Chapin City Blues

Despite the hope that I carried with me, I knew the results before the polls even closed. That uneasy feeling settled in my bones early Tuesday morning, filling my belly with anxiety. I held it there. I tried to brush it off as paranoia. Yet, I recognized this feeling. It was the same one that leaned on my shoulders in 2016. We can’t go back. We mustn’t go back.  

That night, as I watched as Trump took one state after another, my fears were becoming a reality. “It’s called the red mirage,” several people on TikTok voiced. “Red states always turn in their counts first.”  

In my head, a line from “Exile” kept playing on a single loop: 

I think I’ve seen this film before/And I didn’t like the ending.  

By midnight, resigned, I went to bed knowing full well that Kamala Harris, despite the numbers reported in polls, was not going to be our next president. 

Wednesday carried out well enough. I arrived on campus and overheard a conversation two female students were having: 

“And at least your man wants you, I had to pay for…” 

I stepped out into the cool, crisp air. It was in the 60s but temperatures were expected to rise later. Never mind the humidity levels. A Valley autumn if I ever experienced one.  

As I headed toward the library, two men were standing near the trail. Several printing paper-style boxes towered behind them. As a student passed by one, they were offered something.  

Fucking Gideons.  

“Excuse me, sir,” one began as I walked past. 

“NOPE!” 

“You don’t want a…” 

“NOPE!” 

“God bless…” 

“NOPE!” 

Part of me wanted to take it. Chunk it in the trash can as I walked into the building. Part of me also knew that was a waste of paper that could have easily been recycled. My fucking tree-hugger sensibilities. 

The day continued. Three young ladies made TikTok videos outside my department, guffawing loudly in the small hall, echoing throughout the area. Another student wore her rainbow shawl around her shoulders. Still more walked around as if the world continued no matter the results.  

I cleared some people from my friends list on Facebook. A new friend request followed shortly as if to take up the empty slot now opened.  

Today, I deactivated my Twitter accounts. And I sat down to write.  

These are battles, as El Senor told me last night. The war is ongoing. He’s such a Marine sometimes. 

The feeling among the queer community seems mutual, especially within the trans community. Stop telling trans people we have survived this before. Everyone is sick of surviving; we should be thriving. 

* Title comes from an Andrea Gibson poem. I forget the title, but you can read it on their Instagram account.

Read more Andrea Gibson posts on Chapin City Blues