Dear Mr. President,
I struggled with that salutation for longer than I care to admit. I’ve never referred to you as Mr. President before but to write or speak your name during this time feels somehow more excruciating.
I hesitated, too, with whether or not to write you at this time. On one hand, I don’t think you necessarily deserve to be a part of this conversation, but on the other hand I believe you play an integral role in how we got here.
I’ll never forget the night you got elected and the days that followed. I cried myself to sleep, hardly slept at all in fact. I pulled myself out of bed the next morning to go to work. Eyes puffy, hands trembling, I was on autopilot wondering how I was going to get through the day – I hadn’t yet had a chance to think about the next four years. I was driving to work and turned on the radio in an effort to distract my mind and the station was about to take a call from a listener. The host of the show thanked the caller for joining, and then were abruptly cut off by the four words that left a permanent hole in my heart:
“IT’S TIME – WHITE POWER!”
I don’t remember the rest of the drive to work. Frankly, I don’t even remember getting off the highway or braking for traffic. All I knew was that I could not be in public that day. I went into work, grabbed my laptop, and went home. In some sense, on that day, the sick person behind that phone call won. They derailed my entire day, shook me to my core. I guess it was your second victory in less than 24 hours.
I’m not stupid. Ever since I was a child I’ve had my eyes wide open – very observant and perceptive from a young age. I know that people with hate in their hearts did not appear on this earth in the 10 hours between you winning the election and me driving to work. But you, Mr. President, created a world where these people feel comfortable enough to speak up. Validated enough to shout their hate into the sky for everyone to hear. You did that. And to some extent, I want to thank you for that. You brought these people into the light. You called them “very fine people” and you gave validity to their words and actions. It is quite a sight to see. To feel. To be objectified by and feel their force pushing me back down. I’ve grown quite strong. Thank you for that.
Here we stand – some 3.5 years later and your America is on fire. I’m not going to sit here and pretend you are the reason racism exists in this country (I’m smart, remember?) but I hope you know that your hands aren’t clean. I hope you know that this is the first time in my life that I have not heard a president at least try to unite the people. My hunch tells me that you know this very well. I actually think you’re smart, too – believe it or not. You see, I think your voice is actually being heard loud and clear right now. The problem is, the people who are hearing it are the ones like the man who spoke those four words on the radio. What the rest of us hear is the silence.
There’s a spot in Boston that is one of my favorite places in the world to sit. It’s a dock that sits atop the Charles River and it’s breathtaking on sunny days when the light reflects off of downtown Boston and onto your face. That’s where I was sitting when the Access Hollywood tape leaked. The way you talked about women (and have continued to talk about women) made me sick to my stomach. But in that moment, I remember feeling pure joy. I was so happy because I thought for sure that after something like that, there was no way you could win. The floodgates opened from there, and with them flooded out stories of racism in your past. I believe racism is a learned behavior and it became very clear that from a young age you were taught that you were superior. Not just in race, but in gender, religion, and sexual orientation. You were also taught that you are, in every situation, purely and truly correct. And you won.
Through the smoke of the fires burning in our cities and the sounds of the black people screaming that they can’t breathe, I’m starting to feel that sunlight on my face again. I am overwhelmed with sadness and heartbreak, but I think I can feel it. The people like the man on the radio are still out there shouting their hatred into the void and it still stings. I know you’ll never know what that feels like, so you’re just going to have to trust me.
But the rest of us? We’re going to do everything in our power to use our voices to speak over theirs. To make sure you don’t feel victorious at the expense of pushing others down. To get your knee off of our necks. I hope one day you’ll join us and feel the sunlight on your face, but I somehow doubt it.
With sympathy,
Emily
First World Thoughts 