see a woman president of the U.S., but also to know that younger women have not overcome the shame of sex discrimination.
We fight on.
Ann Laughlin, a reader who marched for the women’s movement in the 1960s and ’70s, would agree with Laura: “So many paid so dearly to get women the privileges we take for granted. We took the benefits and lost the focus. We did not finish the job we started.” This next reader, Meghan Edwards, can speak to that sense of complacency:
I did not campaign for Hillary. Before last Tuesday, I didn’t feel connected to her at all. But I did vote in this election, and I voted for Hillary, because to me, there was no other option. The other option wasn’t real. It wasn’t something that I took seriously, nor was it something that the mainstream media—which I consume every day—treated seriously. Memes. Hair jokes. Mouths as eyeballs. It was always, always a joke.
And because of this, I thought this election would be a breeze. I thought we would be sitting back at 9 p.m., celebrating an already called election for Hillary. I thought we would feel the same way we felt in 2008 after President Obama won—elated, as we made history.
Instead, at around 9 p.m., I started to feel sick to my stomach. And I woke up on Wednesday feeling physically crushed. I had no idea how much this election meant to me until Tuesday night.
I guess it feels worse because I truly believed we were waking up on Wednesday with a woman President. I already believed it was a done deal, because to believe otherwise was to believe in a world I didn’t think existed anymore. I didn’t want to believe that we live in a world where racism, sexism, and threats of violence can still prevail. I'm lucky I don’t feel the weight of sexism and racism on a daily basis. I am surrounded by powerful and inspirational women every day at work and in my life. And it’s easy for me to forget that this is not the norm.
I now know in my bones that it’s not yet the norm. This past week I was reminded that I will never know what it’s like to be a confident male walking into any room. I was reminded that as a woman, I am not judged by what I say or what I think, I am immediately judged by what I look like, and how my mannerisms come across. I was reminded that when I cry or act “irrational,” I am perceived as a foolish woman who can’t control my emotions. We still only aspire to a world where “we hold these truths to be self-evident that all people are created equal.” The world needs to change for women.
That could be a silver lining to Hillary’s loss, as my colleague Caitlin points out: the reminder that a female president isn’t inevitable could inspire many women to speak up in ways they haven’t before. Brooke writes:
Thank you for sharing Megan’s article about the anger and guilt she is feeling. As a white woman who voted for Clinton but has felt equally intimidated to speak up over the last few years, I feel the same way and have been really struggling over the last few days. I feel like the black and Latina women I know have been so much more vocal, and I also feel ashamed I didn’t join them.
I also voted for Romney instead of Obama in 2012 and I never told anyone, and I worry that shame I felt for being a Republican—although socially very liberal—is what contributed in part to Trump’s rise. And the remarkable thing is, I still feel scared to be vocal! But I’m forcing myself to be vocal now.
Speaking of white women, they’ve received an outsize share of blame from liberal critics for voting for Trump—though as my colleague Michele writes, white women as a group tend to vote Republican for many different reasons. If you’re a Republican woman who broke party lines to vote for Clinton, or a woman who voted for Trump in spite of mixed feelings, we’d like to hear from you: hello@theatlantic.com.
This next reader can also relate to Megan:
I felt the guilt creeping in the morning after the election even during early conversations at work about what went wrong nationally. Then I heard it in Hillary Clinton’s concession speech: She acknowledged the secret, private group Pantsuit Nation, but then said, “I want everybody coming out from behind that—and make sure your voices are heard going forward,” with frustration peeking through. In that sentence, I felt like Hillary looked every one of us who was an active participant in that group square in the eye and asked us why we couldn’t have been more brave.
In an election that came down to 150,000 votes, why did we—educated, opinionated women (and men)—shy away from trying to have reasonable conversations with our friends, families, and neighbors? Why did we take so much comfort and joy in our Facebook wall turning into a safe space of Hillary cheerleaders? Why weren’t we forcing ourselves to have challenging conversations?
My colleague Chris is leading a challenging conversation right now among some readers who voted for Trump and others who are trying to understand why so many people did. Those confrontations and connections will be even more important as we move on from the election, and I encourage you to read that discussion here, and join in. Meanwhile, that same line from Clinton’s concession speech stood out to Joy, a reader from Los Angeles:
I was added to the Pantsuit Nation early on when there were a few thousand members. I watched that number grow to three million in a matter of weeks. I read the stories that poured in and understood the relief people felt at having a shared private space to express ourselves. It was a secret space, hidden from the trolls and family members who leapt at any mention of HRC on our social media pages. It felt good to belong to a group who wasn’t afraid to say she’s not the lesser of two evils; she is THE BEST CHOICE.
