Of Manuscripts and Meetings
On election day, I took my dogs on a walk and finished listening to the audiobook Parable of the Sower by Olivia Butler. This dystopian story begins in 2024 with a slightly-worse-than-it-is-right-now vision of Los Angeles. The middle class have built walls around their neighborhoods. The poor have no homes and sell their bodies and drugs to survive. But in the book’s version of 2025, and then 2026, things get worse: angry mobs, high on a drug called “pyro,” crush through the neighborhoods’ defensive walls and set whole communities on fire. Eventually, our narrator, Lauren, takes to the road, cultivating a small group of people she can trust as they try to survive with only three guns, a little cash, and some dried meat and fruit between them. I won’t spoil the end of the book, but I will say this group coalesced into a community that might survive in a place with a little water and some fruit trees.
Tuesday, I had meetings and manuscripts to read. I made oven fried chicken thighs and mashed potatoes. I cook when I’m nervous. That day, we ate at 4:15. Later that night, with my friend B, I went to the Orpheum where the Democrats hosted what we thought would be a celebratory event. I cheered Susan whom I met when she and I organized a rally for Proposition 139—the Arizona Abortion Access initiative—in Flagstaff. We’d gathered in front of city hall with friends like Sanjam, Angie, Ann, Rima, Julian, Emma, Joan, and Erik. I started work for reproductive rights after an essay entitled, “My Abortion at Age 11 Wasn’t a Choice. It Was My Life,” appeared in The New York Times after the Dobbs decision came down. Publishing this piece opened paths for me to work with bodily autonomy advocates like Maggie in Washington, DC, Andrea in Florida, and Jasmine in Arizona. I gave interviews to print and television reporters: Haruka from Tokyo, Maria from Valencia and the amazing Valentine from Paris. I told my abortion story on stage along with other abortion storytellers—another Nicole, Liz, Matt, Dominic, Nilsa, and Dr. Caren. After our presentation, I attended the afterparty. Dozens of women came up to me to introduce themselves, to tell me their abortion story, to share with me their stories about the time they experienced sexual assault, to thank me for putting my story out there. I’ve had the same experience at every event where I’ve shared my story. Others share theirs back.
I’ve had the same experience at every event where I’ve shared my story. Others share theirs back.
Tuesday night, at the Orpheum, I said hello to Shonto. I ran over to Aubrey to give her a huge hug for winning her election. Jonathan spoke to the audience to tell us how Apache had run out of ballots, so they were trying to figure out how to get more. James grasped my hand. Pamela patted my shoulder.
As the votes came in, the mood shifted. B and I left before we could see what would happen in Pennsylvania. We shared a cigarette. I hadn’t smoked in over twenty years but tonight seemed like a good night to start again. I came home and found my husband scrolling and scrolling. I said, “Your eyes can’t change the news,” but he couldn’t stop trying to make it so. I took a melatonin and tried to sleep. In the morning, my son came upstairs and squeezed my shoulder. “I’m sorry, mom.” I told him I was sorry too.
On Wednesday, I moved like molasses. My body didn’t want to enter the day any more than my mind did. It took me a while to get it together, but I managed to walk the dogs. Not only did I have to stop the storm of ideas in my head—I had to move. I had to buy a gun. I should get seeds. The characters in Parable of the Sower wished they had packed more seeds—but, because I finished that book, I needed a new one. I started Naomi Klein’s 2014 This Changes Everything: Capitalism versus the Climate. I knew it would be at least as depressing as I felt. Ten years ago, we needed to act full-throttle, full-throated on climate change. But we elected Trump two years later. Now we have him again. A dark hope rises in me that he will drive us to the brink where we finally see into the abyss and our mindset is collectively and purposefully shifted. But I shrink from that darkness because we’re just as likely to fall headfirst into the abyss as we are likely to change our fossil fuel-ish ways.
I came home and read Alison’s manuscript. Sarah, my co-editor at the University of Georgia’s Crux series, and I thought today would be a good day to read about rejection, race, dating, Benjamin Franklin, Cotton Mather, and the whole history of trying and losing. At 11:00, I realized I was going to be late for work. I rushed around getting ready, which was the only time I hadn’t felt near desperately sad. Panic is a good distraction from sorrow.
I made it to school with a minute to spare. I thought I was okay but when I walked into the faculty meeting, I burst into tears. Seeing my friends, Monica, Angie, Karen, Geetha, Oscar, Erica, Bill, Christine, Calinda, made the election results real. I felt their sadness. I reckoned with my own. I streamed tears while we discussed new Annual Review policies. They’re not called Annual Reviews anymore, was the upshot.
I had to run to teach my class. I almost cried when I saw my intermedia creative nonfiction students but kept it together. The students knew I’d been working hard on the election, even as I hadn’t directly told them what my politics were, because that’s against the rules. But it’s not against the rules for them to guess. They looked at me with pure empathy. And so did I at them. They would have to live longer with this travesty than I will. Still, we were there together for that hour. I was so grateful for the essays we read. They were brilliant—each one differently so—one was about a rug, another about the ocean, another about bones, another about where our old laptops go to die. For seventy-five minutes, I felt a reprieve. Then, I had a beer with Sherwin Bitsui. Then I went to dinner with my husband and son. Then, Lawrence and I had a glass of wine.
That evening, we faculty attended a talk by Sabah. I saw Jeff, KT, Bjorn. We nodded at each other, as if to say, “Can you believe we made it to a talk after what we’ve been through today?” “Yes. And in fact, I’m glad you’re here.”
We build our communities by telling our stories. My hope lives because we keep telling them.
There are a lot of names in this story. I drop them on purpose. These are people who, if we had to walk a long road north from LA, I would trust to have with me. These are people who are going to stand up for me, for trans and gay siblings, for voting rights, for bodily autonomy, for working to act on the climate crisis. These communities will band together. They will listen to my stories and tell me theirs. We are locked arm in arm. They can try to break us up, but our links are strong.
On democracy and the climate, technology is not going to save us—not polling technology or internet technology or SpaceX or coating the atmosphere with a thin layer of sulfur dioxide. What’s going to save us is stories of this goofy, beautiful world—stories like Gary Kristensen who rode 48 miles in Oregon in a boat made of a pumpkin. What’s going to save us is the story of the dams coming down on the Klamath where now salmon spawn in their ancestral grounds. What’s going to save us is your story and my story and Alison’s story, Grace’s, Ben’s, and Hayden’s. We build our communities by telling our stories. My hope lives because we keep telling them.
NICOLE WALKER is the author of Processed Meats and many other books. She lives in Flagstaff, Arizona, where she is professor of English at Northern Arizona University.
Geometry Dash offers a one-touch control system. Each level is intricately designed, with vibrant visuals and music that syncs perfectly with the gameplay.
The account of election night and its shifting emotions effectively captures the tension and unpredictability of such events. The shared cigarette, despite a two-decade hiatus, symbolizes a moment of camaraderie amidst uncertainty, planet clicker offering a deeply human and relatable touch.