Trump’s victory was an emotional Kansas-sized tornado for me.
You see, as a Canadian, I really and truly believed the United States was ready to elect a female President.
I even teased my kids on the morning of the election that they wouldn’t have to do their chores until the US had a woman in charge.
Well that didn’t go so well.
It was the death of a dream for me and for countless other women around the world. Such were the feelings that ravaged my soul in the days following; the five stages of my grief.
First, denial. It couldn’t be. Something was missing. Had all the votes been counted? What about the West Coast. Why wasn’t that enough? I will never watch television news again. That was just Tuesday night.
Then anger. How could it be? Such vile intolerance had been on display. How could any electorate endorse that with a win? I will never go to the United States again ever. That was Tuesday night too.
Then sadness. On Wednesday morning I ventured out to do my radio show on Voice of the Shuswap with my friend Tracey. Our topic, as it happened, was The Art of Reflection. And reflected we did. Subdued but reflective. I came home straight away and wallowed in the sadness for awhile. I cried while watching Hillary give her concession speech, especially when she apologized to all the little girls who believed in her.
By Thursday morning, I was ready to bargain. After the President Elect met with Obama I actually considered letting it all go. If Obama could be that classy, why couldn’t I? But there are things that were said during that election campaign that will only ever be taken back with some sincere apologies and some drastic reversals of proposed policy.
Friday was Remembrance Day. So I was back to sadness yet again for so much more than any election. So many lives have been given to achieve peace. How could such hate overcome those sacrifices.
So I did what I often do when I need redemption. I cooked. There is so much satisfaction in taking simple ingredients and creating something for those whom I love so much. I cooked potatoes and pork and pumpkin pie and brownies and pizza. You get the idea. And just as I waited for the final batch of cinnamon buns to finish baking on Saturday night, I started watching the Wizard of Oz on television.
As I watched Dorothy, the lion, the scarecrow and the tin man, suddenly, acceptance came within view like “skies of blue on a cloudy day”. Maybe Trump is like the wizard. Just a guy, behind a curtain, who intimidates with loud words and big flames to keep those who are afraid, fearful.
And Dorothy knew that fear but she overcame it at every turn with courage (it’s what makes a King of a slave says the Lion.), and kindness.
Somewhere over the rainbow, lives the next Dorothy. We’ll have to wait awhile yet to meet her.
But in the meantime, don’t let the flying monkeys scare you. Peek behind those curtains every chance you get. And, in the absence of ruby slippers, wear red shoes.