In Hillary’s concession speech she referenced the Pantsuit Nation and how she hoped those voices would come out and be heard. And that’s when it hit me: I’d been hiding. My hiding cost her the election, just as much as the Trump voters.
I hesitated before wearing my Hillary T-shirt out in public. I never could commit to putting the bumper sticker on the outside of my car, so I taped it inside the tinted rear window and told myself my children were probably safer this way. I felt exposed when my in-laws, Trump supporters, came to visit and saw my Hillary votive candle on my mantle. I worried that my kids would repeat something I’d said about Trump and their grandparents would get offended. Why did I worry about offending them when everything out of Trump’s mouth offended me?
Now we’re days past the election and I’ve been added to many more secret Facebook groups. People are wearing safety pins as a secret signal to others they pass on the street. We’re all afraid and communicating in code. No one wants to be exposed, identified and vilified as a “crybaby” who won’t accept things and move on. What is it that keeps us in the shadows? I still can’t answer that for myself.
That’s been the most painful question for many of our readers, who wrestle with guilt and shame over failing to publicly support Hillary Clinton even as they explain the fears and pressures that kept them quiet. Meghan G., another member of Pantsuit Nation, writes that she’d stopped mentioning her support for Hillary because she was always accused of voting for her “just because she’s a woman.” Amy, a Democrat in Texas, kept quiet about politics at work, because she has a government job—but she also didn’t wear her Hillary shirt outside in her neighborhood, because her husband was afraid she’d be harassed or attacked by Trump supporters. James B. Youngblood, who lives in a mostly white, mostly Republican town in northern California, says that “as a gay man I have often let things slide and hid my own feelings, often to keep the peace and avoid confrontation but also to avoid physical violence.” He calls his reasons for keeping quiet “shameful,” and maybe they are. But those threats and fears are also real.
It’s a strange mixture of factors, I think, that silences Hillary supporters—especially women, especially in this era of so much and so little progress. There are the habits of silence we learn over years of being dismissed or talked over, of being called bitchy, of having our pleasant smiles prized over anything that we might say. The habits of fear that we learn over years of silently ducking our heads past catcalls, of clutching our keys in our pockets in case a strong man on a dark street turns out to be dangerous.
But then there are the other aspects of being a woman in America: the fact that nearly every possibility does seem open to us, and that the sexism we do encounter is rarely so overt as Donald Trump’s. The remarkable fact that for many women my age, the nomination of a woman by a major party feels normal; that the shattering of America’s highest glass ceiling feels so inevitable that it’s somehow embarrassing to admit putting votes behind a desire to see it break. It can almost feel, strangely, like a betrayal: Generations of women have fought to ensure that when it comes to opportunity, gender doesn’t matter. Today their success is defined, ironically, by the invisibility of what they’ve achieved.
And that combination—the subtlety and the complexity and the normalcy of it all—can hold us back from publicly supporting the champions we have. Take it from Carol, whose surprise about Clinton’s loss is mixed:
Hillary’s brutal beating by Trump has shockingly revealed to many of us that the U.S. is far more misogynistic than we realized. Many of us women truly thought we’d come a long way, baby, but now we know the awful truth.
In 2008, I talked my mother, a glass-breaker herself, out of voting for Hillary in the primary by convincing her that too many people seemed to hate Hillary, and that she couldn’t win the national election. I had long heard shockingly snide remarks about her from both women and men.
In honesty, I think Hillary, who is my age, is yesterday’s version of a woman leader, defined in the corporate world of the ’90s when we strove to fit in with the men, from the pantsuit to the tightly controlled emotions. Some day, I believe a different woman will come along who is strong in a different way, more comfortable in her femininity, using her femininity in a way that is powerful but somehow not threatening. And only because Hillary lost so painfully will people rejoice to finally see a woman take the White House. Hillary was simply not the right woman for this time.
At this time, the president-elect of the United States is a man who’s been openly hateful toward women. In this time, what it means to be an American woman is more complicated than ever. So what does it mean, as Carol puts it, to use femininity in a way that is powerful? What is it, as Joy asks, that keeps us in the shadows even as we succeed? I’ll welcome your thoughts and reflections, as I’ll be reflecting myself.
