On Becoming An Activist In Trump’s America

In the past five days, I have become an activist. I’m still struggling to figure out exactly what that word means – but, I know I am one. My voice has been quiet (and quieted) for too long. And, I am not alone. As an educated, white female from rural Pennsylvania, I am both privileged and oppressed. I have spent a great deal of my life feeling mostly the latter, growing up in a lower-middle class home isolated in the middle of Appalachia. But in the last 5 days, I’ve very quickly and viscerally realized the breadth of my power.

On Tuesday, November 8, Donald Trump was elected to be the 45th president of the United States. I have not said that phrase out loud until now. It reads like a joke at first – the star of a reality tv show, a casino owner, a business tychoon, and all around not-nice guy (to say the least), has been voted in to the White House. VOTED. IN. I’m not sure how that is possible. I am still in shock. How could this have happened? How did he, of all the candidates and all the potentials out there, become our president-elect? I don’t want to name-call (OK, I really, REALLY do!), but this man is on record blatantly and abhorrently degrading women, making fun of the disabled, and, as part of his election platform, suggesting we build a huge wall between Mexico and the U.S. to prevent immigrants from entering our country (a country founded on immigration, I might add).

On Tuesday, November 8, something else happened as well. I became activated. Brought up in a progressive household in an extremely conservative town, I learned very early on that there are safe places to talk about politics and many more unsafe places. My voice, outside my immediate family and home, was often shushed. When I went to college in a more liberal city, I felt more accepted and, at times, even lifted up by my peers and professors. A philosophy course early-on and a really solid Women’s Studies instructor helped with this. By 2003, protests had begun against the Iraq War and you better believe I was on the bus from Central PA to NYC to voice my opposition in solidarity. That was my first real protest and the first time I felt my voice truly being heard.

And then things got quiet again. Bush continued his reign until we elected our beloved President Obama. I was so excited to be electing a brilliant, qualified, eloquent black man as the leader of my country. He was and is MY PRESIDENT. I chose him. I elected him because he represented hope and change and progress and respect for all people. He symbolized my oppressed female voice – and it was now being opened and celebrated and considered with supreme honor and dignity.

The past 8 years, I’ve been busy – moving from Portland, Oregon to San Francisco, California to go to graduate school at the San Francisco Art Institute. I’ve taught college courses, had solo exhibitions across the country, been published in art magazines, and granted awards for my artwork. I have been very busy – and, sadly, very quiet again. Until 5 days ago.

Back in Portland now after six years in the Bay, I experienced this election at the heart of one of the most liberal cities in the country. At midnight on Tuesday, November 8, my husband and I walked out of our apartment with heavy hearts. We walked to get some air, for perspective, to find a way to activate our bodies and minds and to find others who felt the same devastation we were also feeling. We walked to Pioneer Courthouse Square, Portland’s city center, thinking there would be thousands already protesting, but it was quiet. The air was thick with silence, and we sat on the ground alone considering options – how to leave the country, how to fight, how to get involved, how much and in what ways should we prepare for the next 4 years.

By the next morning, I was full-on enraged. There was no way I was going to sit quietly in my apartment and cry alone. I was going to find a solution. By noon on Wednesday, I started a Facebook event for people in Portland to come together peacefully to protest. By 5pm, the beginning time of the demonstration, over 900 people had committed to joining me. I’ve never been an activist before, let alone the leader of 900 people. It was exhilarating and overwhelming and I was scared. Really scared. I thought I’d have to talk, to direct, to come up with a solution on the spot. I made and brought signs that read “Not My President” – it’s all I could think to do. And show-up. Show-up for these 900 people, and do what I could to be a strong, brave and powerful voice.

Marching down Burnside during rush hour traffic with anti-Trump signs, we already had people following us, honking their horns, asking where to go and what to do to also be a part of this movement. And a movement it is, physically and emotionally and politically. When we arrived at the square at 5, I was shaking and full of adrenaline, and, to my surprise, a huge group of people – well beyond the 900 I had brought with me – were there to greet us. Thousands upon thousands with various leaders, various groups, various agendas and opinions with various skin colors, genders, socioeconomic statuses and backgrounds. But we all gathered, and marched and chanted, together for hours and miles. We shut down the interstates with the help of the Portland Police Bureau and walked in solidarity, activating our spaces, our bodies, our streets, and each other. We all became activists that day. Our voices were heard and we were not quieted – we were uplifted, together, in solidarity, against this election and against this president-elect.

From that day to this day and every day going forward, I will no longer be quiet or allow others to quiet me. I am a force. I am a female. I am a woman. I am oppressed. I am privileged. I am an ally. I am an artist. I am a teacher. I am a wife. I am a sister. I am an aunt. I am a daughter. I am a leader. I am an activist, and I will not stop peacefully empowering my voice against Donald Trump. He is NOT my president. I did NOT choose him. I did NOT elect him. And I will not allow his misogynist, racist, bigoted actions to represent me. EVER.

My voice will be activated and I will be heard. Count on it. #notmypresident

More info: pdxresistance.org

On Becoming An Activist In Trump's America