And now we take a break from your regularly scheduled programming for a Public Service Announcement directed at my future husband, wherever you are out there: Hi you. So, we’ve been dating for a while. We love each other. We probably have a coffee maker and a slow cooker and a piece of furniture that we bought from Ikea and built together. You’ve learnt I am horrible at cooking, and watch a lot of Netflix. I’ve met your parents, and you’ve met mine. And now, it’s time to take the next step. But before you do anything rash, if you for some reason feel the urge to get down on one knee and propose marriage, let me give you the only advice you need to ensure it goes smoothly. I will gladly accept puppies or kittens, a plate of nachos or an assortment of sushi, a plane ticket anywhere or a case of red wine, but please, I insist, do not pull that small, black velvet box out of your pocket. No engagement rings, please! (Oh and also, do not propose to me in a public place. That will likewise cause me to run away.) Thank you, and enjoy the rest of your evening. ~~~ My childhood-self and I would not agree on this issue. When I was five, I convinced my mom to buy me my first bridal magazine because I was enamoured with the glamour and romance of the dresses and flowers and everything else. Then I found jewelry websites, and began searching for the perfect engagement ring: Oval or square? Silver or gold? Vintage or modern? By the time I had landed my first part-time job, I knew exactly what ring I wanted to be proposed to with, and I felt very sure that someday that fantasy would come true. But, now I’m just not so convinced. And it’s not that I’m an unromantic person – I dream about finding my “one true love”, someone to fall head-over-heels for, to be my best friend, and to spend the rest of my life with. I want a small outdoor wedding, somewhere in between the ocean and the forest, preferably in bare feet, with only my closest family and friends in attendance. There will be lots of delicious food and even more delicious wine at the after-party, and instead of a white wedding cake, I want wheels of cheese, fresh fruit, and guacamole. But in all the daydreams I’ve had of my wedding, engagement rings have gradually faded out of the picture. I don’t mind the exchange of wedding rings, and the “I Do’s” and the vows, but engagement rings just personally don’t make sense to me. I don’t understand their purpose, and no matter how hard I try to reason, I can’t convince myself to accept the rationale behind their pervasive use. For me, as a heterosexual female, an engagement ring represents the male claim over the female’s body. Whether the man knows it or not, they are participating in an act that effectively marks their female partner as spoken for or reserved. Engagement rings originated in the 15th century as a symbol of husband ownership over their wives-to-be, and while now they have become grand and romantic gestures of love, I don’t think I can shake off the idea that they were invented to signify possession. Obviously there is a different history of engagement rings for non-heterosexual relationships, but for me the whole ownership narrative is slightly deterring. My friends have told me that they feel engagement rings are a sign of appreciation from the man, for everything that he will not be able to do during the building of their eventual family. They say that from their perspective, the woman will be carry the children, birth the children, and nourish the children, and so it is the least the man can do to buy an engagement ring. My rebuttal to this is a trilogy: Firstly, instead of using money and material possessions to reinforce the established and archaic separation of gender roles, I would like to see the collective cis-male society step over that line and assume some of the roles within the heterosexual family, which would be traditionally assigned to women. That doesn’t mean they have to defy science and birth our children, but taking more time off work after the baby is born, learning to cook and clean, doing the dishes while I sit on the couch and finish my glass of wine after dinner, would all suffice. Second, this feeling that the man has to pay the woman back for what she contributes to the family, puts a lot of pressure on both the male to be the “breadwinner”, and the female to have children and start the family. The man needs to make enough money to buy the engagement ring, which means he has to have a good-paying job and constantly provide financially. Which is I guess, in reality, just those pesky gender roles again. Finally, if he so desperately wants to show me how much he appreciates me and needs to express that with the spending of money, I can think of much better ways to spend the societally agreed-upon three-months’ salary. As I said earlier, I will accept new pets to cuddle, a personal chef, plane tickets, or even a bus pass! But I cannot accept an engagement ring. I understand that the ring