I remember sitting in silence on my campus Wednesday morning at 11:19 AM. On a campus where there's never an abundance of white noise, it was all I could hear, if anything. The sky was gloomy, and from my fifth-floor vantage point, it looked almost spooky. My first thought was, "where do we go from here?"

How do I look my LGBT best friend in the eye and tell her that everything will be okay, when our new vice presidential elect believes there's something that needs to be corrected — electrocuted out of her, to be exact —about who she is? How do I look at my differently-abled friends, and tell them there's nothing wrong with who they are when they see their presidential-elect mocking them? How do I look at my friends who have immigrated from other places, and tell them they do belong here? How do I look at my Muslim friends, and tell them that I know they're not terrorists? How can my voice possibly be louder than the chorus of voices shouting "terrorist," shouting, "there is something wrong with you," shouting, "there is something that needs to be corrected about you?"

How can I even compare? Do I even compare?

How can I look into my own mirror, and dry my own tears, when there are people who believe I should "go back to Africa?" How can I convince myself that there is a place for me, in this America? In these divided, United States?

As I traded glances with my classmates, later on that day I was met with tearful expressions and barely-held back sobs. And so, so much pain. When I left campus on Wednesday night, I want to say that I felt better. Instead, I felt raw. And powerless. Some of the strongest people I knew were hurting, aching from a place that I had never witnessed anyone ache from before. These strong, lovely people that I call my friends were truly terrified about what would happen to them, in this newly transparent society — newly transparent in the worst kind of way. The ugliest, meanest members of our society were now standing in the spotlight, daring us all to look upon them, and feel the heat of their hatred.

By the time I went to bed that night, my makeup-less eyes had cried as many tears as they could manage, and I was again brought back to my 11:19 AM thought: where do we go from here?

At 2:46 AM that night: Up, I decided, we go up.

All of my life, I've been taught to "sit up straight" because "they're already judging you anyway," to "sound white" because "white means smart," to not make "us" look bad. I've been taught to swallow everything I've been given, as a defense mechanism, as a survival technique. But, I've had my fill.

I can't just sit idly by while people tell me we're "post-racial" and I'm being "a whiny liberal" and I'm just "throwing a temper tantrum" and that "won't change the results of the election." So, I'm not going to. But, what can I do? I'm just me. And I'm not a protester, I'm a debater... I'm an educator. Maybe you're like me, maybe your physical body keeps you from protesting how you want to, maybe you have crippling anxiety and the thought of being immersed in a large crowd leaves you feeling panicked and small. That's okay, but I need you to know one thing: educating people is just as important as standing on the front lines of a protest. This role is just as important as holding up your hand-painted sign as you march down Charles Street, arm-in-arm, with your fellow protesters. You don't need to prove your worth to anyone, but you do need to tell the people who matter, the people in power, that they cannot turn a blind eye to you anymore. Because you are here, and you will not be ignored, erased, or forgotten about. Because you.are.here. You'll tell anyone and everyone, until your voice, our voices, are louder than the chorus of voices shouting "terrorist," shouting, "there is something wrong with you," shouting, "there is something that needs to be corrected about you."

And we will be heard. But it starts with you, and me.

You don't need to change every mind. You just need to change one. And it's okay if that one mind is yours, reminding you that you do matter. And you are always worth fighting for.