The biggest difference between Harris and Trump is the reaction that people have over them winning. If Harris had won, Trump supporters would have been disappointed and angry, but they would have moved on. They would have continued on and continued to promote their ideologies.
Because Trump won, people feel so unsafe that they have contemplated or have actually taken their lives in order to avoid another 4 years with him as our president.
Trump supporters have been playing this as a difference in opinions, but for so many people, this was a difference between life and death.
To all of you out there, please don't leave. I'm begging you on my hands and knees, please don't. I know it is so hard and I know everything feels so hopeless right now, but we need to show that we are still here. That we continue to exist. These people do not want us to survive. We cannot give that to them.
Please reach out to your friends and families, and strangers impacted by this and check in on them.
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If you supported the US government under Biden, made excuses for it, played into its propaganda, and acted like it's tyranny and imperialism could be used for good, and then suddenly now that trump is in power you want to be part of the resistance to him, you have no place here. I understand that this could serve as a wakeup call to American imperialism, but if you hate trump because you want the blue imperialists back in power, then you have no place standing with leftists. If you're only agaisnt tyranny when you don't like the tyrant whose in charge you aren't a progressive, you're a fascist whose mad that it's time for the leopards to eat your face.
No friendship with fascists includes fascists who vote blue. If someone who used to be a neolib is actually interested in becoming a leftist that's different. But if a neoliberal sees the left as an ally in getting their brand of imperial capitalism into power, it's the job of the left to tell them to fuck off.
Came out of the womb/Fists curled and screaming/Little red face scrunched up in the white light./Foreshadowing to the nth degree./Body soft enough to be young./Sharp shrieking anger like a banshee and a head of Irish curls./Born old enough for your emergency contact to be the emergency/Or old enough to taste acetaminophen on your breath./The first time you watch a X-rated movie/You’ll cry yourself to sleep and won’t know why,/The first time you masturbate to the sight of a pretty trans boy you’ll try to take your life during sub-drop./Baby never smelt like Johnson’s lotion, just/Jack Daniels and cigarette ash./Fifteen the first time you asked a man to put one out on you./Sixteen and realizing being called pretty boy raises goosebumps like worship music,/Feeling slick and wild under the red midwest Sun./Growing up like a humiliation ritual with no safeword./Queer and/There’s no metaphor for that, just being seventeen the first time you/Took a smoke break from his parted lips/And seconds old when they pulled you up off the hospital bed still rosy and roaring./Brought into this life knowing that it’d be spent starting riots./You’re not old enough to drink but old enough/For friends to be killed or kill themselves./Not yet prose but a/Poem.
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Why did I allow myself to have hope, I wondered, tossing around the last few sips of my drink at the bottom of the glass. Brooks & Dunn's "Neon Moon" was playing quietly. The bright pink lights over the bar and emptiness of the room created just the right ambiance for me to cover myself in melancholy. Living in a red state, I had to find myself a gay bar to sulk at, even if I'd never patronized this one before. Anywhere else, I risked witnessing people celebrating. It was just the day after and nothing else felt remotely safe--physically or emotionally.
I guessed the bar was really only empty because it was 8:00 p.m., not because everyone queer was hiding at home. I simultaneously wanted to be alone but also wanted someone to talk to, even if it was just venting. Or they just vented to me. I didn't think I could stand to talk about anything else as if it was just another day instead of Day 1 of a jarring acceleration to the death of democracy as we all knew it. There was a hurricane in the Gulf. I had a class to teach the next day. Chappell Roan sang a new song on Saturday Night Live. They'd just released a new teaser trailer for season 5 of Stranger Things. Quincy Jones died a couple of days ago. But who the fuck could care? Maybe I would've said as much to the bartender, but he was outside for a smoke break.
My head was buried in my phone and I was doom scrolling when a voice I knew but didn't said, "Come on, twink--you're at the Pink Pony Club but you're not dancing!" and laughed obnoxiously. My head popped up and I took in the heavy clown makeup, boat-neck lime green dress and Fifth Element wig with so much volume you could hide a family of rats in it. I blinked several times. The blinking helped lubricate my eyes with the tears that had settled in them but I still couldn't believe what I was seeing.
"Yes--it's me, Bianca Del Rio," she continued. "For once, I'm not the biggest bitch around. I take it you heard that over 70 million Americans put the 'cunt' in 'country' yesterday. They make me look like fucking Mother Teresa, hahaha! Just kidding--she was actually kind of a cunt, too--read the Christopher Hitchens book. Oh fuck I almost forgot--I don't read! Now where is the bartender who gave you that martini you're drowning your sorrows in? No one wants to work anymore, you know?"