is meant to convey deep, undying love, but if my partner needs a ring to do that, and cannot think of a more meaningful or expressive way of showing that, I think we have other issues. To top it all off, there is some pretty dodgy stuff that takes place in order to get that diamond ring on your finger. And not just diamonds; the whole precious metal industry is pretty sketchy, and not really worth it, in my opinion. It would be a bit hypocritical for me to preach environmental vegetarianism, and fair working conditions, and then ask for an engagement ring made with an almost certainly unethically sourced gem. Even the plastic rings in the dollar machines at the movie theater and the Ring Pops from the candy store are probably not the most ethical. Consequently, I think I’ll just stay away from all that for now. So, to my future husband, thank you for reading. And in case you’re wondering, South America is next on my bucket list, and I will also accept white wine or rosés. Also, maybe you shouldn’t even propose at all – in fact, why don’t we really switch things up, and I’ll propose to you? -Amy
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“WHERE ARE ALL THE STRONG, INDEPENDENT WOMEN?” I exasperatedly whisper to myself, sitting on the floor in between the stacks at the library. The librarian hurries around the corner and tells me to be quiet, but as we antagonistically stare into each other’s narrowed eyes I can tell she feels the same; I saw that pussy hat hanging on the hook behind your desk, and I know that was bell hooks you were reading. You can’t fool me behind your hushing, and your unnerving glares. Fight the patriarchy. Fight the misogyny. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I don't mean to be demanding or fussy, but I am perpetually confused and annoyed that in almost every woman/girl/female centric novel I have ever read, the “happily ever after” always revolves around falling in love with a man! I spend at least two-hundred pages invested in the strong, dynamic, and beautifully dreamed-up female characters, only to find out in the last chapter, that the definitive piece of the happy ending puzzle, is in fact, a man. Why do all these females need a man to make them happy? Why can’t I run off into the sunset on my own – just me, myself and I? (Oh, and my cat please.) Being a woman in a patriarchal world is hard enough, but then you can’t even escape into a book without encountering a plethora of pronounced patriarchy among the pages. It’s not a great message to be sending to all the young women on the precipice of discovering who they are: “Find love and you will find your worth”, it says. For so many girls, myself included, who have experienced intense pressure, imposed on us by society, by families, and by ourselves to find a boyfriend/significant other (cue all my extended family asking “Anyone special, dear?”), a break from that particular encumbrance is always welcome. Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely appreciate and devour stories of star-crossed lovers, love-at-first-sight, and tangled, messy love. It’s exhilarating to be drawn into and wrapped up in the tales of sweeping romance; it makes for successful movie adaptations, and ultimately, it sells. Love stories are beautiful and inspiring, and ultimately a reflection of real-life, albeit through a macroscopic lens. But when you zoom in, there is a difference between needing a romantic someone and wanting a romantic someone. What I really want is a comparable selection of sappy romance novels, AND novels about the adventures and misadventures, the trials and failures, and the dynamic development of a female lead, without the crutch of a tired, overcooked Prince Charming. Until publishers begin searching for and publishing books that prioritize the female characters over the love stories, I think we’ve got a bit of a problem. Likewise, the overwhelming presence of heteronormativity in books and the striking absence of queer relationships is unfortunate and, frankly, harmful. The selection of female-lead books without male dependency seems extravagant compared to the handful of books where that female lead is gay, or trans, or bisexual, or gender queer. Because if there is one thing that all women have universally and historically been told by society, regardless of their race, religion, sexuality, or size, it is that we desperately and uncompromisingly need a man to be fulfilled, and to live our best life. It is indoctrinated in our impressionable brains that as long as we identify as girls, our identity will come from finding a man. And it requires a constant process of unlearning to be free of that institution. It is very possible that the lack of queer relationships and disproportionate amount of male-female romance in novels is a purposeful tool specifically used to reinforce the heteronormative ideals which are propagandized by mass media and society. I mean, if a woman is fine on her own, and