For my part, I’ve quietly, passively, half-guiltily supported Hillary Clinton since the 2008 primaries, when a boy in my high-school Spanish class said the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard in person, before or since. His name was Tré. He was a class clown, usually, but that day he was being serious, wearing a “Hope” T-shirt with Obama’s face, and wristbands in red, white, and blue. He wasn’t old enough to vote, but he was supporting Barack Obama. He was hopeful and proud; it was long past time for a black man to sit in the White House. And then he turned to Hillary Clinton, or rather to Bill Clinton’s infidelities: “If her pussy wasn’t good enough, how’s she going to be president?”
In the classroom, there was a minor uproar. A girl shrieked with laughter: “You’re so bad!” The boy next to me, Noah, pronounced Tré’s language inappropriate and threatened to call the principal, and Tré turned angry: Noah wouldn’t dare. The two of them faced off over a desk, and all I could think was that I couldn’t let them fight. All that I said was, “Tré, please stop.” And he thanked me for asking nicely.
I was 15. I could recite the names of suffragettes; I’d grown up on historical-fiction novels with heroines who weren’t allowed to do things just because they were girls. But this was the first time I’d seen a peer, someone I liked and trusted, so crudely and casually dismiss the strength and skills of someone like me. It was the first time I recognized how much a female president would mean: the example that she’d set, the respect and the progress to which she would testify. It was the first time I realized, fully, that I needed Hillary Clinton. It was also the first time I failed her.
Those folks who wrote and performed intimate music that touched your soul. The Beatles, Dylan, Carole King, James Taylor, Cat Stevens, etc. Folk, Rock, Country, Whatever. Folks that had an instrument and something to say that touched you.
One reader recommends Imogen Heap’s “Just For Now”:
I think looping is an interesting niche for solo singer-songwriters. Something about layered melody and beats is kind of kewl, and solo-ness of it all is very personal look into the artist’s creativity and talent.
Lyrics here. The opening verse applies to many Americans right now:
It’s that time of year
Leave all our hopelessnesses aside
(If just for a little while)
Tears stop right here
I know we’ve all had a bumpy ride
(I’m secretly on your side)
(Submit a song via hello@. Track of the Day archive here. Pre-Notes archive here.)
After my colleague Julie shared the poems that have helped her and some of our readers cope with loss and process change, many more of you sent in your suggestions. Ramya writes that after last week’s election, she immediately turned to “Still I Rise,” by Maya Angelou (embedded above):
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Becky suggests W.B. Yeats’s “Why Should Not Old Men Be Mad?”
Some think it a matter of course that chance
Should starve good men and bad advance,
That if their neighbours figured plain,
As though upon a lighted screen,
No single story would they find
Of an unbroken happy mind,
A finish worthy of the start.
Hateful is the dark-blue sky
Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labor be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence—ripen, fall, and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
Full poem here—though after reading it, you may want to turn to “Ulysses,” Tennyson’s other take on the Odyssey, for this reminder:
Come, my friends.
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
In the meantime, there’s dreamful ease to be found in “The Peace of Wild Things” by Wendell Berry—reader Michele’s favorite poem in times of stress:
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light.
Tom recommends “The Darkling Thrush,” by Thomas Hardy:
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom. ...
Just thought it captured the mood of darkness and anxiety. But with a note of hope, even if we don’t know exactly what it is.
I go back to Richard Siken often in times of upheaval and crisis; his writing conveys a sense of determination through panic that is deeply soothing. “Driving, Not Washing” tells a story of the aftermath of violence, and this line has stuck with me for many years:
Every story has its chapter in the desert, the long slide from kingdom
to kingdom through the wilderness,
where you learn things, where you’re left to your own devices.
This poem gives me hope to continue fighting against racism in the U.S. It validates the sense of longing present in my life as a Latina American, longing to finally be considered equal as I know I am.
Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.
Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—
Finally, “Good Bones” by Maggie Smith, available here. Susan finds hope in the last few lines:
Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
Our reader note from Megan was a moving mea culpa over her feelings of responsibility over Hillary Clinton’s loss and the guilt that supporters like her could have done more—more outspoken, at the very least. This next reader, Josh, has similar feelings as Megan’s but from the perspective of someone who wanted Bernie Sanders to clinch the nomination against Trump:
I do relate to Megan, and I am afraid I am worse. I’m a Bernie supporter, and I believe he would have beaten Trump in the general election, and I hope he runs again in 2020.
