5 Years

"What did you do to fight back against American fascism?"

I think about this question a lot.

In 2016 all the signs were there. The Republican Party,  having gradually shifted more and more toward fascism over the previous four decades, had now found its strongman. They had found their demagogue, the natural culmination of their quest to merge the religious and racist right in this country. Donald Trump said all the quiet parts out loud and they loved him for it. This was no longer about political policy differences but this was about our very existence as a nation. Those at the margins, currently protected by Democrats, would suddenly be put at risk. Immigrants, refugees, the LGBT, women, people of color, all those who were in the minority would be a target. International peace accords would be shredded. Climate protections gutted. A thin-skinned, malignant narcissist with the nuclear football would be suddenly a Tweet away from causing an international incident. Those of us that could afford to, saw no choice but to act.

And despite our best efforts, we did not do enough. 

The loss in 2016 need not be repeated here. But for those of us who were deep in the trenches, working on the Clinton campaign itself, the loss hit us particularly hard. It shattered our idealism in the good of people. It shattered our hope in a more inclusive and accepting country. It shattered our dream of electing the first female president. More than all of that, it left us with a gaping hole in our hearts. We could not believe that a country we loved so much would make such a terrible mistake. Baby boomers could not believe that for the next 4 years, they would have to refight the same fights they were having a half-century ago. Gen Xers could not believe that someone who had been a sad, pathetic joke for their entire adult lives would now be our commander-in-chief. Millennials could not believe that a failed reality show television host would be the one to follow the historic presidency of Barack Obama. None of it seemed real and none of it made sense. Why even bother anymore if everything we did, all the blood, sweat, and tears, was ultimately for not?

That was the question weighing on my conscience for the next 3 months.

But no matter how hard I tried to move on, I kept seeing the faces of those on the campaign. Of Connie and Ruthie, the powerhouse Jewish lesbian couple who registered voters at their retirement community. Of Karen, who initially expressed doubt about the campaign, but was there during the final weekend making countless calls to voters. Of Afifa and Kashif, who organized their Muslim community and opened their home to a visiting organizer. Of Reverend Anna, the local AME pastor who registered and energized her faith community. Of Angelica, the Jamaican immigrant who canvassed her entire gated community. These, these were the faces who would be adversely impacted over the next 4 years. These were the people who fought alongside me day in and day out for 5 months. These were the people who had been fighting their entire lives for what was right. If I quit, I wasn't walking away from myself. I was walking away from all of them and their lifetimes of work. 

I couldn't do that to them. I couldn't do that to myself.

So I got back on the horse and sought work that would be both personally and professionally meaningful. I looked at CDC jobs in Boston and education positions as far away as Chicago. But I eventually found a position for a community organizer in Massachusetts' only majority-Latino city. Despite Massachusetts being solidly blue and having all statewide officers be Democrats with the exception of the governor, I knew there was work to be done, especially for those living on the margins. While immigrant justice would be a key issue, there were also ongoing campaigns for worker justice and to address the opioid crisis. This was my chance to branch out from doing electoral politics and to learn how to build long-term and enduring power in historically underrepresented communities. While the salary offered for the position was minimal, I was told by the hiring director that most people only stayed in the role for 2 or 3 years tops. Having recently having moved home to help care for a sick parent, I figured I could bit the bullet and do the job for the time being. At the very least, I could do the work and then hop back on the 2020 campaign to try and right the wrongs of 2016. I figured that would be the perfect amount of time and I began the job in April of 2017 with that timeline in mind.

I'm still here 5 years later. 

Yes, there was a time when I would have potentially left in 2020. But the pandemic changed my outlook. The community that I had been working with for the previous 3 years still had unresolved issues. We were still seeking justice for those negatively impacted by the 2018 gas explosions in our region. We had just implemented a regional transportation pilot program and needed to document the results. We were in our second year of pushing for a bill that would grant driver's licenses for immigrants without status. We were in the process of advocating for the legislature to approve a change in the state constitution via ballot initiative that wouldn't be voted on until the fall of 2022. All that while dealing with the immediate needs brought forward by COVID-19. Our communities needed us to direct them to resources including wearable masks, food distribution, vaccination clinics, and financial support for those that qualified. We elevated those voices that needed to be heard. 

Those voices are how and why I remain here today. Because they are strong, powerful, and inspiring. But often, they don't have an opportunity to be recognized as such. As a White, cisgender, straight male with a middle-class background, I know that my own personal story has value. Yet my own personal story is not appropriate when community members are addressing the issues of their own communities and their own lives to the people in power. I like to think of myself as a tennis coach; present in either small or community meetings for a nod of support but also one who does the bulk of teaching and coaching prior to the big match to let the key players shine on match day. While I am more than willing to troubleshoot or put out fires, I know that it is the voices of constituents and community leaders that carry the most weight in these meetings. When you have a voice, you have power and for many of these community members, having that voice for the first time can be an invigorating experience. 

I am still a work in progress. I don't know how much longer I'll remain in my role. I believe a younger organizer of color would eventually be better-suited to continue the work and would be a much-needed voice for the organization. But while I'm here, I'll continue to do my best. When all is said and done, I want to be able to answer that opening question. I want to be able to reflect on my life and my life's work and reflect upon what I did. But more than that, I want to be able to reflect on what I was able to help others do. Because that is my dream, my vision. To guide those with skin in the game. To create sustainable improvements not just for this generation but for generations to come. When someone asks me what I did to fend off American fascism, I want to be able to honestly respond to them with three simple words: 

"Everything I could."