isn’t searching for, or falling head-over-heels in love with a man, then forget about strong and independent, my god… she might not be straight… in fact, she might be… gay! This suspicion on its own, is enough to get the book removed from far too many libraries and bookstores and out of the hands of curious, developing minds. And I am so not down for that. Honestly, we (and the future generations) deserve so much more than censorship and neutrality on the issues that are integral to our mental and emotional development. I know that the creative brains are out there waiting to write books about strong, independent women who don’t need no man, but now it is imperative that the big publishers and the chain bookstores tell them that their stories are valid. We need children’s books about more than a white boy and his dog. We need stories about a transgender girl and her dream to be an astronaut, and about a basketball playing, hijabi-wearing teenager. We need young adult novels where the males are supporting, rather than essential (if there at all), and we need the stories of every other character you can’t find in the library, but wish you could. In an attempt to defy melodramatic hopelessness, I have compiled a list of novels that I’ve read or have been recommended to me, with female characters that embody strength, integrity, authenticity, and moreover, do not orbit around their romantic interest. They were few and far between on my mind’s proverbial book shelf, however they are so deserving of being read over and over again. Some are classics, and others are lesser known, and although many of them do have a love story, I’ve picked the novels where the woman-identifying character rebels against the conventional plotline and dictates her own story. These women have goals that eclipse their love lives. I’m no Oprah Winfrey or Emma Watson, but here is a short list of picks for my Independent Women ‘book club’: To Kill a Mockingbird - by Harper Lee Another Brooklyn - Jacqueline Woodson The Invention of Wings - Sue Monk Kidd The Secret Life of Bees - Sue Monk Kidd Life After Life - Kate Atkinson The Poisonwood Bible - Barbara Kingsolver The Help - Kathryn Stockett Twelve Tribes of Hattie - Ayana Mathis The Birth House - Ami Mckay The Red Car - Marcy Dermansky The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood The Elegance of the Hedgehog - Muriel Barbery The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency - Alexander McCall Smith The Secret Daughter - Shilpi Somaya Gowda The Paper Bag Princess - by Robert Munsch -Amy 2/18/2017 0 Comments Life: we all need a role modelAt three-years-old I may not have been a fully formed human—but I could certainly recognize the kind of human that I wanted to be. For little Leah Zielke, Belle from Beauty and the Beast was my ultimate “goals”. Pretend games around my house constantly involved recreating scenes from “Be Our Guest”, or spinning around the room singing ~~ tale as old as timmmme~~. I would wander around the house pretending I knew how to read, trying to perfect my ‘Belle with her nose in a book’ look. It went beyond pretend games though. There were aspects of Belle’s personality I began to relate to and recognize as qualities to aspire to. She was smart, she was brave, she was a little weird and she loved to read. I learnt from her that I wanted to be someone who was okay with deviating from the norm and embraced being different. I learnt I wanted to be someone who looks beyond others’ appearances or reputations, and takes the time to get to know people. I learnt I wanted to be someone who would do anything for the people they love. And I learnt I wanted to know how to read. ASAP. All of these qualities can be found in many of the other Disney princesses, however it was Belle who I consistently looked up to. The number one reason for that being: She looked like me. She had brown hair and was White, and because of that I was able to project myself onto her. I could see myself embodying her qualities because I was able to essentially watch myself act them out. Everything she did was something I would one day be able to do; weird brunette girls who love to read could be princesses and I was stoked. Being able to find myself in a Disney princess, or any other kind of childhood hero, didn’t mean I was a normal little girl doing what normal little girls do…. It meant I was a normal little White girl doing what normal little White girls did. At the time that I would have watched Beauty and the Beast there were only two non-white princesses. Jasmine and Pocohantas, however, are not without their problems. Respectively, each provide grossly over-simplified and ‘disneyfied’ renditions of Arab and Native American cultures, and thus all other races besides white were virtually cut from the available princess roster. I really can’t imagine watching every single Disney princess movie and not finding someone who looked like me. I was even lucky enough to have choices: there was Belle or Snow White! I could then decide which I identified with beyond looks and personality! (by a landslide it was Belle). Until 2009 when The Princess and the Frog came out, the reality for Black girls was that no princess looked like them. For Asian girls there was Mulan in 1998, a whole 60 years after the first Disney princess waltzed on-screen. Most disabled characters are seen as villains with hooks, and within the entire Disney franchise there has never been an openly LGBTQIA character. I do think Disney is moving in the right direction, showing an increasing interest in depicting diverse characters but #giveElsaaGirlfriend already! There are so many groups of people underrepresented in the entertainment we consume. So many little girls and boys looking to the T.V. only to see images of princesses and heroes they will never be. But they can be! And our entertainment should reflect that! Disney, Marvel, Universal, and Teletoon ETC have started making progress to fill in the holes of representation, but they are still largely gaping. Imagine if there were as many Asian princesses as there are blonde. Imagine if there was a princess who didn’t look like she stepped off of the Victoria Secret fashion show, or if there was a princess who needed a wheelchair. Imagine if all little kids could look to their entertainment to find the guidance I found in Belle. Keep going Disney -- it’s not yet enough. -Leah Two years ago, while speaking to Georgetown law students, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg said: “People ask me sometimes, when — when do you think it will it be enough? When will there be enough women on the court? And my answer is when there are nine.” People laughed, but in actuality, it’s kind of a revolutionary (albeit slightly facetious) answer. In a world where Justin Trudeau’s “because it’s 2015” sent many into affronted alarm, RBG’s statement is defiant, challenging, and deserves unpacking. To me, Justice Ginsburg was posing the question: “Why not?” or “Why should it be so hard to imagine?” Considering that the last two centuries of the US Supreme Court have never seen more than three women on the bench at a time, having nine judges who are women is a good place to aim, and if they achieve half of that, then that’s not so bad. For 192 years, there were nine men on the bench. Not once, and not twice, but every single time a new judge was nominated, for almost 200 years, the Supreme Court was made up entirely of men. It was not an anomaly, but a hallmark of history that continues to plague today’s society. Contrary to what it maybe sounds like, I don’t think RBG is mandating that all men be removed from the Supreme Court, but instead is utilizing her position, as an influential figure, to say that having nine women on the bench can be, and should be, a possibility. There should be no limit to female potential, and young girls should never be raised to think there is a limit. The Notorious RBG was simply doing what she has always done: standing up for every girl's dream to be whoever, and do whatever, she wishes, without the limitations of gender roles or societal constructs. Justice Ginsburg is a trailblazer, a pioneer, and has inspired generations of women to achieve more than they could have ever imagined. Throughout her career, she has been an advocate for discriminated-against communities. Most of her years have been spent fighting for gender justice, and in acknowledging that gender injustice disproportionately affects marginalized women. In recent years, she has voted on the progressive (left) side of multiple Supreme Court decisions dealing with racial injustice and the law. However, even more recently, her actions have hinted that, possibly, Ginsburg has become comfortable in a role as a white feminist. It’s not to say that she hasn’t embraced and practiced intersectionality in the past, but if feminism isn’t ALWAYS intersectional, then it’s not actually a useful contribution to the liberation of the oppressed (and in my opinion, not really feminism at all). Intersectionality is an idea officially coined by Kimberlé Crenshaw in 1989, but one that has been practiced “in every generation and in every intellectual sphere and in every political moment”. In her own words, it is “the need to think and talk about race through a lens that looks at gender, or think and talk about feminism through a lens that looks at race.” It was founded in the thought that a women of colour experiences discrimination that does not fit into the cut-and-dry boxes of racism or sexism, but rather a combination of both. Now, intersectionality is a discipline that encompasses all aspects of oppression: race, sex, class, sexual orientation, ability, and so much more. RBG’s response to Colin Kaepernick’s protests against police brutality (which warrants another post entirely), were disappointing to say the least, and disrespectful, if I was to say a bit more. Among other words, she called