That is not to say I was ever against Hillary. In fact, I believe she has gotten a really raw deal, and I often wonder if the list of “scandals” the right point to would matter if she were male. It feels unfair, and the microscope has always been on her. I really couldn’t care less about the e-mails, and given all she has been through she has certainly proven her strength and earned her experience.
Regardless, I do think Sanders aligns more closely with my millennial ideals, and given the movement that has been started (and the voting pattern of 18-25 year olds), I am hopeful that my generation will succeed in accomplishing policies that work for all Americans and all people.
That being said, I feel Megan’s guilt. When Bernie lost the primary, I did fall in line with Hillary, and I was encouraged by her adoption of some of his policy ideas. But I did not donate as I did for Sanders. I did not get a yard sign, bumper sticker, or button. I did not attend a rally; I did not retweet her posts; I did not volunteer or get vocal; but I did all those things for Sanders.
That isn’t to say I kept my position private; I made it very clear that I opposed our hypocritical, horrible new president-elect. (I just vomited a little.) I made my support for Hillary clear to anyone who asked—but also with the now almost automatic caveat “I know she’s not perfect.” Why did I not follow that up with “but if there’s a spectrum from perfect to putrid, then Hillary is much closer to perfect than Trump.”
Like Megan, I noticed that nearly every news outlet this election season used similar caveats. What scale was she being measured on and why wasn’t an equal comparison to Trump made on the same scale? Maybe I missed it; there sure was a lot of information to get through this season.
So in short, I am guilty of not vocally supporting a candidate I liked and I am guilty of having too much faith in our system, polling, and people. I will not make this mistake again, I will not be an armchair liberal. Now that I have confessed my complicity, I hope to be part of the movement towards change.
A reader with much less enthusiasm at this point is Tonia:
I feel exactly the same as Megan, even though I voted for Bernie in the primary—mainly because I was already hearing such negative things about Clinton. I was concerned she’d never be “likable” enough. Once she clinched the nomination, I knew I’d vote for her—no problem. But I didn’t put a sign in the yard, or a sticker on my car. When the nice librarian asked me if I wanted to volunteer for the campaign, I smiled but said no.
I partly blame my lack of engagement on my job. As a hairstylist, you are taught from school to never discuss religion or politics. A lot of my clients know I have a gay best friend, that my daughter has a wide and diverse group of classmates that I invite to our home. But I’ve never talked about how Trump scared me, how I’m concerned about her trans friend and her safety. About how I take a certain black young man home after football games because even though he’s close enough to walk, I’m afraid for him to be out at night and alone.
I will recommit to the local causes that are important to me, but I don’t know that I will ever engage in national politics again.
This next reader, Sue, wasn’t a Sanders supporter, but she stayed quiet about her support for Clinton during the primaries. Sue’s note attests to the enthusiasm gap between the two candidates—public enthusiasm, at least:
You asked whether I could relate to Megan’s note and I burst into tears. Among the many disjointed thoughts that I have had since this election, the one that haunts me the most is “I could have done more. We all could have done more.”
For instance, what did I do when Hillary decided to run for president and the excitement for Bernie flooded my Facebook feed, and showed up on innumerable bumper stickers and window signs? I joined a *secret* Hillary group. Instead of proudly displaying my own enthusiasm for her, I was silent in public and only gushed in private about how much I love her, with people who also loved her.
It wasn’t until it became clear that she would win the primary that I came public with my support, and even then, I didn’t post the daily memes the Bernie folks did, I didn’t buy a sign or a t-shirt. I stayed relatively silent. I think this may be true for many supporters, which of course fed into the “unlikeable” narrative.
And meanwhile, Hillary pushed through the most awful, degrading campaign in our history. Even during this campaign, I didn’t display my support publicly because I didn’t want to engage with the hatred of those who didn’t support her. How cowardly it now seems that I couldn’t wear a button in public while this woman was forced to share the stage with a sexual predator, be called a crook and a liar, and have her life and freedom threatened by his supporters.
If only I did more. If only I showed the same genuine public enthusiasm as the Bernie supporters did from the beginning. If only I had a fraction of her courage in this fight. If only we all did.
Here’s one more reader, David, who like Sue wasn’t a Sanders supporter and attests to the enthusiasm gap—within his own marriage:
Yes, absolutely, Megan’s piece resonates with me. I backed Hillary from the start of her campaign in 2016, just as I had in 2008. The overall reluctance to support her affected me too.
