11/6 Devastated, numb. Hangover from a lot of whiskey and an entire bag of sour patch kids. It is a similar kind of numb as in 2016, although I readily believe it when I hear that in Manhattan, people are not walking around as if after an explosion, crying. (I was in Ohio in 2016, and I’m in Newburgh today.) Back then, it felt as if an error, an accident had happened that nobody had actually wanted, only some had not quite foreseen what their actions might lead to, just like kids throwing rocks from a bridge over a highway just to see what happens. Not so this time.

The cashier in the supermarket asks: How are you doing? – Not good. – What’s wrong? – The news. – Well, have a good day.

I am slowly assembling a list of my fears and griefs, somewhere in there being the shame of having become a part of this country at just exactly this point in time, when it shows so devastatingly what it – for the most part – is made of. I also realize it is now up to me to work towards the country I thought I moved into.