I'm pawing through the bright colors and stripes and prints in my dresser, looking for a black shirt. Pull out a folded-up black lump, but that's the camisole-like thing Stephen calls a ballet top: too pretty. Pull out another folded-up black lump and get halfway across the room before I unfold and see the Powell's logo on it - too cheery - and turn around again. Finally, at the very bottom of the drawer is the t-shirt I never wear because it's too short and my stomach peeks out if I'm not careful. I grab that and then the ballet top too - two layers means the stomach won't show, but also, I can't have too much black this morning.
Silly drama queen gesture, but I don't know how else to be in the country today.
I know people who depend on the Affordable Care Act.
I know people Trump consistently maligns: people of color, people who came here illegally to escape terrible lives, people with disabilities, women.
It's weird to be a woman and wake up to a Trump presidency. I've always had/fought this worry that I actually am lesser because I'm a woman. I'm smart enough to know this feeling is wrong, but it lives in me anyway, nestled among all the tiny bits of phrase like the aforementioned "drama queen" that help teach and reteach us that we are lesser. I feel this even more so this morning, slightly embarrassed by the prints and occasional ruffles of my girl clothes. I know that my response to that very wrong-headed embarrassment should be to stand tall and flaunt those prints and ruffles and skirts, but this morning, I just want to throw on a black shirt and sweater, my black rain jacket, take the dog out and disappear in the dark.