I saw an old man sobbing in the street on Wednesday. I watched catatonic parents at the playground on Thursday, their children swinging back-and-forth, thankfully and innocently oblivious. By Friday, my phone dinged and buzzed with text messages from friends and phone calls from family asking how I was “holding up”—not too dissimilar from the caring epistles I received after my mother died.
Like all of us, I’ve laid in bed every single night since Tuesday consumed by my terrified imagination of the next four years—a pit of worry in my stomach, an anvil lodged in my throat, I’ve become an insomniac. When I look at my one-and-a-half-year-old son, and then at my wife and her expanding belly, which grows each day with our second child, I—like millions of people who call this country home—feel utterly rudderless, unsure what I’m supposed to do to protect my family from a terrifying, uncertain future and an unpredictable leader. Then I contemplate how much more scared others must be: Muslim parents, or Mexican children, anyone who isn’t white. A sense of dread creeps inside of me.
From Vanity Fair read it HERE
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