"We're all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars"
how to move forward when hope seems lost
That Oscar Wilde quote has always been a favorite of mine. I remember doodling it into the margins of my notes junior year of high school— the year I learned to drive, lost my virginity, and the world changed with 9/11— and the resonance of the quote hitting me with a weight of 1000 bricks. Not everyone looks at the stars in times of distress, but there are some of us that do. I have always been one of those people.
Last Tuesday, I could feel a heaviness in my bones. Despite my weeks (months, years) of feeling like chicken little— metaphorically trying to shake people into waking up that this could be a possibility again. “It’s not enough to vote, we need to be shouting from the rooftops to stop this!” was met with “you are being hysterical and dramatic.” The dread felt much more prevalent than it did in 2016.
I dropped my son off at school and drove to my dentist’s office near my much more progressive old neighborhood. My favorite bakery was giving away “I Voted” cookies and I had a few minutes before my mouth was going to be cut open, so I wandered inside. There was a couple behind me, proudly displaying their “I Voted” stickers and Kamala totes and pins, who were glued to their phones, not-so-quietly whispering to each other. Their anxiety was palpable. So was mine.
By ten-thirty, I was seated in my dentist’s office, already feeling a numbness in my body, even though I hadn’t had the local anesthetic yet. The surgeon explained to me for the first time exactly what the procedure would entail, and I was woefully unprepared. I have a genetic condition that makes certain types of anesthesia deadly to me, so it becomes a scary probability anytime I go under, and it’s better to not go under unless I need to. (It’s also worth noting that the last time I had surgery was in 2016 for my D&E, when I didn’t yet know I had this condition.) My muscle memory was on high-alert, in the most triggering of ways, you could say…
The surgeon asked if I was nervous. I told him yes, but also for the election. He told me to not worry about what the next four years looked like and to just worry about right now. Helpful advice, I suppose… especially coming from a man with a 10-inch needle standing over my mouth. I felt the slight pinch in my gums and then… nothing.
The tissue holding my lips to my gums was removed and stitched up. The whole procedure lasted maybe five minutes. I sent a text to my friend who was on standby to pick me up, and my parents, and let everyone know I was okay.
The pain was immediate, but I had pain meds to alleviate it. The problem was the pain meds knocked me out— but maybe that wasn’t the worst thing while awaiting election results. I hadn’t prepared that I wouldn’t be able to eat solid foods for a week, so thankfully a friend was able to bring me some soup to sip on in between naps and checking the news.
That night, amidst a familiar numbness and pain, the results of the election became clear. The week that has followed has been agonizing in both recovery, fallout, and even more devastating news. If there was any question that I was in a metaphorical gutter, this all but confirmed it.
And yet… my community showed up. I had more soup, texts, and love delivered by people who didn’t even know everything that was going on. The support was there by the people I needed it from. I thought about my favorite quote again. A version of it was in Kamala’s concession speech. The quote even showed up in my inbox the next day. Yes, we are in the gutter, but some of us are still looking at the stars.
I don’t know where we go from here yet. I know I’m not ready to slap on my positive smile and make a list of things to do. I’m still grieving and healing, and that’s okay. But I do know these things start small and I do know there are still those of us that are looking at the stars, and those are the people we need to cling to right now.