BEYOND THE VOTE: MAKE A DIFFERENCE, Part I—RECOVER

I am Canadian, not American. Dismiss what I write if you feel I’m too far removed. But sometimes a bit of distance helps to see things clearer. 

 

Trump will again be president and both houses are likely to be led by Republicans. They will be able to push through much of their agenda. Of course, this is terrible news. It’s disheartening. It feels devastating. 

 

This is a clear loss. And with a loss comes mourning. 

 

I tend to be very invested in politics. Election nights in Canada and in the U.S. have always meant for prime viewing as I watch results come in, listen to the analysis from various sources, take in the pleasant surprises and try to process the disappointments. Early on last Tuesday evening, it didn’t look good. I didn’t do a Déjà-Vu à la 2016, hanging on and watching shocked CNN pundits desperately cling to hope, believing that big city results were still coming in, thinking that the Trump lead in the Electoral College would tip back toward Hillary, making everything right in the end. I remember going to work the next day, being unfocused, witnessing other colleagues express their shock through tears and anger. 

 

2016 prepared me for 2024. I closed my laptop sooner than later. I did a New York Times crossword I’d saved from Sunday. It distracted and brought me silly little triumphs. Yes, 84 Across, I got you! I watched an episode of Heartstopper, lite-fare, heartwarming, a lovely pretend world where every kind of queer is ultimately accepted. Ahead of its time perhaps.

 

I checked the results in the morning. Ten minutes of scanning and skimming, tops. Why punish myself? I couldn’t change the numbers. I loaded my bike in the back of my Mini Cooper, packed a few things and went on a day trip to Fort Langley, a quaint village forty minutes from Vancouver. I wrote, meandered, rode my bike and did not look at any news for seven hours. 

 

It's not that I blocked out the election results. No, I thought about them quite a lot. But I didn’t expose myself to news sites and social media that would stoke feelings of despair or outrage. I had no raw conversations with friends where our disappointment would build off one another. It was a slower, gentler process of acceptance of a harsh, worst-case reality.

 

After so many years of therapy and support groups, I actually put into practice a little self-care. That was my own victory.

 

I was ready to take in more Wednesday night. On social media, I saw many people using the F-word to express themselves. I get it. They were mad. The F-word says so. I saw naïve folks claiming that the F-spewers were falling into the hateful rhetoric they professed to hate. It certainly didn’t advance anything but that wasn’t the point. People let off steam in different ways.

 

It was more than grief. Abject sadness. Some people said they were stepping away from social media for a while—too much of what, in the moment, was a very bad thing. Sometimes connection is helpful in times of shock and disappointment. Let it out. Let it all out. Sometimes, however, it’s better to postpone what is too hard to process in the moment. 

 

It may feel good to pick a fight with Uncle Bubba or an agitator on Twitter. I can’t see it myself. They’re going to want to boast right now. They’re going to want to pull you in so they can counter all your logic and emotion with one basic sentiment: “Loser!” Sure, sure, names will never hurt you. Maybe you have thicker skin than me.     

 

I truly believe stepping away is a better option. If you can’t take a day trip as I was privileged to do, cut down on your exposure to whatever is going to stoke negative thoughts and emotions over the next weeks. Cut social media down to X minutes per day. (Truly, do you really require more than fifteen minutes? How about ten?) Skim headlines, if you must, but maybe leave it at that. Long ago, I stopped reading articles about murders and crimes I couldn’t do anything about. How would reading do anything but upset me? Was there really anything I could do about a terrible crime that happened in another state or province…or even in my own city? I am better off being less informed in some areas. That may sound awful but having my head in the sand sometimes is an effective coping mechanism. 

 

I think some of those lite, fluffy Christmas movies are already streaming. Make some popcorn and watch one. (Or re-watch episodes of Heartstopper. Seriously.)

 

I laughed steadily throughout Ellen’s stand-up special on Netflix. Channel into a comedian who makes you laugh. It’s such a great release of stress.