My wife objected to the HRC sticker the campaign sent to our house. I put it on my car bumper for several weeks anyway, acutely aware that as a man it was much less likely I would face a nasty remark about it. I was a bit thankful the sticker was rather small and not easy to see. I drive on Southern California freeways for two hours every weekday and I don’t think I saw another Hillary sticker the entire time. Plenty of people displayed Bernie stickers with no self-consciousness whatsoever.
I donated several times to the campaign, prompting arguments with my wife and ultimately exceeding the dollar limit we had agreed upon. My wife said she would “hold her nose and vote” and questioned my commitment to honesty. I wanted to do more and thought about phone banking, but I couldn’t get up the nerve to try it—again, fearing a nasty remark from someone.
Do I feel guilty? Yes, some. In the end I only risked the displeasure of my wife and motorists on the freeway. I did what was easy, believing that my fellow citizens would reject Trump the way they rejected Sarah Palin.
I want to say to Megan: It is not your fault. You did what you could. Thinking about you writing that note still brings hot wet tears to my face.
Megan, a reader who voted for Hillary Clinton, shares a powerful confession:
I’ve been thinking about the election a lot for the past two days, and the idea that I keep coming back to is that in some ways this is my fault.
It’s my fault because I voted for Clinton when she ran against Obama in the 2008 primary, but I didn’t tell anyone because she was the unpopular choice. I wasn’t embarrassed about my decision, but being a real liberal seemed to mean voting for Obama. So I voted quietly in the primary, felt my disappointment quietly when she lost, and seamlessly joined the Obama supporters in the general election.
It’s my fault because I voted for Clinton when she ran against Sanders in the 2016 primary, and I didn’t tell anyone because again she was the unpopular choice. She was even more qualified this time around and I had a greater appreciation for the depth of her public service, but being a real liberal seemed to mean supporting Sanders. So I voted quietly in the primary, and rarely mentioned my preference for her.
It’s my fault because during the long months of the primary and the general election I didn’t tell anyone how strongly I felt about Clinton. I didn’t put a sticker on my car, I didn’t put a sign in my yard, and I didn’t wear a T-shirt. My loudest statement of support was the tiny pin I purchased after the convention, at a time that it felt safe to be a Clinton supporter.
It’s my fault because when I ran into people who were voting for Trump—at the grocery store, in the gym, in my neighborhood—I changed the subject because I didn’t want to get into an argument. I told myself that it wasn’t worth it and that they wouldn’t change their minds.
It’s my fault because though I knew my mother was genuinely torn between the two candidates I didn’t engage with her. I didn’t want to know that she actually thought there was a real choice to be made.
It’s my fault because I never once asked my sister what she was thinking. She’d supported the Tea Party in the past, and I assumed she was leaning towards Trump. I didn’t want to know.
It’s my fault because my father and I had a massive fight about Clinton over Easter, and in an effort to preserve our relationship I stopped talking to him about politics. If we didn’t talk about it, then I didn’t have to deal with the possibility that he was sexist and racist in a way I’d never considered.
It’s my fault because I capitulated to the expectation that I not express my emotions publicly. I’m upset right now, and it isn’t lost on me that expressing this upset is potentially disqualifying. It isn’t lost on me that saying I’m angry will make me vulnerable to the accusation I’m too emotional. I’ve spent a lifetime calming down. It’s something that I try to do when interacting with men professionally, and it’s something that I try to do when I interact with men personally. And every time I do this in my private life, I normalize it and make it harder for women to succeed in public life.
And it’s also my fault because when I did support her, I did so in a provisional and caveated way. I said things like, “I realize she’s not a perfect candidate” and “I’m not arguing that she isn’t flawed.”
And every time I said something like this, I affirmed that there was a need to apologize. I singled her out as somehow different from other candidates (in both parties) who were worthy of unequivocal support, and I created the space for the impression that she was critically flawed. I did this nearly every time I spoke about her, and I saw this language in dozens of articles and editorials and statements of support (including The Atlantic’s editorial, though there doesn’t appear to be similarly caveated language in the Lincoln or Johnson endorsements). In fact, I don’t remember seeing this type of language in the editorials written for any of the similarly flawed men who have run for president over the past twenty years. And this, I think, is the thing I regret the most.