"I love you," I choked out. Well that was embarrassing. In a sense, it was true--I was obsessed with Bianca Del Rio and had met her at a show in El Paso--a moment I had replayed in my mind dozens of times though she surely didn't remember it. She met more people than anyone could remember. But also, Bianca Del Rio was not a real person but a drag persona, and I didn't know the man behind her personally, so I couldn't really love either one. But I was shocked, angry, and sad and my social filter was malfunctioning.
"Oh, that's the booze talking," she dismissed, waving her lemon yellow nails at me. "What are you so down about, white man? Didn't buy what he was selling? My whole family's getting deported tomorrow. But Trump does love white men, almost as much as he loves grabbing 'em by the pussy. But maybe you've realized that being white won't help you when people find out you're sticking your dick in some other man's ass."
"I have a vagina," I said, as though it was any of Bianca's (or Roy's) business. I looked at her face to see the recognition, but it didn't appear to be anything she hadn't heard before, so I kept going.
"So if some asshole rapes and impregnates me, I have to scrape together the money to travel several states over for an abortion...if that's still legal. But it's not just that...it's everything. It's worrying about Obergefell v. Hodges being overturned, the tariff proposals, Ukraine, climate change....the continual funding of Israel..."
She sat down at the bar next to me, nodding solemnly. Slowly, her demeanor changed and I guessed she was slipping out of character, which, even in my despair, melted my heart because she was just so adorable. She reached out and touched my hand, and I took hold of hers. It was so incredibly soft--I wanted to ask if she used some expensive creams, and I never wanted to let go of it. "You're so beautiful," I said, remembering I had said the same thing that night in El Paso.
She jerked her phone out of her purse and said, "Let me get you my ophthalmologist's number, because clearly you can't see a GODDAMN THING!" I let out a laugh. "There it is!" she said, pointing at me. "I made you laugh. And your name is?"
"Sebastian."
I had barely uttered the last syllable when she retorted, "Faggot," which made me chuckle again in spite of myself.
"Listen, Fag--I mean Sebastian, this is a pretty nice bar--maybe you should go out more and talk to people instead of moping about your useless vote in a sea of red, huh? I try to visit this place whenever I'm in town, though not normally this early. But this way I get to chat with a loser like you and feel better about my pathetic self, you know? And the coming years look bleak, but think about it this way--we'll all die anyway! There's no way out except under...the ground. We're only particles of change orbiting around the sun. That was poetic, right? It wasn't me, though--that was Joni Mitchell."
"I know!" I said, getting a bit excited. "From 'Hejira.' I love that song, and the album."
The bartender walked back in, looking unfazed that a celebrity was sitting next to me. He and Bianca nodded in some unspoken language at one another and he started to make what I guessed was her usual drink.
"What else do you love, Sebastian?" she asked, with a smile that looked quite sincere but comical at the same time with the exaggerated fuschia lip and raccoon eyes.
"Oh, I love heartbeats," I blurted out. Really? I thought. Couldn't go with chai lattes or Cher? Had to go straight to cardiophilia?
"Guess we kind of need them," she said sarcastically.
"Sorry I'm being so weird. I'm a HUGE fan. I just meant I love listening to heartbeats, and having mine listened to. Wow. I can't believe I told you that. Like, I have a stethoscope collection. It's a thing."
When she raised her eyebrows a bit, I knew she'd never heard of this before, which made me feel embarrassed. But she didn't say anything unkind; she just listened.
"Do you want to listen to my heart?" she asked, as the bartender handed her a martini. My eyes traveled to her chest and I watched it rise with an intake of breath. I thought about how strange it was to be so attracted to someone whose public image was meant to be ridiculous rather than sexy. But I still pictured her smile and played the same bits from The Pit Stop in my head whenever I couldn't sleep. I had imagined her heartbeat many, many times.
Bianca didn't wait for a response before opening her arms. "It's nice to meet you again," she said as I leaned toward her, my head landing on her chest just above the collar of her dress. At once I heard the heart of the man behind this larger-than-life queen, thumping loudly--yet slowly and steadily. I focused on his relaxed breathing, tried to allow it to calm my own. I was near Erb's point and could hear every second heart sound clearly, and it was musical. For a moment I forgot why I was so distraught. When I remembered, I let out a long sigh, but I kept my arms wrapped around his waist and listened as long as I could. I knew none of this would be fixed overnight, and maybe some of it never could be fixed. But I had this night, and for now, that would have to do.