the protests “stupid”, “arrogant”, and “dumb”. In her position of great power and reach, she belittled and vilified a peaceful protest, without even mentioning the issue at hand, or the reason why Kaepernick decided to protest in the first place. Justice Ginsburg’s shying away from expressing opinions on police brutality and racial injustice cannot be attributed to her responsibilities as a Supreme Court Justice. Her fellow justice, Sonia Sotomayor, wrote a deafening dissent in 2016, which went far past the legal requirements of a dissent, and became, what seemed like, a cathartic venting of frustrated emotions. In a case centered around unlawful police stops and the Fourth Amendment, Sotomayor ended her dissent with a section written “only for [her]self”, which many have viewed as a nod to the Black Lives Matter movement, and ultimately, a personal condemnation of the ongoing denial of racial discrimination in the United States. Unfortunately, RBG’s contribution on that part of this crucial matter was nowhere to be found. So, when Ginsburg responded with “when there are nine”, I was excited and filled with pride- I was thrilled to hear a fellow female speak so boldly. But I also wish she would have said a bit more. I wish she would have used her authority to talk about every other person who has been oppressed by the heteropatriarchy. I wish she would have been a voice for people other than just the educated white women in the audience. I know it would have incited substantially more rage than her initial comment, but I wish she’d declared a desire for more than just gender equality on the bench. She had the opportunity to hold up a microphone for all the aspiring Indigenous lawmakers, for all the future Muslim judges, for the LGBTQ community, for every Asian-American, for every Sikh, Hindu, or Buddhist, and for the immigrants who dream of one day sitting on the bench. Why limit ourselves at nine women? Why not nine judges who might be more representative of the demographic makeup of the United States? Intersectionality is something Canada needs to work on too. Justin Trudeau took steps when he introduced a significantly more diverse cabinet than his predecessor, and the current House and Senate are the most diverse in the country’s history. On the other hand, our own Supreme Court (which is the product of Prime Ministers dating back to 1984) has a long way to go to achieve racial diversity. Also extremely troubling: Donald Trump just nominated the most white, most male first-cabinet since Reagan. Since 1981. 36 years ago. Did I miss the memo that time is in fact now moving backwards?? In both countries, and all over the world, we need to stop buying into this false explanation of “We’re just hiring the best possible candidate for the job”, and call it what it is: sexism, bigotry, racism, and prejudice. Plain and simple. And it extends so much further than gender equity in our governments; it’s not just the 75¢ on the dollar for white women, but the 64¢ for Black women, 59¢ for Indigenous women, and 56¢ for Hispanic women. Feminists around the world have to adopt intersectionality, because women’s rights are merely a fraction of the immense puzzle. It’s not enough for us to just show up to the Women’s March. We must listen, and be allies to so many others. We need to stop fearing imagined consequences of stepping outside the white-feminist bubble, because for those who are oppressed, the consequences are so much more than an unfollow on Instagram, or an unfriend on Facebook. Especially in the new political climate, white women have to be there for Standing Rock, for Black Lives Matter, for Palestine, for refugees, and for every other community. And then maybe we can call ourselves feminists. -Amy Further Reading on the Importance of Constant (Vigilant) Intersectionality Celebrity Feminism: http://www.cosmopolitan.com/entertainment/celebs/a8642654/celebrity-feminism-has-no-place-in-trumps-america/ Sonia Sotomayor: http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2016/06/utah-streiff-sotomayor/487922/ Ruth Bader Ginsburg: https://rewire.news/article/2016/10/11/ruth-bader-ginsburg-shows-white-feminists-must-better/ Kimberlé Crenshaw on Intersectionality: http://www.newstatesman.com/lifestyle/2014/04/kimberl-crenshaw-intersectionality-i-wanted-come-everyday-metaphor-anyone-could 1/27/2017 0 Comments life: happy anti-versary365 days and I still have ANTI on constant rotation. I can’t recall an album ever making that kind of space for itself in my life. I feel like every time I stray from it— get really into Anderson .Paak or even Frank Sinatra for a minute—I still always have to go back to ANTI. Why doesn’t it get old?? Anderson .Paak and Frank Sinatra are really great, but trust me you can only listen to “Fly Me to the Moon” so many times before you start seriously aging yourself. ANTI, on the other hand has never had me feeling the need for a switch up. Every time I press play on “Needed Me”—I feel it