I woke up on Wednesday morning feeling overwhelmed in a way that I haven’t yet sorted out. I’m angry with the mainstream media for not doing better; I’m angry with the Republican party for embracing an unquestioned racist and sexist in pursuit of power; I’m angry with the right for cultivating a culture that celebrates anti-intellectualism. I’m angry because I can’t help but see Clinton’s loss as a referendum on women, in which the collective decision was that a peerlessly unqualified man was better than the most qualified candidate that has run in the past 20 years. I’m angry with anyone who thought that a presidential election with these stakes was an appropriate forum for a third-party protest vote; I’m angry with the left for failing to build a viable coalition in response to issues that we all feel strongly about (reproductive health, gun control, etc.); and I’m angry at myself for being quiet and for being calm.
At this point, I feel like I have two choices. I could give up and walk away. If nearly half of America thinks that Trump is qualified for this position (or finds it so abhorrent to have a woman as president that they’d convince themselves that he’s acceptable) then perhaps this isn’t a country I want to defend. Or I could double down and recommit to the things I care about. I love my country, and perhaps the question I should be asking is why I don’t spend more of my life committed to those causes that I feel passionately about.
Clinton, I think, would prefer I do the latter. But before I make this decision, I feel like I need to own my own responsibility. Because the truth is, this is partially my fault.
There is so much more to talk about and think about from here; and to be honest, my heart is too full this afternoon to put it clearly. I’ll write more, soon, but for now I’d like to hear from you. If you can relate to what Megan’s feeling, please send us a note: hello@theatlantic.com.
After the shocking election of Donald Trump on Tuesday, as people continue to process their emotions, work through their exhaustion, and manage their anxieties, I’ve seen many of my friends and colleagues turning to poetry. James Fallows, in his note “First Thoughts on the Election,” ended with a poem by William Butler Yeats, “To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing.” And Megan Garber interviewed the editor of Poetry magazine about why poetry seems particularly resonant at this moment.
On my social media timelines this week, screenshots of people’s favorite verses have been welcome oases at which to rest. And I’ve returned several times to a favorite poem of mine, “As I Walked Out One Evening,” by W.H. Auden, especially these verses:
‘O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.
[...]
‘O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
‘O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.’
I asked some of our readers on the Disqus group known as TAD to send me the poems they turn to when dealing with change and hardship. A couple of staffers submitted poems as well. Here are a dozen of their responses (with only brief excerpts of the poems, since we can’t reproduce them in full due to copyright concerns):
“Differences of Opinion,” by Wendy Cope, begins:
He tells her that the earth is flat—
He knows the facts, and that is that.
The root word for poetry, “poiesis,” refers to the making of something (for others) where there was, or where there threatens to become, nothing (for anyone). With this in mind, I’ve been reading John Clare, the English laborer-poet, who lived through a millennial shift in politics—from the 18th into the 19th century, from right after the French revolution through the liberation of Haiti. He wrote poetry, and it was about all of that global transformation, but his politics and perception were channeled through the land he saw around him, rapidly disappearing through privatization and enclosure.
Clare’s poem “Written in November” captures that sense of loss:
Autumn, I love thy parting look to view
In cold November’s day, so bleak and bare,
When, thy life’s dwindled thread worn nearly thro’,
With ling’ring, pott’ring pace, and head bleach’d bare,
Thou, like an old man, bidd’st the world adieu ...
Morn came and went and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings, the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d,
And men were gather’d round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face ...
One of our editorial fellows, Nick Clairmont, suggested “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” by Thomas Gray:
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
“If,” by Rudyard Kipling, is a little more optimistic:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools ...
A reader points to DC Comics’ Blue Lanterns, “a group of superheroes whose powers come from having hope”:
In fearful day, in raging night,
With strong hearts full, our souls ignite,
When all seems lost in the War of Light,
Look to the stars—For hope burns bright!
Corny, I know. But I want to find some hope and hopefully be someone who does some small part to spread hope to others.
***
“On the Pulse of Morning,” by Maya Angelou:
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song. It says,
Come, rest here by my side.
Each of you, a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the rock were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sang and sings on.
Read the full poem here, or listen to Angelou read it at Bill Clinton’s inauguration in 1993 here.
***
“Change,” by Ann Beard:
Our world forever changes every second every day.
Nothing halts the pass of time; old age will have its way.
each mighty cliff or ancient tree will suffer the same fate
life seems just an experiment, a transitory state.
Another one of our editorial fellows, Joseph Frankel, suggested “Wild Geese,” by Mary Oliver:
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Another reader shared lines from the poet Warsan Shire that were included in Beyoncé’s visual album Lemonade:
My grandma said, nothing real can be threatened.
True love brought salvation back into me.
With every tear came redemption.
And my torturer became my remedy.
