Master and the Middle

As I looked out the kitchen window of my apartment while the coffee was brewing, it looked grey and overcast. It was the Saturday after Donald Trump’s inauguration. In my barely awake stupor, I neither remembered the dark, apocalyptic speech he gave the day before; nor that there was a women’s protest march planned in Washington DC that day. Just then my phone buzzed with a message from a friend who said he was already at the march and that I should come join.

As I sipped my coffee, I started debating whether I should go to the march or not. I had discussed going there with this friend during the week but neither of us had committed to it. What would it really amount to anyway? Would it make any difference? What if there were violence and I would have to run on an injured leg? Wouldn’t it be just a convenient thing to do since it was right there where I lived? I couldn’t remember a single time that I went to a march of any sort previously in my adult life. Because I had not. I am not an activist type of person, socially or politically. I enjoy reading about and discussing politics, history and theories thereof especially. But apart from that, I keep my distance, stay way from getting my hands dirty so to speak. I realize that sounds a bit smug, apathetic, privileged even. Because it is. After an hour of humming and hawing that morning, however, I decided to go. It was after all occurring right where I lived and the least I could do was go and support. Also, this was not just another rally. This was day one of the Trump era.

—

Back in the fall, I woke up one morning to find a message from a friend in which he said ‘us liberals’ implying I was also a ‘liberal’ like him. I was a little amused by this because no one had ever called me a liberal before. I certainly don’t refer to myself as one or even think of myself as one. I support liberal causes such as abortion, gay marriage, and gender equality. Yes. However, the label of ‘liberal’ in current American political context carries connotations of being white, educated, urban middle class, the white part of which I am not. I guess you could say I quack like a liberal but don’t look like one. Besides, I am not a citizen of the United States, thus unable to vote here. That also constricts my self-recognition with political labels such as that. If I were eligible though, I would cast myself as an independent and would have voted for Clinton in November. Not because I was overly enamored by the symbolism of the first female president. I would have voted for her because of sheer repulsion for the vitriolic xenophobia and racism that the Trump campaign displayed, especially towards the end.

Once Trump won the nomination, I always thought there was a strong chance he could win the election irrespective of what the polls were saying. I hoped otherwise, but I feared he would. There seemed to be a fervent energy and rage among his base, fueled by rapid societal changes, both cultural and economic. The cultural elements of that fear, relating to immigrants, race, gender, the progressive part of me does not support. The economic elements, the genuine pain felt by those who have been displaced by trade and economic globalization, I can understand to an extent. That’s my independent side. Trump promised to rip up to the status quo, roll back  years to revive an era of vibrant industrial manufacturing and deliver blue-collar job security. I think that ship has long sailed and there is no turning back the wheels of technological progress and maybe to a lesser extent, economic globalization. His promise is unrealistic. The focus ought to be more on providing education and vocational training for white working class of the rust belt states that have been economically displaced in order to help them transition to new sectors of the economy. But that does not make the economic pain felt by struggling people in the rust belt states less real. The fact that Bernie Sanders came close to winning the nomination on the other side, with a message built on similar anti-establishment, economic populism is a strong proof that this particular smoke has a genuine fire behind it. In that context, I can see why some swing voters in rust belt states who voted for Obama either stayed at home or went Trump’s way. I also do think that a big part of why Trump won is because it was against Hillary Clinton. Not Clinton the woman so much, but Clinton the establishment, who for all her competence and experience, could not offer a coherent vision to those craving for change. I thought she she would have won with Elizabeth Warren as her running mate. But that’s more speculation than cogent analysis.

—

As I ponder implications of Trump’s win for myself as a member of society, I often think of this book called The Mandarins by Simone De Beauvoir that I read a few years ago. Set in post WWII Paris, it tells a story of group active citizens, intellectuals (characters believed to mirror her circle consisting the likes of Sartre, Camus, herself), who run a newspaper. They are caught up in a new struggle against Fascism, Communism, and American hegemony immediately after the period of the Resistance against Nazism. Worn out by the constant political and ideological battles, a central character sporadically considers whether it would be better to just forget it all; slip away and live in peaceful isolation somewhere in an Italian countryside, get on with a happy life in a cozy bubble. Upon deeper reflection, he comes to a realization that there is no way to neither possess the world completely nor to completely protect yourself against it. You are just in it, that’s all.

In it, yes. We were in it when the world trade center towers burned on a crisp September morning. We were in it when a black man became president of the United States for the first time. And we are in it now when Donald Trump has ridden a wave of populism all the way to the White House. So while we are in it now, I suppose, it is time now to really be in it, in it. I don’t know what form of action is better, more powerful. All I know is that the least I could do is stay informed, resist, donate, and protest any which way I can where I see fit. I am not saying I have done a ton already. I think this will be a long haul and I plan to pace myself. Immediately after the elections, I deleted my Facebook account to turn off the deafening howls of angst and anxiety from that online echo chamber. I re-subscribed to the New York Times and The Atlantic magazine to support independent publications. I plan to donate to regularly to worthy organizations fighting for civil liberties and fair treatment of immigrants. I want to be engaged and active while also remembering that Trump is in some ways a symptom, not the full disease that plagues our time, our politics, our societies. In looking for silver linings, the optimism I find is that his victory has made me shed my apathy, reticence to get my feet muddy in political battles.

—

I took the bus from my neighborhood down to the protest area around noon. The bus was fairly empty. I exchanged knowing glances with a few other people who were also headed to the march. As we approached downtown DC, the streets gradually thickened with throngs of people. Soon, in the main Washington Mall area, there seemed to be a sea of humanity. Women mostly, wearing pink hats, carrying colorful cardboard signs. But there were also a fair number of men, children. People of all ages. The signs ran the gamut. Pro abortion, immigration, environmental protection, gender equality, equal pay, racial tolerance, diversity and more. Most of them were cleverly worded, designed. There was chanting and shouting, but mostly people were jovial. Holding up signs, taking photos, walking along. It was almost a block party type of atmosphere. I think everybody was pleasantly surprised by how many people were there. And most people wore a look of relief and release on their faces. Relieved perhaps that they were not alone in feeling threatened, fearful for the direction of the country under the new administration. I just milled around, took some photos, talked to some strangers, walked along with the crowd. I walked all the way back home from there as the rain started to fall in the late afternoon. Once home, I settled on my couch with a cup of tea in front of the TV and soaked in sights of similar marches all across the country. Shortly afterwards, Trump’s press secretary came out and told the assembled press corps that the media should show more respect to the president and not undermine his legitimacy by talking about the size of the crowd at his inauguration the day before relative to that of others. In fact, his inauguration crowd had been the largest ever. Period. Thus began the Trump era. My phone showed it was 2017. But it felt very 1984.