So this is the end of the series—perhaps I should be using the Doors’s “This is the end” to mark the occasion.
The weekend after and I am still stunned. I still can’t listen to the news (WNYC & NPR), although I am reading plenty online. Reading is easier: as soon as I see something about THIS is the reason. . . I know to move on. I laid out what I thought were the possible variables for Trump’s win and Clinton’s loss, accept that there might be still more; I don’t accept that anyone knows yet how to sort those variables.
I don’t. I have been knocked on my ass, and not have not managed to find my footing I don’t know much about the ground, either.
There were things I thought I knew. I thought I knew the extent of white supremacy in this country, thought most would, if faced with it, reject it. I didn’t think so many would just brush it aside, claim simultaneously that Trump was being both honest and that he didn’t really mean what he said, that the toxins he released weren’t that poisonous at all.
Maybe there’s something there, to be grasped: that those who embraced a racist didn’t want to be seen as racist. It is a slender reed.
So, what next? I don’t know.
What kind of president will he be? I don’t know.
Will he stick to his campaign promises? some of them? I don’t know.
Will he take the job seriously? I don’t know.
Will he turn over the day-to-day executive functions to his staff, to Pence? I don’t know.
Does he even want the job? I don’t know.
What kinds of judges will he appoint? I don’t know.
What kind of diplomacy will he conduct? I don’t know.
How will he react in crisis? I don’t know.
What will happen when he fails, as all presidents fail? I don’t know.
I don’t know the answer to any of these questions. The best possible answers are bad; the worst, are more than I can now bear to imagine.
But if one is to prepare, to resist, then all possibilities, the worst possibilities, must be imagined.