america is an idea
a few words of hope in a dark moment of despair
No! This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.
I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge—even wisdom. Like art.
—Toni Morrison
Hello, my dear friends. You’re hearing from me again this week because…well, actually…I have no idea how I’m supposed to even begin processing the news from this week without putting “pen to paper.”
I saw someone post on instagram part of the Toni Morrison quote I include above—the full piece is worth a read—and the sentiment really helped me today.1. Healing through words has always been natural to me. Language is powerful, and art is transformative. I want so deeply to be able to help myself and others process this moment with the right words in the right order on the page.
I want to be able to provide you (and myself) with a balm, a silver lining, or a space to rage with community. But, in the midst of last night’s news, and even as I write this today, words feel small and ineffective—a frustrating conundrum for a writer. Words almost never actually fail me. They are the sharp tools of my beloved trade—the comfort in times of despair, the confetti in times of celebration. Last night rendered me somewhat speechless, which admittedly made me mad, adding to the already fiery anger simmering in my chest.
Before I read the Toni Morrison quote this morning, I was stewing on this conundrum, and I texted my dear friend Amanda—who is a thoughtful activist, empathetic political nerd, and fellow rabid Swiftie (a relevant piece of information to tell you because of what I had to share with her then, and you now). I shared with her that last night I needed to capture the moment—the horror, the disgust, and the sadness—before complacency or malaise had a chance to creep in. In other words, I needed to create. I needed to harness the wave of emotion and channel it into something tangible. Normally I capture moments by writing, but to be frank, even if speechlessness hadn’t taken over me, I was too overwhelmed to write anything last night. Nik and I grabbed the polaroid camera instead.
Nik snapped this photo:
Amanda responded to the photo and to the sentiment with something profound: “And I’ll be right there alongside you. And now we have more information. You know I love information.” I have exchanged similar responses to my friends and family who are also worried, and sad, and in shock. Text messages still rolling in as Harris gives her concession speech.
Sadness. Rage. Tears. Uncertainty.
One look at this photo,2 and some of you (Swifties) will recognize the nod to the original 1989 album cover. A second glance shows a woman steeped in shattered expectations. You see sadness—there’s so much of it. And despair and anger. But, in the light of day, what I really see captured in this moment is hope. And some melancholic whimsy.
There’s also—dare I say—a foreshadowing of satire, dark humor, and resistance, all of which we will need in the coming months and years to survive and fight for the values and ideals we hold so dear.
Why? Because America is an idea.
The idea that all persons are created equal. That all of us should have the same opportunity to the pursuit of life, liberty, happiness. That you can love who you love, live where you want to live, work the career that calls to you. That you can find your family. That you can trust the road in front of you. That you can make decisions about your healthcare with your doctor.
Necessarily ideas morph and change. Ideas can die with too much space or not enough air. Ideas can look different to different people from different backgrounds and different life experiences. Ideas come in a lot of shapes and sizes. But that’s where the power is. An idea lives in our minds—and no one can take that away.
My mind (and body and soul for that matter) feels sluggish, still, this morning. Not quite the hospitable place for ideas. The plans (or concepts thereof) of a second Trump administration—the Project 2025 of it all—is so terrifying, so antithetical to a progressive society that so many of us want. It’s personal and real to every day lives of Americans—a topic I plan to explore more in this space. To be clear, these are not American ideas. These are fascistic, anti-democratic, and patently anti-Constitutional ideas.
And, I am tired. I am heartbroken. I am not surprised. I am angry. I am confused. It’s a mix of heavy and big emotions that feel as if they are to big to process. I am not overreacting. None of us are. So, don’t tell me that I am. I will not tolerate the gaslighting, reframing, finger pointing, or what-about-ism anymore.
America voted for a version of this country that I do not subscribe to. We are confronted with a fundamental difference in values—a difference in what that idea of America really is. What is America to me? To you? Is it hope? Is it hate?
For me, I want to choose hope, but right now it feels hopeless. I’m doing my best to remember that feelings aren’t permanent, and it’s helpful to see the hope in that polaroid taken late into the night of November 5, 2024. It’s a hope that is buried beneath the surface—below the anger, below the sadness, below the disgust with my fellow citizens who voted for a racist, convicted felon over a competent, joyful woman. Hope is there, and I’ll get to it eventually. I know I will. And on the other side of that hope is that idea.
For now, I will feel the feelings to their fullest extent. I will grieve the America I thought we all wanted. And, then, I will fight and fight and fight. And I’ll be right there alongside you as you fight and fight and fight, as well. Part of that fight means that I will use this platform for more political purposes, for entertainment when the world feels too scary, and for community with like-minded, curious folks needing a safe space.
Because even after the ugliness of last night, I still believe that America is an idea worth fighting for, and we’ll have to fight the fight together. Hand in hand.
P.S. I won’t be publishing a Friday Substack this week. I’ll be back on my regular schedule next week, and may even have a new Book Journal for you. In the meantime, Nik and I are getting out of town for a quick weekend trip. This is how we’re resting, grieving, finding some light. I hope you have the ability to do the same, even if it’s carving out a small amount of time for a hot bath, a walk in fresh air, or snuggles with a pet or loved one. Hang in there.
Toni Morrison wrote a short and powerful piece for The Nation’s 150 Year Anniversary edition. In it, she recalls a conversation she had the day after Christmas 2004 when George W. Bush’s re-election was solidified.
An interpretation of Taylor Swift’s original 1989 album cover, for those not steeped in Swiftie culture.
