As I walk down the block of Allston Way, all I can do is look at the ground, kick and crunch the brown autumn leaves. Heading to school, my tensed body is undergoing the flight-or-fight feeling of the night before. Managing the content coming from my Media Studies class, while my mind races with ideas of the future. My future, defined by the uncertainty of my post undergrad plans or whether my immigrant parents, mi querida madre naturaleza, my reproductive rights will be protected. I am reliving my 12-year-old fears. I was innocent to the seasonal depression fall brings for me. To the depressing, broken presidential system of an “electoral college.”
Through the neighboring streets, I see piled up leaves and think, how would it feel to jump on one? To find the joy that has left my body? Where is this joy when you live in a time of division and despair? Are my neighbors, my neighbors? The resulting numbers graveled my young spirit: 47 percent of Latino men voted for Trump, California’s proposition 33 did not pass, our state’s constitution remains to allow modern-day slavery in prisons… Will I know what spring feels like again? Where the flowers bloom. Or will our soil continue to be covered with the mess of profit over people? This is the future I do not accept! I wonder when humanity will become a “we.”
I am writing this, a few weeks past election day. My emotional wellbeing has come so far, speaking with loved ones whose hearts are also broken, and stepping away from the media. I’ll continue to find different ways to heal as I also try to heal the one world we have. My tomorrow, and every day, will be about continuing to push for social progress. Check up on young people. They need you more than you think.