2016 could legitimately be remembered as the year of imbalance. Many of us, me included, have come unmoored this year, tossed between the dire warnings about normalization and silence in a Trump world on one hand and drama mamma, sensationalist, prepper accusations on the other. The only constant being fear and that dread that comes from anticipating something awful of unknown and unknowable dimensions.
Is the dread drama mamma? There are very few of us that get the privilege of walking around blissfully unaware of our own vulnerability. I found myself walking on an unfamiliar trail last week, it was still daylight, but waning, and I was profoundly assailable. Just about anyone with the xy chromosome feels it under one circumstance or another. Am I more assailable, more vulnerable now than I was on November 1? Arguably, I am. If you’re black, or brown, or visibly different, or suspected of being invisibly different, the spike in hate crimes tells a story. And that story is a frightening one. At least half of my chosen family isn’t white, and I’m scared for them. I don’t think you can look at the evidence – I mean the evidence that exists outside Fox and Drudge etc. – and find that fear irrational.