What happens next

It was supposed to be a history-making day. It was supposed to be an amazing day. It was supposed to be so much more. So much bigger. So much more exciting. So much happier.

And yet, that Tuesday night I sat on the floor in my living room, an untouched bag of celebratory M&Ms by my side, and I stared in horror at what had happened. I went to bed early. I tried to block out the truth.

The next morning I awoke to Angela sitting on the edge of my bed begging me to check the results on my phone. She couldn't bear to look. Couldn't bear to think of going to school and facing the thousands of students who had been so exuberant the day before. They'd spent their art periods making signs about voting. They'd stood on the sidewalk Tuesday afternoon encouraging the adults in their world to vote. To think about them. To do the right thing.

I checked my phone and my heart sank. I already had half a dozen text messages. I knew I didn't need to read the news. But I did. And my heart broke. For dreams deferred. For dreams quashed. For dreams snatched away.

We sat on the bed for a while before we both got the courage to get up and get dressed. We drove to Angela's school where she headed inside and I headed through the parking lot, putting in my earbuds for the five mile walk home. But before I got too far I saw a friend, a grown man, a teacher, in tears. He asked simply, what happened. I shook my head. I had no words good enough. He needed a hug. I gave him one. And off I went.

I called my childhood home and my dad picked up the phone. I asked him the same question I had been unable to answer. "What happened, Dad?"

He didn't know either. We commiserated. We vented. He listened as I rattled off what this meant, what it changes, how it will affect me and my friends, people I love. How I felt my work and efforts had been for nothing. And then I asked him what happens next. His answer?

"We get through this. We always do. We have in the past. It will be okay."

But I was honest in that moment. I'm tired of getting through it. I'm tired of just getting by, of just settling for okay. But at that moment there were no other answers to give.

I walked on. And when I got home I spent most of my day on the phone, talking to friends who's lives had been shaken. Who have been told they are not good enough. Not valuable. Not important. Not true. Talking to people who had volunteered, like me, and knew it wasn't enough. But weren't sure, just like me, what else we could have done. I tried to wipe away their tears through the telephone wires. I was unsuccessful and I cried myself.

I have been politically active most of my life. I grew up knowing that voting was something you did because it was expected. It wasn't a choice, it was a part of life. My parents voted in every single election when I was a child and I grew to know that was exactly how a person should act. By the time I was in college I was volunteering with a campaign myself, organizing other volunteers, walking in Fourth of July parades, wearing t-shirts, handing out buttons.

I'm a union girl, always have been since I was old enough to know that's how I got braces and casts for broken bones, a roof over my head and a fair workplace for my father and my grandfathers. I'm proud of the work the educator's unions do here in California and I support them. I've carried picket signs and worn red on Tuesdays for years.

I marched through the streets of Los Angeles to protest Prop 8 before I had barely unpacked here. I didn't fully understand the gay marriage issues before I moved to California but I quickly became versed and did my best to help the cause. I cried with friends and I celebrated with friends when rulings came down.

And so this past November, after months of volunteering and promoting and rooting, to have such a loss register, it was heartbreaking. And momentarily paralyzing. The world had stopped and when it started again, I was afraid of what would happen.

And then just a few days later I found myself unexpectedly back home in Michigan. Standing in the backyard at my parents' house on a cool Saturday morning, asking what happened once again to a friend. And her response immediately buoyed me. She was still upset, yes, as we all were, but more than that, she was moving forward. She had already had talks and set plans into motion and she was looking to the future. And as I walked back across the yard into the driveway, and saw the small Hillary stickers stuck on the back windshields of my parents' two cars, I smiled.

My parents are the reason I am so political. They are the reason I am a union girl. They are the reason I fight for what's right and for those who can't fight alone. They taught me to vote. To speak. To not back down. And Friday night when they picked me up at the airport and I commented on how great it was to see that little Hillary sticker I'd left them in the summer, stuck on their car, my mom spoke up and said she wasn't taking it off. She wanted the world, or at least her community, to know her true heart. I am so proud of them for that. For leaving their stickers on. For telling the world, this is my voice and I will use it.

I will not quiet my voice. Not now, not in the future. I will read everything I can get my hands on to try and understand this world I live in. I will talk to people. I will use my agency to try and enact change in this world. I will work to make the world see that it can be better, that we have to be better.

Since November 8th, I've fed and clothed the homeless, stocked the shelves at a food pantry, signed up to volunteer at Planned Parenthood, contacted my elected representatives, and yes, spent too much time reading and commenting on social media. But I've also taken time out for family, laughed at a movie, read a good book, and cooked a lot of comforting foods. It's a balance. Life is a balance. The world is a balance. And when I'm in balance, my world is too. And I can go out into it and be that agent of change. Be that person who's not just asking what happens next but actually being that person who goes out and does what happens next. Because what happens next will be extraordinary. It has to be.