The thought of a rabid Trump supporter committing an act of violence against Hillary prompts physical anxiety in me. So much so that I must cloak my words in that euphemism that we so often use now – “committing an act of violence.“
I cannot fathom waking up the next day to a world in which that happened. Yet it is so possible. Probable.
It was the same with Obama, this constantly worrying. What if this suddenly all went away?
How would I call myself an American after that?
Yet even now, I continue calling myself an American knowing that no level of tragedy will be a catalyst for change. Not a classroom of first graders. Not innocent black lives. Not a nightclub full of lovers and friends.
So maybe this would be the same. You shed tears, send thoughts and prayers, read hot takes, maybe even attend a protest. And then you get back to your life. Resume business as usual, comfortably numb, wondering how the hell we ever got here.
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