The day after the election, I visited a sculptor’s studio. It was a meeting originally scheduled for Halloween. Ironically, I was there in the name of cultural exchange between China and America.
Because art always transcends any political climate.
Sculptures, in what appeared at first glance to emulate coral, towered around me. Some in vibrant colors, some still waiting to be glazed. I asked him if they were coral. “You could see it that way,” he replied.
But then he told me about how ancient Roman and Italian sculptures are weak in the ankles. That’s why you see many footless figures and disembodied marble feet in museums. But, many of the greats like Michelangelo placed tree stumps behind the ankles of their famous figures to support their statures (look closely at the Statue of David).
The idea behind the sculptor’s works is to make visible what stands silently supporting us.
For the next 24 hours (because we’re taking things day by day now) I couldn’t stop thinking about those sculptures and pondering what it is that silently supports me.
Early that following Thursday afternoon, I found myself in an unexpected puddle on my therapist’s couch. I realize I hadn’t truly let myself cry yet. And I needed to cry. All of it came pouring out - the “what do we do next,” “how will we survive,” “what does this mean for the people I love,” “I can’t believe we have to do this again.”
“I feel betrayed.”
Because in this election, it was white women who betrayed all women. I knew that’s what happened before the stats came out too. I thought we were all on the same page about what was at stake - about our rights and what we could not afford to gamble. I thought we stood in sisterhood the same way we hold one another in women’s restrooms and offer tampons under the stall door; the same way we stay with one another on dark street corners and dimly lit sidewalks; the same way we summon one another with a single look when he. doesn’t. feel. safe.
If you look at the stats, that’s how Black women voted.
If you voted for him, I thought you cared about me and my family, and her and her family like we care about you and your family. And that’s why you’re bumping up against lines in the sand and rescinding hands in friendship. Because we can disagree about our favorite colors, what the best movie of all time is, where to get lunch, or whether oat milk is superior, but I’m with James Baldwin when he said: “We can disagree and still love each other unless your disagreement is rooted in my oppression and denial of my humanity and right to exist.”
Unless your disagreement is rooted in my and my family’s oppression and denial of our humanity and right to exist.
I went to bed on election night not knowing who the country chose, but I left my phone on my bedside table screen-side-down. I kept waking up throughout the night just to find it wasn’t morning yet. Every time, I wanted to turn my phone over to see what time it was but I couldn’t do it. I knew before I knew, and I knew I needed to rest.
Morning finally made itself unmistakably known with the warmest sunlight flooding our bedroom, making our white sheets glow. My husband motioned for me to come closer and lay my head on his chest. “I want you to know it’s going to be okay,” he said. “We are going to be okay.”
Because there is no other option but to survive.
But the truth is that the most vulnerable of us have been solely in the business of surviving for generations in this country - not waiting for a president, a political party, or a government, to save them, to free them, to grant them their joy.
Building communities as lifelines and circles of safety.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been reevaluating what it means to truly be in community with someone - no faux pas. I’ve been taking note of who reached out to me and who I picked up my phone to reach out to without thought; who I’ve sat in fear and mutual sorrow with on the floors of DMs and texts, holding it all.
Vowing to protect. one. another.
When I came home from therapy, I clipped into my Peloton because it’s working and I’m able to ride my Peloton again (if you’ve been following along, you know this is a big deal). I pressed play on a ride from a couple of years ago with an instructor named Tunde. In the last 10 minutes of the ride, she started talking about trees.
“A tree is a tree, not a forest.”
Did you know that trees communicate through their roots? Did you know that they nourish one another underground, sharing nutrients with one another? In the forest, there is true liberty and justice for all. Unequivocal equality.
“When one tree is sick or suffering, the other trees provide nutrients and act as support for that one tree in need knowing that one day the roles may reverse and the stronger tree may one day be the tree in need. Trees know that they can’t protect themselves from the sun on their own, so they stand as one tall collective forest. Trees operate for the good of the forest.”
The morning after the election, I asked my sister and my cousin: “What are we going to do?” But as I pedaled on that Thursday afternoon, Tunde answered:
“It’s our job to support the community - to think like a forest, careful not to grow on top of each other. In order to protect ourselves from violence - in order to protect our children from violence, we have to operate for the good of the collective forest. Your job isn’t to be able to see the entire forest. Your job is to take care of the trees in proximity to you - knowing that if you touch this tree, they’ll touch her and him and them and you. We’re strong alone, but we are so much stronger together.”
Back in July, I was waiting in line at Castle Park - an amusement park in Riverside, California with the wife and two kids of one of my husband’s good friends from China. It was hot and the kids were ready to be drenched in the water features of Buccaneer Cove.
As we stood there, I noticed a Black family with three kids at one of the ticket windows. Everyone else noticed them too when the line was at a standstill because they had wristbands for two of their kids, but they were having trouble paying for the third. The park employee said they didn’t take cash and the mom only had so much on her card. I could tell it was a big deal for her to have the cash that she had.
After some back and forth, they were told to step off to the side. She started making calls to see if someone could put more money on her card. All the while, the three kids were melting in the heat, and what was supposed to be a special day spent at the amusement park wasn’t going as planned.
And everyone just stood there. And stared. And watched. The stench of othering hung thick in the air. This is America.
When we finished our turn at the ticket window, I told my husband’s friend’s wife to give me just a minute. I had just lost my job and my finances were on the precipice of being tight, but I had a card. I walked over to the ticket counter where the family stood off to the side and I said, “Hey, I’ve got you. How much is it?” I turned to the ticket window, handed them my card, and signed the receipt before handing the third wristband to the mom.
“It’s ridiculous they don’t take cash,” I said before wishing them well and walking away.
As I was going through the security line, I felt a tap on my lower back. I turned around to find one of the little boys behind me, his mother telling him to say thank you. “Of course,” I said, getting down on his level. “I hope you have so much fun today.”
I’ve only shared this story with my husband and my sister, and I had absolutely no intention of ever sharing it with anyone else - because good deeds go best unspoken.
And I’m not in the business of telling stories with ironic names like ‘The Blind Side’ where White people swoop in and save the day, validating and glorifying privilege instead of justice.
But when I shared this story in a whisper with my therapist, to explain how this election felt on a smaller scale - the way everyone stood there; staring; watching; as trees and not a forest - she told me that it’s also a story that explains what it means to be in community with one another.
And that’s why I’m sharing it with you. Because it was in that moment that I realized the question isn’t, “What silently supports me?” - But, “How can I silently support her and him and them and you?”
Because to be in true community with someone means to stand silently behind them, supporting them so they don’t break at the ankles. And isn’t it poetic knowing what we know about the hidden life of trees, that ancient sculptors used their likenesses to support their statues?
And so amidst it all, I will continue to write. Because art always transcends any political climate. Sculpting thoughts and ideas and stories with my own two hands to make visible what stands silently supporting us.
That’s always been the idea.
If you are here, the only commitment I’m asking you to make as we move forward is to continue to build this community with me as a lifeline and a circle of safety - no faux pas.
To vow to protect one another, standing up against the oppression and denial of anyone’s humanity and right to exist.
To think like a forest, not a tree.
Are you in?