Last week was spectacularly crappy. I don’t normally have strong opinions about political candidates, but indicate that I am less than a person and we have problems. And this election? One candidate in particular, through his own words and actions, deems me less than human. Because I’m female.
I have so many other friends our now president-elect calls less than human. Because of skin color or gender or sexual orientation. Because of so many things.
Congratulations, America: fear and hate won. I can’t say I’m surprised (after all, I live in the state that re-elected the national embarrassment that is Paul LePage), but I can say I am sad, angry, and disappointed.
(Note: I know many people who voted for Trump had rational, reasoned arguments. Fine. That doesn’t change that he’s a package deal with racism, sexism, and bigotry of many flavors. I can not and will not condone that.)
What does this have to do with writing?
A lot, actually. I hope my fears don’t come true, but in the meantime I can make art. I can write stories and work on plays that show other ways of being – offer other options. Art gives hope and strength.
The show I’ve been stage managing just closed. It’s the kind of show that the world needs more of – the kind that shows us we’re not alone, that we can get through the shit and be happier and stronger for it.
So art is how I choose to combat the fear and hate that have already wreaked violence and despair in the last week. It may not always feel like much, but it has the power to change the world.