in my toes. Don’t know if that’s an indicator of much but I think it should be. I could pick out the first seconds of that echoing intro anywhere… and I often do. That girl you saw scream “RIHANNAA” in public? Ya, that was me. I think maybe that’s ANTI’s secret. The visceral reaction it demands. Every song demands an emotional response. And it's not because a songwriter strung some pretty words together, actually the words are fairly sparse and simple. “Goodnight Gotham” is a minute and a half of “night, night, for a night,” with the occasional, “only if” cut from Florence and the Machines “Only if For A Night”. Not a lot to work with as far as searching for meaning. But still, instinctively you know what the song is about. It reaches beyond the cognitive space of words and fastens meaning onto gut reactions. When I listen to “Goodnight Gotham”, it’s a mess. It’s frantic, it’s relentless, it's haunting, it's frankly kind of scary… but at the same time invigorating? There are probably a multitude of instances where one would feel that clusterfuck of emotions. Do I know which instance she’s getting at? No. But I don’t think that is necessarily the point. I am a firm believer that creative content released into the world gains meaning only upon its interaction with us. There can be no concrete tangible meaning sitting latent in anything. Creators can have intentions— what they hope for you to conclude from their work, but depending on the varying experience and background of those consuming this work, the reactions and conclusions drawn will be equally diverse. When I hear ANTI I have a visceral reaction to the sound. I read my own experiences into every drawn out, exhausted vocal on “Love on the Brain”, the anxious technological chaos of “Pose”, and the desperate drunk sound of “Higher”. Rihanna leaves the space to do this wide open, and that’s why I don’t think I can get sick of ANTI. I draw this album's meaning from the empathy of emotion it evokes, and I celebrate it for its ability to raise these emotions, not through logic and words but through sound. FUCKING BRILLIANT RI RI CANT WAIT TO SEE WHATS NEXT -Leah 1/19/2017 0 Comments Life: Trump in the HouseWhen I fly, my palms get really sweaty. I over-analyze every single jerk of the plane, every dip and every shift through the sky. I am constantly scanning the faces of the flight attendants for any signs of impending danger. I can quite definitively assure you that I am not the greatest flyer that has ever sat squished in a middle seat on a late-night flight from Toronto to Vancouver. However, there was something so pacifying about turning my phone onto airplane mode as the plane pulled away from the gate on December 19th. That was the night the Electoral College would cast their official votes in determining the presidential pick, and there was the faintest, slightest, glimmer of optimism that maybe, somehow, the White House would not be transitioning into the "Orange House" come January 20th. While I do not claim to know the intricacies, or really any more than the basics, of the Electoral College, I do know that it is a 200 year-old, antiquated system that appointed Donald Trump as the commander-in-chief of the United States, regardless of him being the less popular of the two major candidates in the November election. And that is absolute nonsense. Mr. Trump was able to convert the right demographics, and capitalize on poisonous voter suppression, so that he came out victorious in key states, which shifted the teetering balance away from a qualified, strong (nasty) woman, to an actually nasty, horrible, vile man. It has been roughly two years since the campaigns began and despite copious satirical jokes and shared dinner-table laughs, the man who no one ever believed would make it, has effectively made it. That is more than absolute nonsense; it’s outrageously ludicrous. There are entirely too many people, and bodies, and organizations to blame for this incensing turn of events, and thus it is not possible to pinpoint a single reason, however the fault lies straddling the bipartisan line, that is for sure. Obviously, the acute responsibility can be assigned to the majority of Republicans, and a small portion of disgruntled, frustrated Democrats. Their decision to check the box for DJT instead of HRC, is the small-picture reason that the Electoral College elected Donald Trump (also known as America’s official tanning bed spokesperson) onto the throne of the most powerful country in the world. But that is such a tertiary, downstream justification for the catastrophe that we have witnessed. More comprehensive explanations might include: voter suppression, white privilege, the very problematic Democratic National Convention, and ingrained systemic sexism and racism, just to name a few. Turns out, 53% of white females voted for You-Know-Who, paying no heed to the multiple allegations and lawsuits against him for sexual assault and aggressions, or his track