Don't Forget to Write

Election Day, 2016

Tuesday, November 8th. The day of reckoning. No matter what happened on this day, we beautiful, stupid, proud 350 million Americans would be in for an intense four years. Either Clinton wins, and the oligarchy would spread its shadowy roots even deeper into the foundations of all-American values and interests, as corporations like Google and Apple and Facebook became our kings and queens, while the rest of us word serve as eternal internet plebeians. Or, the clueless wild card would get elected, and a hurricane of chaos would crash through every aspect of American life. The loudest citizens today were in one of two monoliths; MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN hat-wearing, foolishly hopeful supporters, or "I'm With Her" chanting, safe-space needing liberal snowflakes. Most of us, though quieter, fit in the third category – people who realized how terrible all of this was. I'm sure our founding fathers would agree with the latter group. Historically, they were profoundly against bipartisanship. If they saw the corruption running the country now, they would call for another revolution (some claimed a revolution must be had every few generations to keep democracy alive). They would lead the common man's uprising. They would riot in the god damn streets and pour tar and feathers on everybody in D.C. But those rebellious men in white wigs were all dead now, and all that was left of them were a few portraits and a misrepresented ideology of how they would want to run things. Despite my disdain for the system, I voted. It is my civic duty. But I wasn't happy about it.

Classes and coaching were canceled on this day on account of it being Election Day. I was watching the coverage with Bruno at home. Night came and the race was still neck and neck, and somehow instead of sitting on the couch, we were now sitting at the bar. At midnight it looked like Trump would pull off the impossible. And he did. Bruno, Moose, Bob, Karen, myself, and a dozen others at the bar watched in silence and as big counties in swing states turned red, then entire states, and soon it became official that Trump had won the Presidential election. Antiestablishment had won the most important government position in the world, and that world would change overnight.

Bob poured everybody a shot. There must have been about 15 people there of varying political ideologies, religions, personalities, etc. To my left was Bruno, a South-American Agnostic who typically leaned right, but in this election was more of a libertarian, and to my right was Moose, a left-leaning Turkish Muslim (though, not a very good one, as I had seen him consume both alcohol AND pork today). Further down the bar were Sikhs, white people, and mostly black people, and none of us gave a shit about where the other person came from. We were Americans and New Yorkers, and to hell with anything else. We took the shots back and put them down on the bar without a word, mutter, or cough. Maybe we were congratulating Trump. Maybe we were consoling Clinton. Most of all, I think we were just drinking because the world around us changes and there is nothing to do about it other than to resort to creature comforts like alcohol and good company.

When we walked back home, the tall wooden doors of the church across from the pub loomed menacingly, the orange lanterns dimly lit, warning us that we all needed some faith.

The night brought with it even colder weather. My cheeks were burning cold from the icy wind by the time we got to Fredrick Douglas Avenue. The Homeless Denzel was at the bottom of his stairs tonight. The stairs protected him from the wind. His figure illuminated by the dim, flickering, orange glow of a lamp post. He was wearing jeans and a sweater and using a coat as a blanket. The blanket was quivering from his trembling body. I wondered if he knew today was Election Day, or who had won it. I wondered if he even cared, because how much could the president change his life anyway? Democrat or Republican, he would still be out here sleeping on concrete, eating scraps, and looking for whatever it was he was looking for whenever he entered that soulful trance staring down the street at things that weren't there. Was he looking at the metaphysical? Something that the rest of us could not see? A hallucination? Or, perhaps, just a projection. A moment from his past that he wished he could be transported back to. Or a moment in his future that he wished would come true, like a night in a warm bed, or a day with three full meals.

When I got home I rubbed Milo behind the earsand called him a good boy, said goodnight to Bruno with a hug, and thanked theuniverse for a warm room, a good dog, a friendly roommate, and a bed to sleepin. At times like these, when I was comfortable, I had to be sure not to forgetthe near-poverty I had grown up in. At any given moment, all of my money couldbe lost, rent would be impossible, I would be on my wits, and who knows whatcould happen. It wasn't difficult to become homeless, all you needed was astring of bad luck.