Promising

On election night, like many of us did in one form or another, I turned off my phone to sleep, woke up in the middle of the night, feeling anxious dread to check it, tossed and turned some more, woke up again at 6:00 a.m. and got the news. The next day, before I deleted social media from my phone, and canceled other media sources that I don’t find helpful, I went for a walk along the cliffs near my home in coastal Oregon. I was with my partner, Heather, and our friend Lena. We walked the familiar trail, searched for whales starting their southerly winter migration, noticed small songbirds converging in a group of hundreds, and looked out upon a strangely calm ocean. It felt wrong that the day was so beautiful—it was hard to see it all and not imagine, twenty years from now, every gorgeous thing before me crumbling, polluted, suffering, or dead. One of us said, peering into the last cove before the end of our walk, Those particular harbor seals won’t know who is president, and neither will these birds and whales. I don’t know if that’s actually true, because it is incomprehensible how fast things may change, but it helped me for a moment to think of them all living out full lives, unafraid and well.

Other friends near and far reached out. Anna, Dakota, Heather, and I used our usual humor, grit, toughness, honesty, and no fear of tears to say we have each other. That is no small thing. In fact, it may be the only thing. On my final check of social media, there were already so many public messages of hope and how we will fight and how history bends towards justice. There was historical context, how we are a young country, how many people have long been fighting this fight and will continue to. That some of us have not felt this pain in quite the same intensity as others have, but now many more of us will. That this is the same country it has always been and, in some ways, this moment was long in the coming: For a country built on genocide, slavery, exploited immigrant labor, and uncontained narcissistic ego, it should not be surprising we ended up here, at least for now. We are in for a painful, sickening, heartbreaking four years, but I believe many (and by many I mean millions upon millions) will be radicalized towards love, environmentalism, interconnectedness, equality, human rights, education, health care, empathy, and kindness not in spite of, but because of the very horrors we are about to endure.

I stood outside alone the afternoon of November 6, looking into the forest at the back of our half acre. Young trees rested so still in the cold sun, and a beautiful young stag walked out of the undergrowth there. He had two tiny antlers, his winter coat thick and gorgeous. He was following our black cat, Beetlejuice, also a wild creature. They walked together toward where I stood, the cat to sit at my feet and the deer to stand right before me, more curious than afraid. Up close enough to touch him, I could see his black nose glistening, gorgeous dark eyes, and black markings on his unconcerned forehead.

Inside myself, I made a promise to him and to all the other creatures, including the humans who need me, to show up to the heartbreak with all I have, to be a witness and a lover, to feel and to fight. It is a promise I am making to you, and it is one I will keep.

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CHARLIE J. STEPHENS is the author of A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest and is the owner of Sea Wolf Books in Port Orford, Oregon.

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