As I watched the TV and anxiously awaited the results of the election, my head just kept spinning. State after state turned red before my eyes, and my disbelief became denial. I cussed as Florida was projected to be won by Trump and practically stomped around the room as my friends and I struggled to cope with the harsh reality facing us.
This is the first election that I had cast my vote in, and like many other Americans, I came to believe weeks ago that a Trump win was improbable. I had not pushed the election far from my mind, but merely began to think that Hillary "had it in the bag" so to speak. The New York Times election predictions had caused me to have a sense of relief about the election. When I saw that according to this highfalutin news publication said that Hillary had around an 80% chance of winning, I was succinctly convinced that there was hardly a chance in the world that he could clutch 270+ electoral college votes. But on one of the most historic nights in America, the data was somehow so incomprehensibly wrong that the states that once shone blue transformed to deep red.
I, along with the rest of the world (including some Trump supporters, I am sure), was completely shocked when the final result rolled in. I immediately had a ridiculous amount of thoughts cross my mind. I was speechless, and all I could do was sob and utter inaudible words expressing my anguish. I had never experienced so much fear in a single moment of my life. This was the country I lived in. The people had spoken--54% of eligible voters to be exact--yet this did not look like democracy to me. In that instant, my hopes had faded. On behalf of all of the marginalized people in the United States of America, I was appalled and angry and wanted to act more than anything. He is going to be our president, I reiterated to myself.
I dried my tears and grabbed my friend Lillie's hand and headed down the stairs. She had planned to take a Safe Ride back to her dorm, but decided to cancel it in lieu of the events. After a few short minutes outside, we quickly ran into hundreds (if not thousands) of our peers and joined them in united resistance against our new president-elect. We ran into some of our other friends and marched for a few hours before calling it a night.
To me, the 9th was much more painful. Waking up that morning after tossing and turning all night, I was sore from the hatred expressed the prior night and was still in shock. The silence throughout campus was palpable, and each run-in with a friend was more somber than the last. That day in particular, I felt that I lacked the capacity to talk about anything else except the election and the next four years that lie ahead. I needed to express my feelings in a healthier way in which I would feel just a little bit better afterwards.
Stumbling on another protest in front of the student Union was probably one of the best things that could have happened on Wednesday. Instead of going to my Journalism class, I opted out of going to class in order to speak my mind along with other U of O students. I thought that in all likelihood my professor would be proud of my decision to exercise my freedom of speech. The truth of the matter is that the protest was about so much more than Trump. Our reactions were not so much anti-Trump as they were pro-love. Arm in arm, hand in hand, we had banded together to contradict the bigotry throughout the nation. As one of my fellow demonstrators said, "Democracy is not a spectator sport." Looking at you, 46% of America.
Despite the discouragement in my stomach and the disturbing feeling that overcame me on election night, I will continue to fight for what I believe in and will do my best to combat systematic oppression within my home state and throughout this country. The election may be done, but I am far from done with trying to invoke change.
