I went to bed early with an uneasiness and spent most of the night tossing and turning. I made sure my phone was on silent so I wouldn’t receive any calls or text messages. I went to bed with hope. I woke up with despair. I now have a son who doesn’t want to walk to the bus stop this morning. Between the tears and violent vomiting, I, like millions of other people on social media, have professed that Donald Trump is #NotMyPresident.
The hashtag erupted on social media after the world reverted back to Jim Crow when Trump became president-elect. Numbers show that you can’t blame black people, but the fingers point at white men and women. Those white men and women you sit around with at work who were too scared to profess their love for Trump publicly.
I want to crawl in a hole.
And even after reading the #NotMyPresident hashtag, I don’t have much of a glimmer of hope for the next four years. And for you people who either wanted to vote for a third party or who, after two terms under President Barack Obama, still feel he hasn’t done much or stood up for black people? All I have to say is, “Welcome to the Terrordome,” and I hope you give your white co-workers a hug today to thank them for showing their true colors.