When I woke up the morning after Trump’s 2016 victory, it was clear that the world was ending.
I was a junior in college, pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts in acting. The theater department was housed within the humanities building. We shared space with the students studying women and gender studies.
Another student, both gay and black, said, ‘Anyone who voted for Donald Trump hates me.’
I only knew one other person who, like me, had cast their vote for Donald Trump. We had both filled out our mail-in ballots in guilty silence.
When I arrived on campus that morning, I collided with a good friend; she had filled a 7-Eleven Slurpee cup with booze and was drinking it somewhat discreetly in the hallways. She was not the only one, and she was not reprimanded.
In the quad, my physical theater professor (yes, that was a real course) was handing out free, consolatory pancakes to students with swollen, red eyes.
In my afternoon scene study…