In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our country’s honour fade:
O let me see our land retain her soul,
Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed—
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!
If you have a poem that you’d like to share—one that helps you cope with stress, or uncertainty, or change, one that you turn to in times of transition—please send it (with a link, if you can) to hello@theatlantic.com.
A reader in California sends a photo of a discarded piñata of Donald Trump she saw yesterday:
Here’s “Trash Day on the Left Coast,” a photo from my morning dog walk. We also passed two women (separately, not together), crying.
Most of the Atlantic readers in this massive discussion thread are also distraught over Hillary Clinton’s loss. From the most up-voted comment, by Terri:
The United States of America has elected a man president that is more suited to being the dictator of a Banana Republic than the leader of the most powerful nation on earth. And those that elected him they knew exactly what they were doing. Give Trump credit. There was no deceit. His bigotry and misogyny were on full undeniable display as was his ignorance, his pettiness and his vindictiveness. This is what close to half of the electorate wants as its leader. There is no other conclusion.
Another reader, Kat, voted third party:
While I agree Trump’s unsavory aspects appeals to Alt-Right miscreants and undoubtedly won him some votes, they are a minuscule portion of the electorate compared to women. The fact Trump won despite his reckless and bigoted remarks, which undoubtedly cost him millions upon millions of votes, only shows the weakness of the global capitalist vision that is at the heart of the DNC.
People need living-wage jobs in a nation state that preferentially serves their interests as citizens. Many of the more rarified, post-Marxist leftists out there don’t seem to even believe in social democracy, or refuse to accept that social democracy requires social cohesion, labor protectionism, etc.
A lot of the hard core Critical Race Theory types may find themselves aligned going forward with libertarian capitalists of the NeverTrump variety. I mean what common ground do Bernouts like me have left with some of you except for a few social issues like reproductive choice?
I also asked some readers in this discussion thread how they’ve talked to their kids about Trump’s stunning victory. Jim via hello@:
The morning after the election, I spent part of breakfast reassuring my 7-year-old son, who is scared that because Donald Trump will be president, his friends will have to leave the country just because they are Mexican. In our carpool, I needed to do the same for two girls, 9 and 8, who are afraid their father will likewise have to leave because he is Latino.
That day, I chaperoned my son’s second-grade class on a field trip. On the bus ride to our destination, a little boy took great pains to reassure me that even though his family is from Iran, he was born in America and that they love America, so they do not have to leave.
At lunch, once the structure of the museum tour was done, a little Latina girl ran up to one of the other chaperones and said, “Donald Trump is president now! What will happen to us?” I spoke, briefly, with my son’s teacher. She believed the children’s anxiety would pass, given that our school community is middle and upper-middle class, with few undocumented students. Then she grew a little grim, and said, “But they’re probably having a much different conversation at my old school.”
Yesterday broke my heart in a way election day did not. Our children pay attention. They hear what the grownups have to say. In ways small and large, parents’ anxieties and angers frighten children. We cannot shelter them from the rhetoric of men and women like Donald Trump, no matter how we may try.
Speaking of fear and anxiety on behalf of Hispanic friends, here’s a school teacher discussing the reactions of his students and his own kid:
So many of my friends with daughters—who so jubilantly wore white and cast a vote yesterday with selfies of themselves and their daughters’ smiling faces—are just crushed. I sent my own 11-year-old daughter to bed at 9:00 p.m. on election night, and it was the first question she asked in the morning. She made a beeline to the laptop to access the New York Times electoral map and zeroed in our our state to look at county results. She said, “Well, at least he’s not king. He can’t just go around making decisions.” She’s very sensible and practical in her outlook.
I dropped her off at her friend’s place to carpool, and then continued on to the high school. I am in Clatsop County, Oregon. Twenty percent of our school demographic is Latino. I have students who are afraid of being deported. The kids are as stunned as the staff, even the pro-Trump kids. I have heard only one pro-Trump student yell, “Build the wall!” during passing period and that (to my ears) is a first after a year of this campaign.
One of my students, just old enough to vote in the election yesterday, was berated in another of his classes yesterday (by the teacher) for his vote for Trump. He was called sexist and racist. He voted for Trump because he doesn’t see how a woman could lead the military.
My students want to know who I voted for, and I have always been closed about that. But this is a strange election, and based on my behavior on Facebook last night, and the interconnectedness of me with their parents on Facebook, they could figure it out if they wanted to.
