A Return to Post-Election America: Why I Can’t Wait to Go Home

At 11pm Kigali time on November 8th, I set my alarm, closed my eyes, and fell confidently to sleep, in full anticipation that I would wake up the next morning to news alerts of a Hillary Clinton win. To a world where the United States had finally, after more than two centuries, elected its first female president. I envisioned the emotions of the day, the congratulatory texts and emails. The incredible moment for women in the U.S., and around the world. And I, like many people, felt not a sliver of doubt that this moment would come to fruition. Or at least, any doubts that existed were quickly swept away after a quick perusal of reporting from the polls and political punditry. I slept soundly.

But instead, I woke up to an alternate reality. Frantic texts from loved ones at home flashed across my phone. Incredulous news reports, with anchors and journalists visibly shocked, shook me to my core. The entire world seemed unsure as to what was happening. A new world order had shifted into place overnight.

The news stunned me into inaction. In Kigali on my way to Congo for work, instead of taking advantage of the lovely morning, walking the rolling hills of Rwanda’s capital city, I camped out in my hotel room, NPR streaming in fits and starts on the hotel’s unreliable internet network. Unable to do anything but sit with my head in my hands, I desperately texted friends and family and listened in horror as Trump’s triumph was confirmed.

That confirmation was a moment I will never forget. In a daze, I pulled my things together and headed to the airport to board yet another flight — the last leg of my journey — that would take me as close as possible to Bukavu, a city on Congo’s eastern border.

The reaction to the election among my Congolese friends and colleagues has been mainly one of curiosity and surprise, of empathy for our distress. People here know all too well the strife of politics, the very real consequences of political fallout. Yet my conversations in Congo have driven home one reality — that the whole world is watching. And waiting to see what will happen next.

I travel internationally often for work, and I am enormously grateful for it. And yet, what I wanted more than anything in this past week was to be home. I wanted to commiserate with my fellow Americans, with the majority of us who voted for Hillary, and to better understand those who didn’t. I was, like the thousands of people who crashed Canada’s immigration website that day, tempted for the briefest of moments to seek solace elsewhere. To hide out in the international travel I’ve become accustomed to, or to find a new place to raise my future children.

But my country needs me — needs all of us — now more than ever.

I’ve always been a cautiously optimistic patriot. And my travels have only deepened my admiration for this country, where my vote is counted. Where free and fair elections are the norm. Where peaceful transfers of power are cherished. And yes, where our flaws run vast and deep.

In retrospect, it’s shocking not that Donald Trump won, but that I, like so many, were so blind to his power over millions of Americans. That we didn’t fight better, smarter, and especially more compassionately, against those who found in Trump not a demagogue but a defender. Not a ruthless billionaire in his gilded penthouse suite, but an Everyman who understands the common people. Not a liar, but an unscripted outsider who simply speaks his mind. So much of the world is asking how, in Trump, millions of people saw redemption, renewal. His success, his celebrity, his brand, his politics, his very being is based off of a shallow illusion — yet Trump seems to have an uncanny knack for persuading the public to see whatever it is he wants them to see. He has capitalized on an opportunity to send a clear message to millions of people who were searching for a leader. He knows his audience. And that may be his most dangerous talent of all.

To survive and to keep intact this grand experiment of democracy, we must learn to truly listen. To know each other, not with a false veneer of immobilizing compromise but with our deepest reserves of empathy. To show love to all those who feel marginalized. To acknowledge their unheard voices, who feel helpless about a future they feel is out of their control. To cherish our differences, to celebrate them.

We’re a nation of doers. Of over-achievers. Of immigrants. Of religious liberty. Of freedom of speech. Of picking ourselves up by our bootstraps and fighting to see another day. I am thankful, I am lucky, to have been given the opportunity to make what I can with my life, in this country, in this moment.

And that’s why now, sitting in a hotel room in eastern Congo on the shores of Lake Kivu, amidst the irresistibly sweet call of tropical birds, the wind over calm waters, and fishermen’s songs echoing from below, I can’t wait to go home. To join the thousands of people who, after being jolted into reality, want to show to the world that this is not who we are. That we’re better than this. That we’ll stand up and for the country we love.

For over two centuries, our collection of ragtag immigrants of every political persuasion have managed to shape this nation into an imperfect one, but one that I am grateful to go home to nonetheless. The following days, weeks, and years will test our spirit and demand both radical empathy and extreme strength. Yet we’ve faced the abyss before, and time and time again we’ve forced our way back to a brighter day. This election has shaken our nation to the core, has caused us to reexamine who we are and why we exist. Trump will never have my vote. He will never be my president. But my fellow Americans will always be my compatriots. It’s time to pull ourselves up from our bootstraps, and do what we can for America — for each other.

I’ll be seeing you soon.