Count me amongst those stressed by the election. As every accusation of sexual assault or fraud, every instance of incitement of violence or call for a war crime, every bit of evidence of dirty dealing and racism fails to sink Donald Trump, I despair.
In the last week or so, I've found myself asking when we'd leave. If he were to be elected, how bad would things have to get before I said goodbye to our home I've invested my heart and our money into?
When I posed the question to James, he said of course we'd stay, because people would have to stick around to stand up for people being persecuted. And I look at him and think--in Trump's America, my love, you have a funny accent. How long would being white with money really spare you from the attacks on immigrants? How long would being the "right" kind of foreigner really last?
I think about our friends in the UK that have already had to register as foreign workers, whose residence status is in question after years of building a life and paying taxes in a place they've made home. I wonder if there's really anywhere for us to go.
And I worry about me, too. I'm on the record as an outspoken feminist, and the toss of the biological dice has left me fighting for bodily autonomy. To be in charge of one of the most sacred powers humans have, and yet potentially enslaved by religious zealotry is a chilling prospect.
I think it's more powerful to focus on the positives, to relish the opportunity to vote for someone who has publicly embraced the power of her intelligence and dedicated herself to decades of public service already. But, when the numbers tilt, I can't help but think of the worst, and of how many people I know who don't take the situation seriously enough to take decisive action to stop this rightwing authoritarian threat.