I want to emphasize the rule of law, not riots and militarism. But I also worry about complacency, and I am—as a biology teacher—deeply worried about the ability of our planet to sustain life as we like it.
Here’s another school teacher, in Arizona:
I teach freshmen and AP Literature students at a mostly-Hispanic (immigrant and native-born) low-income high school in the Phoenix area. Most of my freshmen were either oblivious or being silly about the whole election. But my seniors … they are scared. They wanted to talk about Trump and what this all means. I told them that I understood their fears and allowed them to vent them a bit.
One of my students asked me “Mrs. N … what do we do now?” I thought for a moment: How do I put them at ease when I, too, and struggling internally with this terrifying idea of a Trump presidency and what that all entails for myself, my family, and my students. So I said:
We have been through so much in our 240 years: a horrifying civil war, two world wars, a great depression, a contentious civil rights movement, terror attacks, a great recession … and each time these horrible things have happened, we have picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off, and have kept going. We came together as a country for the betterment of all. And that is what we need to do now: focus not on the negative, but how we can be a positive force for change in this world, in our country, in our state, and in our city. We have so much potential to do good, so we should not wait until something awful happens to tap that potential. Make the choice to lead positive lives of joy, of service, of love, and of peace. THAT is what we need to do now.
And fears among children aren’t limited to Hispanics, as this reader can attest:
I had a couple different Muslim kids in my class ask me today why America hated them. One told me he was afraid that people would attack his family. These are kids who were already fleeing violence and persecution when their families came here to America. It broke my damn heart. All I could tell them was that this was their country too, and that nobody could take that away from them.
This next reader, Jill, explains how Trump has made her parenting more challenging:
I had a talk with my daughter after she saw the commercials with video clips of Trump doing his thing. She was a laughing at his palsy routine, and I had to explain why it wasn’t funny.
As to his treatment of women, I can only point my daughter to her father and tell her that not all men are good role models like he is. Guys like Trump are a dying breed. It’s just that I thought that were were only 10 or so years aways from them going quietly off to the nursing home and now I see that there is a fresh batch right behind him. And they are going to be bolder now than ever before.
Another reader had a better experience talking with his kids:
We had a family conversation about this Monday night and again this morning. Our kids are in 2nd and 4th grade, and on Monday the student council had an election in the school library. My daughter voted Hillary. My son asked the librarian how to vote for her candidate—Gary Johnson, the “Librarian” candidate. There were no third party options, so he also ended up voting Hillary.
Basically my kids internalized my frustration with Trump, the Republican debates (which had me yelling at the TV screen) and my head-shaking disbelief at this entire election cycle. All they knew is that their mom and dad consider Trump a national embarrassment. So naturally they voted against him and were concerned to find out he won.
So then we talk about our system of government is greater than any one man. Checks and balances. And really at the end of the day, the POTUS doesn’t effect their day-to-day lives at all. Their lives aren’t determined by Trump or any politician or any policy. They know their life and happiness is determined by how they treat others and their own efforts. So they are good to go.
Children often understand more than we think, so start off by asking them if they have any idea what the fuck is happening.
Put their mind at ease by confirming that the results of this election aren’t the end of the world in any strictly literal sense.
Don’t be afraid to openly share your wine with them.
This reader has more sober advice:
I’m telling my kids this isn’t the first time our liberties have been challenged. I’m telling them to pick themselves up and get back to work. Meanwhile, try to give some thought to how you can take your citizenship more seriously and influence the people around you to do so as well. I’ll be doing the same thing, and after we process all this for a few days, let’s touch base about our findings.
Here’s one more reader for now, presumably addressing the media as a whole:
Have you learned anything? Your polls were wrong; you have no business in the field of prophecy and foretelling. Why not return to good journalism: listen, watch, report, examine, put forward points of view, measure, suggest. Write well, teach with respect, and converse with your readers.
The morning of the results I woke my 9-year-old daughter up after a sleepless night to share with her the dreaded news that Donald J. Trump had been elected our new President. Even in her sleepiness, she began to cry. I asked her why and she said she was scared. I assured her that her Dad and I weren’t going to let anything happen to her and that in this moment we need to pray for Donald Trump that he can be the leader our country needs him to be.
I also told her, “You know Donald Trump is not a real Republican. He just became a Republican like 10 years ago.” Perhaps his Democratic roots will keep him moderate. I reminded her that Donald Trump is one player in three branches of government and this is why we have checks and balances and now we have to trust that those will not allow for a complete disruption of our society.
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