Navigating Despair: Coping with Political Turmoil as an Immigrant Woman

I go around in circles, Doja Cat in my ears crooning “Bitch, I said what I said…” as I scroll through my Twitter feed, my anger on simmer with the constant barrage of opinions that hit me each time I refresh. I screenshot the lyrics and upload with the hashtag #mood.

The Presidential immunity ruling dropped yesterday morning. All day yesterday I have been navigating the five stages of grief waffling between denial and acceptance. I retweet, like and share posts that resonate with how I feel at the moment. There are times when I want to burn it all down, I want our current President to go rogue and test the SCOTUS ruling. There are times when I am pragmatic enough to realize none of that will happen. Then, there are times when I want to close my eyes and pretend that none of this happened.

I walk. I listen to music. I bury myself in shows hoping the escapism will be blessed relief. It is, for a few hours. Then, I wake up to a reality that is sobering and grim.

The specter of federal elections in November feels pressing and imminent. I want a candidate who is energetic, progressive, decisive and, relevant. Given that is unlikely to happen, I am faced to pick between an old fascist felon and an old, out of touch incumbent who is actively assisting a genocide. The knee jerk reaction is to say I will sit this one out and register my protest.

Even as I think that, the whole of me demurs. It is not an option for me.

I was born in India, raised in a politically apathetic community, fought patriarchy and misogyny all my life. Compromise is a term I have heard way too many times to count. I have gone through life picking college majors, life partners and, careers with ‘compromise’ being the abiding guideline. I know what it is to deal with terrible,disappointing options and make it work for me.

I also know that as a middle aged woman, whatever voice I have at any table is hard won. It is something I am unwilling to surrender. I will use the feeble voice I have and, who knows, millions of voices like mine will be powerful together.

So, I will let my anger flame out. I will drown my sadness in Korean romances. I will set my distaste for the choices I have, aside. I will remember that the elections in November are not just for the felon or the doddering compromise.

It is for the impassioned middle aged woman like me raising neurodivergent children, LGBTQIA+ children, transracial children who is fighting to have her voice heard at the school board. It is the wiry older woman who knocks on my doors in the blazing sun talking about milkweeds and cross pollinators who is fighting to have her voice heard at the local township council as it debates which lands can be zoned commercial. It is for the gentleman who cares deeply about the pipelines running by my backyard.

These are the people who will be making decisions that will impact my (and my children’s) life here at this moment and in the years to come. These are the people who can (and will) ensure a safe, healthy life for me.

I will show up in the cold, snow or, rain to make my voice count. I will be voting to make sure my local school, my neighborhood, my city, my state can guarantee the rights I value.

As for the Supreme Court and the Presidency, my hope is that exercising our franchise at the local, county, state levels will cascade and crescendo into a tsunami that cannot be ignored.

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