“This exclusionary matrix by which subjects are formed thus requires the simultaneous production of a domain of abject beings, those who are not yet ‘subjects,’ but who form the constitutive outside to the domain of the subject. The abject designates here precisely those ‘unlivable’ and ‘uninhabitable’ zones of social life which are nevertheless densely populated by those who do not enjoy the status of the subject, but whose living under the sign of the ‘unlivable’ is required to circumscribe the domain of the subject.”
—Bodies that Matter, Judith Butler
Tuesday was filled with crushed dreams. Tuesday was friends and coworkers wearing “Nasty Women Vote” shirts and suffragette white. Tuesday was quilted with selfies with “I voted” stickers. Tuesday was hours-long lines to the polls. Tuesday was rehearsal letting out early because no one could stand to be away from the TV. Then Tuesday was checking the vote tallies for the first time to see Trump leading 129 to 97, seeing California barely push Clinton above her opponent and realizing that that was her last big win, seeing my state, Wisconsin, remain white and undecided past two in the morning when Clinton’s campaign manager came out to tell us all to get some sleep. Tuesday was knowing that Wisconsinites could save us, but they wouldn’t. Tuesday was watching the political commentators pivot from talking about Trump’s negativity to talking about how Trump should be congratulated on having done something rather remarkable. Tuesday was my heart beating so hard and so fast I could feel it everywhere in my body.
Wednesday was waking up at 7am, heart racing, to crush the last shreds of possibility. Wednesday was my collaborators missing work because they couldn’t compose themselves in time. Wednesday was tears and tears and tears and a letter from the head of the theatre company expressing solidarity and promising to soldier on. Wednesday was the morning text from one of my best and truest friends that read “I want you to know I’m here for you as a woman and I’m going to stand up for your rights. I am your ally. And it’s so important now more than ever that we are there for people of color. I love you.” Wednesday was crying in another friend’s arms. Wednesday was my father’s words that he has never before worried about the outcome of an election–my father, the straight, white, upper-middle class man from Wisconsin-but he’s worried about this. Wednesday was hate speech and hate speech and hate speech on social media and in real life. Wednesday was more family saying good riddance to people who threatened to flee the country if Trump was elected and a great day for some people, apparently, according to Facebook. Wednesday was hours upon hours of being thankful that I live in Massachusetts, where I feel pretty safe to be openly gutted about what’s happened. Wednesday was privilege, so much privilege.
Thursday was thought. Thursday was organizing. Thursday was a collective outpouring of support, a communal mourning, a sharing of resources. Thursday was resistance. Thursday was petition after petition after petition on Merrick Garland’s appointment, on the rights of the Electoral College representatives to change their votes or to abstain. Thursday was documentation of the hate and violence that has come to light in its apparent sanctioning. Thursday was the circulation of comprehensive, bilingual, crowd-created resources. Thursday was a reminder that we have 70 days to prepare. Thursday was reading and reading and reading.
Friday, Friday is for writing.
The dreams we lost through Clinton’s defeat, the dreams of a woman president, of a role model, another step towards equality, a breaking-through of the glass ceiling, are easier to mourn. The dreams we lost through Trump’s election, dreams that we have held longer than the dream of “Madam President,” dreams of love, safety, generosity, dreams that our humanity would be validated and affirmed, these dreams cannot be mourned. To mourn them is to mourn ourselves, whose invalidation, marginalization and oppression is evidently essential to support the re-sujectification, the re-centering of Trump’s supporters.
So many people of so many ages and background and beliefs, in so many cities and countries over the past year have told me that Donald Trump was a joke, that he could never be president. I have never said that. Everyone is shocked. Everyone is saying they’re shocked, in shock. I am not shocked. It seems no one was paying attention. Everyone was too busy unfriending* their Facebook friends who supported Trump to pay attention to what was happening, to listen or engage with reality, with humanity.
Now, I hear outrage and positivity, those who are still mired in grief and pain and those who are trying to make the best of it. I’m not here to tell you how to react or what to feel. Your feelings are valid. But I am here to tell you that neither of these things are enough. In the words of the most recent play I costumed:
“There is a point at which the thought is not enough.”
—Revolt. She Said. Revolt Again., Alice Birch
We’re at that point.
blog bilingue 
Beautifully structured post. Dreams we lost through defeat/dreams we lost through election; Tuesday was, Wednesday was, etc… Reminds me of “Naming of Parts.”