Yesterday I found myself walking around a neighborhood north of Cincinnati, Ohio, tears rolling down my cheeks as my eyes passed over the 1970s ranches. Eight out of 10 of them has Trump signs in their front lawns. I was walking to warm up, since it was not quite 50F, and I am still living outside on November 8th, 2016. I was also walking just to ground myself in the rhythm of walking and breathing. The surreal news that Trump had just won the election had started to feel real as I turned onto a road that wasn’t there when I was a kid and was lined with Tudor style McMansions.
There were no weeds anywhere on the lush, green lawns framed by the same bland landscaping in front of each house. Each house is full of consumer goods, electronics and earnest, slightly overweight white mid-western humans who feel deeply that this “way of life” is their God-given right. One closed their automatic garage door, sealing in a solid-packed wall of bright plastic belongings next to their shiny SUV. Another pushed one of those machines along that spun Scotts fertilizer pellets out onto the lawn in an even pattern.
I do not belong here.
To be fair, I have felt like I don’t belong here for decades before this horrendous day. My parents moved here 40 years ago when I was 6. I have also had that sense of blanket resistance, that “this ain’t it” feeling, in many other locations and eras in my life. But never have I felt it more acutely than I do here now in Ohio. There are no health food stores, but there are fifty different fast food options within a mile from home.
Never have I been this nauseous at the thought that a campaign of hatred, fear and misinformation could lead MOST of the people around me to somehow rejoice that an incompetent, narcissistic demagogue had “saved” the country last night.
But for this to happen while I am still sick, while I have been squeezed out of my own life like toothpaste out of a tube….it is simply more than I can process. I am crying for all the people, including children, who already feel less safe just walking through our society. I am crying for our country’s daughters who did NOT see a woman get elected (even though she won the popular vote,) but instead saw a man brag about grabbing women by the pussy and then, weeks later, ascend to the most powerful job in the world anyway.
I’m crying because all these perfect houses and lawns are poisoning the Earth and poisoning me. I have an “environmental illness.” That means, in a nutshell, that my body has become so allergic to modern human civilization that I must leave it. I am heading to a barren, secluded homestead in New Mexico that is surrounded by nothingness. It is dry, at 4000 feet altitude and 26 miles away from the nearest small town, which is in turn 150 miles away from the nearest city.
I have CIRS, Chronic Inflammatory Response Syndrome. Mold illness. Eleven months ago I had just moved into a moldy house and had just started a job in a moldy agency. It was a matter of weeks before I collapsed and spent months writhing in pain and unable to sleep. I was terrified when my doctors told me they had no idea what was wrong with me.
That’s when the structure of my life started to squeeze me out like a tube of toothpaste. I had to leave that house that my son and I shared with my boyfriend and leave most of our belongings behind. My boyfriend didn’t keep in touch. Then went what was left of my savings, then I lost my job. I tried to move back into my own house, but had to go through a grueling, expensive remediation before I gave up on it. (Thankfully, the boyfriend came back and helped.) After having spent all summer sleeping outside and making progress on my health, it got too cold in Maine. When I stay indoors, I get sicker. So I had to leave my state and leave my son behind. The final touch was that I needed to buy a different car and get all new clothing and bedding. My identity has shattered like a mirror dropped from the roof onto concrete.
Now when I look down at myself, I see someone else’s Walmart clothes as I walk though this mid-Western suburb full of Trump signs in a country that will soon be run by President Trump. I squint into the sun.
Who the hell am I now?
It’s true, I don’t belong here. But I’m also terrified to leave. I feel nurtured and cozy and safe here. These feelings are intertwined with all my judgment and malaise. At least the crappy I feel now is familiar.
Somehow, fleeing Trump’s America dissolves some of my ambivalence if I have to do it. But there is still terror. This illness requires people to jump off cliffs into the unknown while we are sick. Over and over.
Anyway, I have no choice.