 

People need to recover because, while the election results are in, the fight is far from over. A vote is a right and a privilege, but there are so many other ways to actively participate in constructive ways to affect change.  

 

While some recover, others are already taking time to reflect and rebuild. More of that, plus direct actions are to come. 

 

Please take care of yourself for now. Get yourself in a better space. Avoid Uncle Bubba. (You won’t change him; he won’t change you.) When you’re ready, there will be next steps. Your voice and your presence will be needed and valued. 

 

For now, let Mr. Bean amuse you; allow cat (or puppy) videos to tug at your heart; listen to a rage song on your headphones as you take it up an extra level on an exercise bike; ask a friend for a hug; jump in a pile of leaves; take a silly selfie; make chocolate chip cookies (and save some dough for an ice cream add-in); close the blinds and do a geeky dance to an extended play of a disco song; get a temporary tattoo of something that will look passé by next week; pay the two bucks for guac in your Chipotle burrito; buy an adult coloring book and complete a page, maybe even going outside the lines; clean your oven (it’s never a good time, but you’ll feel good when it’s done); knit a scarf or just a blob with weird holes in it; contact that friend you’ve been saying you should message for six months now; get a facial; buy a new plant, name it and apologize in advance in case you kill it (but don’t); sweat it out in the sauna; do a cold plunge (not really); read a favorite comic from childhood; listen to a couple of Grammy-nominated songs you’ve never heard of; sit on a park bench and people watch (without being creepy); and go to bed early. 

 

Recovery is good for you.

 

 

FOCUSED INDIGNATION: DAMN SCAMS

It’s a political year, in the U.S., at least. That means daily overexposure to indignant rants and high-fives over personal insults directed to people with different points of view—nowadays, it seems there are only two, all black or white, no room for gray. (Pick a side, dammit. And stay there. For EVERYTHING.) I’m in Canada but the U.S. has always cast a heavy shadow. 

 

Alas, the personal attacks and the my-guy-can-do-nothing-wrong vs. your-guy’s-a-buffoon positioning has crossed over as certain Canadian “leaders” have noticed that stoking division gets followers fired up. The staid standards of the politics of yore led to disinterest by many citizens. Now it’s easy to be political, no depth of understanding required. Soundbites, spectacle, snappy chants and tweets require no more thought or action beyond clicking the like button, maybe retweeting if it’ll draw more likes to your own account. 

 

Good god. November is still so far away. 

 

I tell myself I stay on social media so I can show agents I have what’s called a “platform” to promote a book if and when anyone should finally deem my writing worthy. Partly because of the negativity that’s inescapable when I log on and partly because it’s one of those stereotypes of getting older, I feel a rush of indignation most days. I try as much as I can to steer away from that political version—it’s a packed arena already and I’ve found I feel better remaining several steps removed from it…informed when it seems important enough but content with making up my own mind and feeling no need to share. That used to be the Canadian way. No talk about religion or politics. The weather is variable enough to get through any unwanted banter in the grocery store line. Extolling the extreme tastiness of someone’s homemade dip or cherry pie suffices at a social gathering as long as I keep moving around and say my goodbyes early. (I’m good at early exits, usually sneaking away without those prolonged last bits of conversation.) 

 

Indignation offers distraction. The righteousness feels empowering. (Boy, I’m on a roll!) Being feisty is a welcome bit of counterprogramming to daily chillaxing to Netflix. (Do I really want to give Bridgerton another try? How many Queer Eye makeovers can I watch? I didn’t even shed a tear over the last two.) During COVID, my indignation focused on anti-maskers. It switched to the dudes who drove cars with loud mufflers and backfiring thingamajigs, making laps around my neighborhood every single day. I finally wrote a letter to the Vancouver Police Department—yeah, I’m that guy—and got a lengthy, empathic reply but no change. My Cranky Old Man badge probably got delivered to my last address. I didn’t pay to have things forwarded. Those fees! Now there’s a rant…

 

I’ve shifted once again. My ire is directed at scammers. They have no soul. Literally, in many cases due to the Invasion of Bots, always allegedly from one of several countries that is an indisputable nemesis. Or was. (Seriously, how is the plight of Ukraine cast aside and the power of Putin minimized or even lauded? This seems like side-taking just to be ornery but the stakes are too high. A country’s independence and freedom doesn’t seem to matter when you’re an attention-seeking politician from the state of Georgia.) 

