I arose the morning of Nov. 9 knowing that some folks were thrilled, smug, or relieved, while others felt stunned, frightened, or disgusted. Throughout the election cycle, it was clear that — no matter the outcome — roughly half the country would feel betrayed, while the rest might feel vindicated.
But I had to wonder, in either case: Would anyone feel truly calm, satisfied, or happy?
People are trying to adjust to a “new normal,” but a striking theme is our utter lack of normalcy. No one really knows what happens next and (election antics and bluster aside) perhaps that’s always true on this curious planet.
Blinders of complacency are falling off for some, while others have lived in fear and dread for decades, unprotected by illusions of safety that come with higher education, professional connections, or family ties.
We’re all in a pickle, that’s for sure. Whether we feel the incoming administration represents a godsend or a curse (or something in between), we’re standing on one beleaguered planet, wondering if we’ll get ourselves out of this mess.
We can. I’ll prove it with one story.
During the 1940s, my friend Wally Nelson and other civil rights activists entered a diner to protest segregation. The owner — a large, volatile man in cook’s garb — screamed so loudly that customers vacated instantly. The enraged man bellowed that he would fetch his meat cleaver and chop into pieces anyone he found upon his return.
The would-be protesters vanished. All except for Wally. The angry cook returned wielding a cleaver and rushed to Wally with the razor-sharp tool held high.
In a quiet, steady voice, Wally said, “Friend, you don’t know what you’re doing.” The cleaver froze above the man’s reddened face. He stared at Wally, taking in this dignified, calm, 5-foot-3-inch man with “beautiful brown skin” (as Wally was famous for saying).
For what was likely five or 10 seconds — but which to Wally felt like an hour — the man was paralyzed with wonder. Then he slowly lowered the cleaver and released it, clattering, to the floor. Under his breath, he murmured, “You’re right. I don’t know what I’m doing,” and slowly walked back to the kitchen, head down.
Wally eased out the door. His friends slipped from hiding places, saying, “We thought we’d never see you again!” Wally said, “Me, too. Maybe.”
I heard Wally tell that story in many settings. He reminded people of all ages not to be fooled into turning another person into The Other, even if they act like your archenemy. “That’s when we become our own enemy,” he chided.
My two decades of friendship with Wally (and three decades with his wife, Juanita Nelson) showed me that humans have the ability to solve problems in astonishingly creative ways.
Near the end of Wally’s life, he and Juanita moved in with me for comforts unavailable in their spartan cabin; it seemed like a good time for running water and electricity. Those were among the saddest and most joyful months I’ve known. Living with my mentors and second set of parents brought many gifts, as well as some messy moments.
One afternoon, sitting by Wally’s bed, I lost my brave face. “What am I going to do without you?” I cried. I had drawn inspiration from Wally my whole adult life, and now felt such deep loss it left my head spinning.
“I am not what makes you strong,” he said. “You know what to do. Make necessary sacrifices, be joyful, and don’t lose hope. You know all that.”
Now, in my early 50s, I draw on lessons I learn as my work brings me into the presence of courageous people. Their collective wisdom helps as I grapple with current events.
I recently held the strong, soft hand of Malala Yousafzai. If she claims to feel no anger toward the men who shot her in the head, who am I to waste energy on despair, when my energy is needed for hard work?
When I looked into the eyes of Malala’s dad, I saw a man who has spent years with a target on his back. He nearly lost his daughter, he’s lost his home, he’s lost so much, yet he leads with hope and grace.
In 1990, Nelson Mandela said to me, “Yes, let’s sing!” He had been in prison longer than I’d been alive, separated from loved ones, forced into hard labor, and stripped of rights, but never of dignity.
Archbishop Desmond Tutu nodded in 1992 as we belted out “Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika” for an audience of 2,000. Before and after we went onstage, his infectious laugh left me grinning, despite the gravity of the topics at hand. When I consider what he’s withstood, it’s hard to reconcile his joy with his life history.
Pete Seeger lost jobs during the McCarthy era and wondered how on earth he’d support his family. Despair was tempting, but he kept singing, speaking up for justice, and listening to people. Over the years, I asked him a few times, “Does music really make a difference?” Pete always assured me, “It’s often the only thing that does. Don’t ever quit.”
As I listen to the turmoil of world events spewing from my radio, I remember that Wally Nelson spent 93 years joyfully facing each day despite imprisonment, threats, insults, torture and misery.
When I wonder how to get through the next moment, I am guided by folks who persevered despite steep odds. If we refuse to turn a single other person into The Other, we have a chance of saving our lives, and a whole lot else.
Eveline MacDougall is the founder of the Amandla Chorus and the mother of a 12-year-old. She lives in Northfield with her family.