All the things I don't want to be grateful for
Because it is November, I feel compelled to talk about gratitude, but there's a lot I'm not all that grateful for.
Although I've spent most of my adult life in Washington, DC, I have never been remotely interested in politics. (To be brutally honest, I live here because it's substantially cheaper to own a whole house within walking distance of public transportation within the city limits, unlike New York.) But this election was the first time EVER that I participated in any type of activism. I rounded up my writer friends to send 200 postcards to Democrats in Ohio, not telling them who to vote for, of course, but encouraging them to vote at all. So, maybe because I'd actually done something other than just vote myself, the day after Election Day was pretty challenging, to say the least.
That Sunday, my church met up at the National Museum of African-American History & Culture. I thought it might be the worst time to go to the museum, since we all still felt raw from Tuesday, but I thought it'd at least be a nice outing with Desmond, who loves the National Mall. We took the "sad elevator," as he called it, to the bottom floor. Since I had a 3-year-old in a stroller, I couldn't spend as much time at the exhibits as I wanted to, but I still felt overcome with emotion at the scope of our history as a nation.
I met up with my church group at the café, and we talked about what we were grateful for. …Which is a hell of a topic after said election and going through said museum. And yet, I was forced to remember a grounding principle of mine — that there is always something to be grateful for, even in the darkest moments.
Last year, I went on a liberation journey, which I've recounted in this newsletter before. One of the stops I made was to the grave of my 5th great-grandfather, a white slave owner who lived outside of Charlotte in the early 19th century. Standing over his grave, I felt rage like I've never felt in all my years, and I screamed and cried and yelled and said choice words, releasing centuries of anger and hurt.
All the while, it occurred to me that, without him, I would not be here, and neither would my son. So, I thanked him for living, and I forgave him for the act of terrorism he committed on my 5th great-grandmother, whose name is not even listed in historical records.
Even before the election, I've sensed that we are in a season of returning. Rustin, my husband, recently returned to his first law firm, Davis Polk & Wardwell, which he loved and only left because we wanted to move back to DC. (So, we're grateful that the pandemic showed that remote work is feasible, even for corporate lawyers.) Last year, I returned to every home I've lived in to give back the fears I picked up in those places; I gave my 5th great-grandfather the fears he'd passed down to me. With this election result, we're returning to a place many of us are afraid to go. But that's where the healing is.
This might be the most painful four years — and I pray it is only four years — of our nation's history (which is saying a lot given the history I just acknowledged). But we will come out stronger and better. And for that, I am eternally grateful.