A Call from the Precipice
Morningside Heights was joyful that night. I was perched in the kitchen window of my third floor, corner apartment. Looking out over the intersection of Amsterdam Avenue and 120th Street. The Upper West Side sprawled out to the south of me, and Harlem to the north. And the raucous sounds of celebration seemed to be coming at me from all directions. It was November 4, 2008. A cool evening in Manhattan, but not yet wintery cold. And the world had just learned that Senator Barack Obama had defeated Senator John McCain to become the 44th President of the United States.
At the time, I was nearing the end of my first semester in an MFA writing program at NYU. And that particular election eve, I was alone at the kitchen table. Sipping tea in front of my laptop, trying to make some progress on a project for my screenwriting class; a bleak script about catastrophic climate change and the end of the world as we know it. Because I was without a television, I was not able to follow the blow-by-blow election returns. When I received the news about Obama’s victory on my cellphone, I was stunned. Sure, I had cast my vote for Obama that morning. But in retrospect, I clearly had not allowed myself to believe that a Black man was really electable. I had supported Hilary Clinton in the primary, even though I similarly harbored a lack of confidence in the prospect of a successful, female candidate. Slowly, however, the reality of the moment began to sink in. Distracted by the growing clamor of exaltation outside, it became increasingly difficult to focus my creative attention on a fictional narrative about the eradication of the entire human race. So, I closed my computer and tried to consider the historic magnitude and political implications.
Of course, during their campaigns, both Obama and Clinton had stopped well short of endorsing same-sex marriage. A bellwether issue that was of particular importance to me at the time. And I was still angry and disillusioned that, when pressed on the topic, Obama had opted to cloak himself in Christianity for the sake of political expediency. But even so. The more I considered, the more I began to believe. A Black man in the White House could not help but portend something. Something new. Something other. Something good. After that, it didn’t take long for me to start buying into the promise of “Yes We Can” and the potential hope it might hold for a brighter future.
As the months and years passed, I grew increasingly enthusiastic about where ‘we the people’ were headed. I kept one eye on a gleaming, new-American sunrise as I finished grad school, met the man of my dreams, started the next chapter of my life, and became a dad. I watched as our President and the country’s view on Gay marriage evolved into the unimaginable. Equality. And I took great comfort in the idea that our young son was growing up in an era of inspiring, societal enlightenment.
And then the world turned. A hard one-eighty. You know, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Yep, Newton’s pesky third law. It just snuck right up and bit me in the optimistic ass. It was November 8, 2016. Another historical moment in the making. A female at the top of the presidential ticket. And even with of her political baggage, Hilary seemed like a shoo-in. This time I did watch the election results. Blow by blow. Sitting with my husband on the couch in our living room. And the final blow was a doozy. Again, I was stunned. It was not like I had dupped myself into believing that Obama’s tenure as our Commander in Chief had fundamentally changed who we were, or that one Black President was all that we needed to miraculously absolve us of two centuries worth of institutionalized sin and subjugation. But I had allowed myself to believe that – like me – a vast majority of folks had also turned their eyes to that promising new-American sunrise. On that election eve, however, whatever bright future I believed had been promised to me, to all of us, began to fade.
And in the months and years that followed, my glowing outlook was totally eclipsed by a sad and undeniable truth. In 2008, a large number of my fellow Americans had declined Obama’s well-intentioned invitation to a collective kumbaya around the “Yes We Can” campfire. Or worse, many of them felt that the invitation was never really meant for them. And maybe that sense of exclusion had fueled eight years of festering resentment. Perhaps that long-simmering anger compounded eight years later by Hilary’s elitist and more pointed dismissal of those uninvited – the deplorables she called them – was enough to turn the tide in Trump’s favor.
I know. The above electoral assessment may strike some as grotesquely simplistic. In my defense, I am no political scientist. I was a Theatre Major. Even so, I think my political hypothesis does make some theoretical sense.
Now, I am facing yet another potentially history-making election eve. November 3, 2020. Kamala Harris is number two on the Democratic ticket. The spread of COVID-19 is worsening by the day. Fires fueled by a long overdue reckoning on racial injustice are burning in our streets. And with the recent Supreme Court appointment of Amy Coney Barrett, accessible healthcare, a woman’s right to choose, and my marriage will be dragged again into the judicial crosshairs. It is an undeniably tense and pivotal time for our country. And how are we meeting this moment?
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I know. The above melodramatic analogy may strike some as obscenely overwrought. Again, in my defense, Theatre Major. Even so, I think my rambling theatrical tangent did lead me back to somewhere near the central point that I am trying to make.
And I think it might be this.
In my darkest moments over these past few years, I have allowed myself to be lured in by the rallying cries of “us” and “them.” I have listened while various talking heads used labels like sharp blades to cut us apart: racist, liberal, Republican, Democrat, Christian right, radical left, white-collar, college educated, LQBTQ, suburban whites, women of color, immigrants, pro-life, Hispanic, and the list goes on. I have agonized over the fact that I invited people to my gay wedding who helped elect a man who believes in conversion therapy. I have vowed to cut family members out of my life based solely on who they vote for. I have contemplated the pros and cons of buying a gun. And I have actively searched the internet to find new and more socially acceptable ways to drink greater amounts of vodka. During these past four years, I have often been encouraged to act on my worst instincts. And I have been led. By fear. To a dangerous precipice on the edge of a great divide. And my enemies have been identified for me. The others. They are standing, I have been told, far beyond my reach on the other side of that yawning chasm. And all of us. On both sides. We have all been dared to jump.
But there are other moments too. Brighter moments. Many of them. And those are the ones that I cling to. And I am comforted, because I still believe that every challenge we face, is an opportunity to grow stronger. And every challenge we face together, is an opportunity to grow closer.
So, I for one will not jump. Nope. Instead, I will vote. And then after I vote, I will sit. On my couch. With my husband. And I will follow the blow by blow election returns. Possibly sipping on a raspberry cosmopolitan, or maybe simply slamming back a shot or two of Stoli – social acceptability be damned. And every now and then I will send out a little prayer for the better angels of our collective nature. A prayer for peace and healing. And I may even hum a few bars of Kumbaya.
And when all of the red, white, and blue confetti has finally settled, I will send off letters to the new King – and Gods willing – our first Queen. I will remind them that their people are still out here. On either side of a great divide. I will implore them. Please don’t try to pull us back from the edge too quickly, I will say. We are already here. On the precipice. For better or for worse. Please don’t let it be for nothing. Allow us an opportunity to steady ourselves on this cliff. To sense some kind of safety here. And then, encourage us to call out to one another. From across the vast expanse. To say something. Anything.
“Hey! Can you hear me over there? I know it seems impossibly far. But don’t jump! I hope that you can hear me. I want to hear you too!”
And then. Maybe together. We can begin to find a way to heal.