For most of the women in my life, the sorrow of Trump’s election has been palpable. We are in mourning; still cycling through the stages of grief on an endless loop. But back home, in middle America, where a majority of white women supported him, there is rejoicing. They are praising God for this change. My friends ask how this betrayal could happen, how any woman could vote for a man like that? I don’t have to ask. They are the women who raised me — my aunts and cousins, my Sunday-school teachers and babysitters and field-trip supervisors. They are my mother. When I was growing up, my mom was a fighter. As a single parent, she worked multiple jobs late into the night, hustling to pay our bills. After she married, she was still the one who kept us all afloat. She was resourceful and smart, but always a step behind.
My mother raised me to work hard; to love unconditionally; to see Christ’s love in everyone. She taught me kindness, compassion, and service.
Years of hardships chipped away at her. The shrinking paychecks and disappearing jobs.
While she will give you her last cent, she sees injustice in programs that help other families buy food or pay their hospital bills.
My mother never saw hope. She saw corruption. She saw rigged systems and lies.
We were standing on opposite sides of a canyon, trying to communicate through fog. I couldn’t convince her that her own eyes weren’t telling her the truth.
I will fight for my mother, for her health, for her financial security, for the dignity of her beautiful, brave, angry, wonderful life.