record of heinously racist comments and stances. I cannot claim to know anything about those particular white females, without employing an erroneous fallacy, but I do know what I don't understand. How could the majority of White American females disregard all qualms or fears of a sexual predator rising to power? How was an overqualified female with years of political experience not enough to sway them? During his whole campaign, was there genuinely nothing off-putting enough to conclusively reject him? Of course, there is an absolute necessity to acknowledge the privilege of that particular vote: white women have infinitely more protection in the American justice system than women of colour. They were less at risk; they had less to lose. Which is, I guess, maybe why they were able to cast their vote for a man who ran on a tyrannical, misogynistic, xenophobic platform. Or why 58% of white voters overall voted for him. I’m not saying that Hillary was the perfect candidate, as she has engaged in some fairly disturbing displays of power in her past, but she was undeniably a better alternative. In the same way that it is impossible for me to ever truly grasp the fear that black men and women might feel when they see flashing lights in their mirrors, there is a painful part of Hillary's loss that men may never fully understand. Even for me, who was won over by Bernie very early on, my heart was twisted and crushed when I groggily rolled over on November 9th at 6am, swiped open my phone, and tapped on the CNN App. Putting aside all the politics and promises, a woman lost to a man, and that, on its own, is sufficiently disheartening (read: the US still won't have had a female president after 225 years). But then you start comparing their experiences, their qualifications, and their skills, and it is a slap-in-the-face, punch-to-the-gut, stab-in-the-back kind of loss. It says to me, and many other women, young and old, that no matter how hard we try, there will always be a man there to beat us. Everything that happened in this election period is unfathomable and outright insane, so for those five hours in the air on the night of the Electoral College’s decision, I embraced ignorance, in all its bliss. I fantasized that upon touchdown, I would switch off airplane mode and be greeted with a thunderous influx of electronic notifications to let me know that decency had reigned. I knew it was a far-fetched dream: that the slight political protestation against the functioning of the Electoral College would change anything. But I held onto that dream-- as a woman, and as a human being, who fears for all those who do not benefit from white heteronormative supremacy (which is pretty much everyone in the whole world, white cis-men included!!) More explicitly, I fear that Trump’s election will create an America where hate and ignorance dictate its citizens’ everyday decisions. I fear an America where women lose access to reproductive health services. I fear an America where mass incarceration of black men continues to be the norm. I fear an America where the intolerance of Islam, and its false synonymy with terrorism, persists in its growth. I fear an America where conversion therapy creeps back onto the table. I fear an America that intensifies its second-class treatment of Indigenous peoples. Ultimately, I fear an America that moves backwards instead of forwards. Now, it is the eve of the inauguration, and a month since Trump’s fate was sealed. And although, he will still be sworn in as the 45th President of the United States tomorrow, there is a new emotion brimming inside me, and inside so many others across the world. It is something I neglected to consider while flying through the air on December 19th, in my spiraling pessimistic state. Today, and tomorrow, and far into the foreseeable future, there is hope. The Women’s March on Washington is slated to have more attendees (not to mention better performers!) than the inauguration. Countless elected officials have voiced their dissidence with Trump’s rhetoric and his campaign promises, and have avowed they will work to create a safe, thriving America. Needless to say, it will take an enormous amount of work to stand-up to Trump’s presidency, and his conservative cabinet picks and appointed staff. It will require commitment, collaboration, open minds, and consistent conversation, on the part of activists, lawmakers, business-people, artists, and government officials alike. For every late-night gibberish tweet, for every dismissive comment, and for every attempt to apply his oppressive, harmful views onto the government, we will have to put in the extra hours, and truthfully it doesn’t scare me at all anymore-- in fact, it is honestly invigorating. And then, four years from now, in January 2021, after all that hard work, I ardently hope there is someone a little less self-tanner, and a lot more powerful-female, placing their left hand on the Bible, ready to start anew. - Amy |