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Despite toxicity that will engulf us, we are heroes, we always have been, and we’ve always come out on top. We will get through this, John Casey writes.
When I took the dog out this morning, I did not want to open the door. We went out the backdoor of the building, because I — well, we — didn’t want to see anyone. Freddy is a Puerto Rican stray, so he’s sad too.
When I opened the door, a garbage dumpster was sitting in the middle of the back parking lot, outside its gated area, and there was garbage spread about. It was so unusual. It was also telling.
I cannot think. I cannot speak. I cannot smile. I cannot emote, so I write. But what?
The sun is streaming in my window, nearly blinding me, but it’s darker here than it’s ever been. I cannot see, and cannot see the point in writing something that’s going to tell you everything will be alright because no one wants to hear that right now. I certainly don’t.
And no one wants to hear the reasons why he won. Why she lost. Or why some people in this country turned America upside down like a garbage dumpster, spilling out refuse from the sea-to-darkened sea. In 1980, former Ronald Reagan campaigned on “Morning Again in America.” He — I can’t write his name — is about darkness at dusk in America. There's no way to sugar-coat this.
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I’ve written about my best friend of 40 years who railed at our community with hurtful words, tropes, dangerous stereotypes. He was granted a permission structure with all the hate emanating from the GOP ticket. He said “the LGBTQ+” was a cult. The irony was lost on him.
We are not a cult. We are a loving, nurturing community that rightly takes pride in our history of continually overcoming severe obstacles to survive and thrive. We’ve gained so much. Achieved so much. Celebrated so much; yet, we still have so much work to do.
After what happened last night, I dare say that we might have to start all over again. We are not safe. We will have a president, a Congress, a House speaker who are vehemently opposed to us. And a Supreme Court that is gunning for us. We are less than them. We are evil to them. We are bound for hell to them. We are garbage to them.
Gay men are f**s, lesbians are confused, bi people don’t exist, trans people are freaks, and nonbinary people are ridiculous jokes. These slurs were heard at Trump rallies, on the campaign trail, in GOP ads and social media posts, and face-to-face. We heard multiple stories about door-to-door canvassers being confronted and attacked with angry words that oozed abhorrence.
The torrent of hate towards queers provides a permission structure, that allowed my friend to spew venom, and now has been extended to over 70 million people. Don’t think for a minute that these people will suddenly be nice and accepting. Kindness and openness did not win last night. If Americans were disgusted with that language, and the way queer people were being referred to, they would have responded accordingly.
That is why, today, the only thing I can think about is how much we have to band together — once again — and perhaps like we have never before. We are about to come under attack in ways we cannot even fathom. Suddenly, we look at our lives, our marriages, our children, our jobs, and our very beings, and see the precipice of hate and exclusion.
But we will not, and we cannot, accept any infringement of our rights.
With so much success over the years in getting to where we are today, we always saw the rainbow of a Pride flag in the distance, at the end of the road. Now an ominous, opaque cloud blocks our vision. Suddenly, we find ourselves blinded to our future.
Last night was an aberration. A bad dream. A torrid dream. This morning, we woke up with sweat, chills, anxiety, and our hearts beating furiously, pounding against my rib cage, looking for a way out of this hellscape.
At some point, I suppose I’ll dissect what went wrong last night. Now, I eat a poisoned crow that makes me violently nauseous. I cannot figure out a way forward, because going forward at this point seems like an implausible task. The pain is too great to even conceive and consider that the bright sun, shining down on me now, will one day warm me again.
But for now, the only, fleeting, static, fluttering hope I do have is that I belong to the most resilient community in the world, filled with love, compassion, acceptance, and inclusion. We are not garbage, despite the toxicity and bane that is going to engulf us in the years to come. We are heroes. We always have been. And we’ve always come out on top. We will get through this.
Right now, that provides a tiny bit of solace.
Voices is dedicated to featuring a wide range of inspiring personal stories and impactful opinions from the LGBTQ+ and Allied community. Visit pride.com/submit to learn more about submission guidelines. We welcome your thoughts and feedback on any of our stories. Email us at voices@equalpride.com. Views expressed in Voices stories are those of the guest writers, columnists and editors, and do not directly represent the views of The Advocate or our parent company, equalpride.
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