It's one week since that day

Last week on News and Notes, it was election day, and I said, "Almost half of the people in this country will wake up tomorrow morning convinced that the seventh seal has been broken and that the Day of Judgement is upon us."

So, on behalf of the vast majority of the theater community, let me expand on that:

"And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Trump, and Hell followed with him."

Yeah, that sure happened.

I really have no words to describe how I'm feeling right now. (Well, maybe one word.) I never thought I would say this in my life, but I agree with Yoko Ono. When your country suddenly decides to go full Berlusconi, the only serious response is an inhuman sequence of furious vowels.

I, along with most of my friends and colleagues who were born in the rural parts of this country, are dreading going home for Thanksgiving. I don't really want to cause a scene with my family—I love them and cherish the time that I get with them—but I just know that someone I'm related to is going to crow something about "taking our country back", and I will not be able to stop myself. The world I live in, here in this theater community in this very liberal city in this reasonably liberal state, is highly represented with people of color, with women, with LGBTQ folk, with immigrants, with every shade of person who now has real reason to fear for what the future holds. It's not just that this country decided that a petty, unstable, ignorant, inattentive, incurious, narcissistic demagogue was a good choice for a leader (honestly, that describes about half of the leaders that any group of people has ever picked; you've been on that softball team at some point), it's that it has also handed over the reins of the country to a group of people who see a lot of the people that I love and cherish as degenerate lesser beings and have been slobbering for the chance to take from them that ability to pursue "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" that ol' Tommy J. wrote about in the Declaration of Independence.

If any of my family members that may have voted for the Donaldpocalypse are still reading past that paragraph, let me assure you: I get it. I understand what your concerns are (remember, I was born there, too) I know you're not bad people, that you don't think of yourselves as being racist or homophobic or close-minded or any of that; but I need you to understand that real people are going to suffer because of this, so the least you can do is stuff a damn turkey leg in your mouth with humility instead of dancing on the tables.

So, to the theater people: now what? We're all floundering to come to terms with this. What are the next steps? Is it time to give in and practice business like Donald Trump? Of course not! You're a better person than that. (But honestly, being a better person than Donald Trump is not a high bar to clear; toddlers can jump over that.) Should you start playing it safe and stop producing work that might explore sensitive topics? Sure, I guess, if you'd rather everyone be both terrified and bored. Is it time to roll over and accept the fact that the only state-sanctioned theater from now on will be official adaptations of The Art of the Deal (a really classy play, seriously, believe me, the greatest) and maybe some performance art based on some gibberish from Breitbart.

Is it time to just give up?

Well don't let Toni Morrison hear you say that. It was more than a year ago that she wrote in The Nation, "There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear." Back then, she was writing looking back on the 2004 re-election of George W. Bush (and, boy, doesn't that now look almost pleasant by comparison?) Half an election cycle later, her words feel eerily prescient. So, how do you go about heeding Toni Morrison? For starters, you can heed Lin-Manuel Miranda and stop fucking saying you're moving to Canada. (First of all, it's really cold there; second of all, they've got their own abhorrent shit that they don't deal with; and third of all, you'll never be able to pronounce "about" to their liking, anyway.)

No, you've got to stay here. Remember last week when I said that all our issues "have to be wrestled with and resolved by many individuals who are willing to get their sticky fingers all up in those problems day in and day out until they are solved"? That was you! I was talking about you! (And, please, for the love of god, wash your fingers.) You're still here, you still care, and we have not slipped down the rungs to become some despotic banana republic (though you might want to brush up on the rules for surviving in an autocracy).

There is still a place for you here. You are needed. As Howard Sherman eloquently put it:

"No one can tell an artist what to create, or how to create it. But on this morning when so many people I admire and respect, who have brought so much into my life with their gifts, are reacting in shock and profound dismay, I turn to them and say that while colored maps and percentage points may dishearten you, we need you as much as ever, if not even more than before. We believe in you. Speak your truths for those who hunger for them. Mix the divisions of red and blue into a vibrant purple. Tell us about the lives of people we do not know, but should. And we will fight for your right to tell them and our right to see them, hear them, dance them and sing them."

There are many stories to be told right now, many of which we have been ignoring, on the left and the right. Honestly, when was the last time you saw a play set in rural America that wasn't some kind of poverty porn or the set up for another hillbilly sociopath? There doesn't have to be an urban/rural divide when it comes to the arts, and stories can actually help bridge divides between people. We don't have to retreat into an angry corner penning witty, urbane political satires of Donald Trump for the next eight years. The man is already a living, breathing satire.

Instead, I want to reiterate what I said last week, when I was still smugly confident that America could not possibly sink to the level of electing the infected sore of the ass of capitalism as its president. All of us who are going somewhere for Thanksgiving are going to wind up in the situation of talking to someone with whom we don't agree with, but with whom we have to share some space (and maybe the last of the mashed potatoes); and it is still possible to reach some level of detente or even understanding with this person.

"that all starts with one simple step: listening. And I mean actually listening to all kinds of people. And not just people you agree with already. Where's the fun in just hearing your opinion regurgitated back at you, anyway? That's just disgusting, you sitting there with half-digested chunks of your own solidified opinion dripping down your shirt. Ick."

Admittedly, I probably didn't need to include that part about regurgitation so soon after mentioning Thanksgiving food. Sorry. It's been a difficult week. Anyway, the point is, if you really want to try to change this person's mind about the horrible, horrible decision they just helped make, then you can't start off by yelling at them and calling them a bigot, as tempting as that may be. Changing the mind of a country is a slow process, and you'll never get to where you're going if all you're looking for is your own personal sense of self-satisfaction in the moment. That's how you end up voting for Jill Stein, and that really doesn't help anybody.

In the meantime, if you want to fight for something, you've got an abundance of choices coming up. I'm sure you've got a long list of laws, protections and programs that you're worried about, but since you're worrying anyway, let me add one more thing to think of: the next Congress will probably try to slash the budget for the National Endowment for the Arts from minuscule to zero, and the Donald hasn't exactly been friendly to the NEA in the past. If you want to be an advocate for the arts, there's something you can campaign for right away.