As I sat down this week to write my first column, I wanted to make nice, I really did. In the wake of the disastrous first weeks of the Trump administration, conservatives across the political spectrum called for unity, saying “Give Trump a chance.” I was going write about how we can bridge the ever-growing divide that is tearing our nation apart. It was even going to be intersectional.
I had planned on listing what I, as a “big city liberal,” believed. I’m from Philadelphia, a predominantly Democratic city on the East Coast. We don’t always agree. Like most Democrats, we argue. But there are some things we do all agree on. Good paying jobs that let families do more than just survive. Not choosing between medicine for our children and paying the rent. An educational system that works. LGBTQ rights that let us live our lives without fear or prejudice. Police who don’t murder people of color and get away with it. Strong unions. Politicians that don’t pat us on the head while picking our pockets. We want to be happy. We’re not asking for special privileges – just the basic rights of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” we all learned about in school. That’s what I was going to write about.
Then I started covering the protests that swept Philadelphia and realized that the time for kumbaya was over.
I heard mothers tell me how, for the first time, they were afraid for their children. That a madman now controlled the White House, and instead of spending his time fixing our problems, takes to Twitter to call people names. Who hangs up on world leaders. Who tweets every time someone dares to disagree with him. Who needs a timeout.
I heard people of color tell me that this wasn’t new to them. America has always been and still is a racist country. It’s just come out of the closet for everyone to see. And now it’s respectable for white supremacists to sit next to the President of the United States without shame and whisper sweet nothings into his ear.
I heard my LGBTQ friends tell me how fear for their lives. Just a few years after we got the right to marry each other, we suddenly are afraid to hold hands in public. In Philadelphia.
I heard transgender individuals tell me how their friends are being murdered – daily – across this country, and how they wonder if they’ll be next.
I heard fear. But I also heard resistance.
I saw the crowds marching in the bitter cold to shut down the streets. The words they shouted differed from day to day, but the sentiment was the same – we will fight back. We will not allow this to happen – again. That our voices will be heard. That this isn’t the America we believed in – and that we want our country back.
In the upcoming months, I’ll be writing about those voices, and how they’re fighting. As a journalist, it isn’t my job to make people comfortable or happy, but to speak the truth. My columns may make you angry. Good. I hope that they do. I probably will poke a few hornets’ nests. I may get stung. I may sting. But I’ll always be honest with you.
All I ask is that you listen. Because, like the song goes, “I’m not ready to make nice.”