Relief

I was never interested in politics. I trusted the process. I didn't go in for the Us vs. Them mentality of party lines. As I was growing up in small town America, I trusted that whoever was elected President would be determined to do what was right for the country.

My first hint that it might not always be the case was, of course, Richard Nixon. But there was swift retribution, and life went on. I assumed that it would be a lesson for all future leaders--don't do bad things.

I was wrong.

Still, as a small town girl, I didn't worry much about things outside my own limited area. School boards and road work and property tax were more of an issue to me than the broader picture.

Even once I moved to Colorado, my "town" was a small area, and I focused my attention on the plans and policies that affected me and mine. Would I agree to an increase in property tax to pay for improvements to the schools in the area? Should our town allow a new marijuana dispensary to open for business? Should our mayor be allowed to continue his night job as a bouncer at the local strip club?

I did exercise my right to vote in local elections, and only spent a small amount of time researching the national picture, voting my party as a matter of course rather than a matter of life and death. My parents were Democrats--therefore, so was I.

Obama was the one who made me sit up and take notice. At that time I was working at a large city hospital, and it was the talk of the place.

I had come from a very small community of people who had known each other their whole lives, so until I moved away, I had never been confronted with daily reminders of bigotry and racial disparity. Those were things I read about and saw on the news, but had never been affected by.

Yeah, lucky me. Naïve, and at such an advanced age, too.

I learned fast.

Learning instilled a fear in me that I hadn't known before. I really liked Obama, but I was afraid for him. For the first time, I heard people express out loud that someone should be jailed or shot or hanged just because they looked different or had different views.

For eight years, I worried something would happen to my elected leader, a leader I proudly voted for and whom I agreed with more often than not. And knowing that his time was nearing an end, I started to pay attention to the candidates in a more focused and informed way than I ever had before.

I was disappointed that Joe Biden would not be on the ticket that year, but I was registered Democrat and fully expected to vote for Clinton even though I wasn't as enamored of her as many of my acquaintances. She was clearly the choice; because that other guy was more nightmare-inducing than any person I had ever seen or heard.

Donald J. Trump, the star of my nightmares. As a mother of daughters, I was appalled by the way he spoke; by the way he treated women, by his obvious obsession with his own daughter. As a mother of a son, I was appalled by his disrespectful manner, his disregard for others and his obvious cruelty. As a mother of children of color, he frightened me with his rhetoric regarding Mexicans and other immigrants. As a proud Native American, I knew he would further disenfranchise my people. And as a grandmother, I was completely terrified for the future.

For the first time, I was urging people to register and vote. I spent hours researching and passing on information so that my family could make decisions based on facts. I pushed back against the lies.

My son told me Trump would win. My son wouldn’t vote for him, and in fact despised him, but he still believed Trump would win. I didn’t believe that people would be that blinded by his fast-talk and semi-charismatic presentation. He was a liar, a grifter, a scam artist extraordinaire. Surely the majority would see through him.

Well, he lost the majority of the votes, but because of the dread Electoral process, we were stuck with him. My son was right; he won.

God save us.

It has been a LONG four years.

I thought I would be relieved when Joseph Biden was declared the winner—as he was, over and over and over again. Recounts and lawsuits and lies and rhetoric continued to lead to the same conclusion: Biden was the winner.

But I wasn’t relieved.

When all the states counted and certified their electoral votes, I thought I would be relieved.

But, again, I wasn’t.

When I rose on January 6th to watch Vice President Pence certify and declare Biden the winner, I had knots in my stomach. Even before I tuned in, even before I had my coffee, I felt so sick I thought I might vomit. There were protesters gathering all weekend, and I was afraid.

I’d like to say I was completely unprepared and surprised at the uprising and attack at the Capitol that morning, but it was almost as if I’d been waiting for it. I had a moment of, “Oh, there they are.”

This is not to say that I wasn’t shocked and appalled and in a state of total disbelief. I was.

For me, the worst of it was how long it went on. Police, National Guard, any and all law enforcement resources should have been arriving and fighting the insurrection within minutes.

It took hours.

And I couldn’t stop watching the news. Live coverage is great, except when it is not. I wanted—needed—to walk away, to turn it off, to stop seeing people surge through a place that should have been the most well-protected spot in the country, hell-bent on destruction and violence.

I also needed to see it and bear witness to where this despot had led our country.

Trump. The nightmare.

The next two weeks were spent holding my breath. What else would he do, or entice his followers to do? Anything seemed possible. Anything.

I rose yesterday morning, full of hope and full of dread. Yes, there were over 20,000 guardsman on hand to protect the incoming administration. But would it be enough? Would it be okay?

Trump flew out of the city well in advance of the festivities. What did that mean? What plans might he have left behind him?

There was so much going on in the world of "Trump Won" and "Stop the Steal". The tweets were, for the most part, gone. Somehow, not seeing them added to the tension. What were they up to, where we could no longer see them plotting and planning?

Everyone went to church service, and although I'm not much for organized religion, I was praying. No guns, please God. No violence. No craziness. Please and please and thank you and Amen.

Live newscast reports at the Capitol. As people arrived, it was no secret that there was a lot of body armor under the designer clothing. No one was taking for granted that things were safe and normal.

Well, that was good, I thought. Be careful. Take every precaution. Don't let anything bad happen. Again, please God.

Every muscle in my body was tensed.

The prayers, the music, the swearing-in ceremonies—they were all wonderful and beautiful, and yet, I couldn’t relax. I know I wasn’t the only person on the edge of their seats.

President Joe Biden made a wonderfully inspiring speech, and I could feel my nervousness easing as he spoke. There was a slight sense of relaxing. It was wonderful to hear a complete, articulate sentence, followed by another and another—creating intelligent and coherent messages that were so refreshing.

Still, I wasn’t relieved. I was better…but I wanted real relief.

And then, a beautiful young poet, Amanda Gorman, started to read. By the time she was finished, I was in tears and the remaining tension in my shoulders had eased. As her words of hope filtered through my brain, a peace flowed into me.

Things can get better.

Like many Americans, I followed the rest of developments throughout the day.

I slept without dreams. I’m not a good sleeper, not ever, but I slept as well as I could have and better than I do most nights.

This morning, when I woke up, my first thought was: “He’s gone.”

There was no knot in my stomach.

Relief. At last, relief.