 

Oops, politics. Sorry about that. 

 

Scammers. We can all agree they’re vile, can’t we? Shame! Shame on the people doing it or creating the bots to do the dirty work. 

 

As I type, I’m filled with righteous indignity. Damn, it feels good.

 

It used to be a tweet inviting me to click on a link to learn exactly what “nasty things” someone was saying about me. Honestly, I remember the first time, so long ago. I assumed it was homophobic. I worried it would leak to parents at my school, causing sidewalk protests and my rapid firing. Still, despite my panic spiral, I knew not to click. I’d learn about the “nasty things” once the people showed up with their signs and all the misspellings I’d be tempted to dash out and correct in red pen. (Did I just imply that homophobes are less intelligent or have spelling challenges at the very least? Sorry, not sorry.) 

 

I used to receive emails from African royalty, promising a considerable financial token of appreciation if I’d be so kind as to provide my bank info so the prince’s funds could be held in trust. Tempting but I waited for an irresistible extra enticement—an invitation for a stay at the palace. Never came. 

 

For starters, I'm not American...
(Always start with the easiest point.)

Then there were those invitations to join AARP. I couldn’t figure out the scam angle, but it was outrageous spam at the very least. It was spam, wasn’t it?

 

Scamming has become part of my daily life. To my knowledge, I’ve yet to be duped but the attempts are getting more specific, more nuanced. I’ve received texts notifying me about my accounts being frozen in every bank in Canada and a few American ones. Every so often, my actual financial institution comes up. I’m thinking about withdrawing my hundred dollars and stashing it under the mattress. Ha! Now try to dupe me.

 

I get alerts from phone providers and Netflix. I must respond immediately or have my accounts suspended. This, I think, would sever my ties with Queer Eye once and for all. No more guilt about those t-shirts with holes and stains or about not moisturizing in the morning. It could be freeing.

 

I supposedly have packages from UPS, Amazon and Canada Post deemed undeliverable. WHAT?! Did I online shop in my sleep? I can’t afford to be ordering things. That money under my mattress won’t cover it. If the package doesn’t arrive, I can get the charge removed on my credit card. 

 

Credit card companies are texting me, too. I really need to start taking Nyquil to put me out the whole night. 

 

I can’t answer the phone anymore. My mother is the only exception, of course. Soon, scammers will figure out how to access our phone contacts and use AI to impersonate friends and family who’ve landed in jail and need bail money wired to them. My octogenarian mother in jail? Shame on you, damn scammers.

 

The calls are usually in Chinese. The area codes vary. Sometimes—okay, full disclosure, always—I think it’s an agent calling me. He/She loves my manuscript. It’ll be a New York Times bestseller, an Oprah pick, there’s Pulitzer potential. I’m so tempted to answer. They’ll leave a message won’t they if it goes to voicemail? They won’t be miffed just because I’m screening. We have to do that nowadays. If it’s sure to be an Oprah pick, I’ll call right back. Even if it all sounds like a bot scam. 

 

Oprah! 

 

I think I’ve just identified a new potential scam targeting everyone who identifies as a writer on Twitter. Don’t trace it back to this post. I’m not the one who programmed the bot.

 

The fact they stole my purely hypothetical ideas makes me even more indignant.

 

 

 

NEXT UP: How scamming is affecting my “dating” life…