Every day for the past week or so, I've seen something new that makes me tear up, or sometimes sob. I remember crying like this twice before. I remember standing by the stove in my college kitchen and reading that Madeleine Albright was Secretary of State. A woman Secretary of State! I cried with relief and pride, and didn't even know why. My life hasn't been an experience in blatant sexism, but I was overcome to see a woman I'd never heard of reach an office that high. I cried one day at the only gay pride parade I've ever been to. The Dykes on Bikes led the march, and they were just so themselves, so unapologetic, revving the engines on that blue sunny day and I cried for their happiness. I didnt know I needed that either, to see dykes being open and loud. I don't usually see lesbians having to be anything in particular. So those were the times I surprised myself, crying in joy to see people rise into their full selves despite old -isms, when I hadn’t even known I cared they were oppressed.
I picked Obama early in the primaries, always thinking that the other two were good solid choices. In the end, I liked Obama's collaborative approach more than Clinton's skill at traditional politics, so I went with him. But a piece of me regretted the choice, because remembering the day that I cried to see a woman Secretary of State, I knew I'd be so glad, so proud and happy and relieved to watch a woman being sworn into the presidency. A small piece of me, one that doesn't even irritate or nag me anymore I am so used to it, that small piece of hurt would be lifted on that day. After that, I would always be better.
I talked to Margie about it and she agreed. Yeah. She'd be awfully happy to see a woman win the presidency. But then, she said, maybe black people need this more this time. Maybe there are more little black kids who need to know they can be anything than there are little girls who need to know that. I nodded. Maybe. It is hard for me to tell from my Californian world, where racism isn't black and white, but splintered and spread in every direction between dozens of ethnic backgrounds. It isn't the same; I don’t see the ugliest histories in my daily life. I simply do not have the firsthand experience to make any sort of comparison between the extent of the need for women to see a woman win and American blacks and multi-racial people to see one of their own move into his full, extravagant potential despite centuries of racism. (This is fine. Those comparisons are dumb.) So I held the question out, unanswered.
Until this week. This week I've teared up or cried from joy at least a dozen times. Oh. This amazing feeling, of vicious old wrongs dissolving. I don’t know if past wrongs can be righted and not everyone is whole yet. But the same wrongs aren't working this time. They weren't even wrong against me, but I can watch them lift and feel an echo of the pride and joy flooding my countrymen. That is a remarkable gift, unlooked for, because I didn’t know that old racism was making me sad and that shedding some of that shame and empathy would be joyous for me too. We are better, we are healing, even right now. Those of us who aren't at the center, we are so lucky to bear witness.
(I am so proud of my Mommy, who has been campaigning for Sen. Obama for months, traveling for weeks.)
(Links from everywhere, y'all. Sorry for no hattip.)