11.10.2016

November 10—16, 2016 34st.com

ELECTION REFLECTIONS

STUDENTS WEIGH IN ON THE RESULTS

november 10 2016

LETTERFROMTHEEDITOR On Tuesday, I woke up excited. Anxious to be sure, but excited about the possibility of electing our first female president, a candidate whom I have supported for years, and a human being that I believed could rescue our America from the coursing wave of populism, nationalism, and hate that has been shaped and nourished by Donald Trump for the past 18 months.

But on Wednesday, I woke up to an entirely different world. All of the hope from 24 hours ago had vanished, and what replaced it was a silent, desolate campus filled with crying souls screaming for their safety, their rights, their humanity. Never in my life have I cried for so long over something so external to my own being, and never in my life have I felt so hopeless to be an American. I feel as though I have been robbed of my words, and that is terrifying for someone like me.

I still have not fully processed what has happened. I have not begun to rationalize it and I cannot accept it. I haven’t really stopped crying. But I am going to get my words back, and I am going to give everyone else their words back, too.

This magazine is so special to me, and it is in times like these that I am reminded of the power that it can have. Street is a platform

for student voices and it exists to foster, promote and encourage both cultural expression and discussion of ideas among the Penn student body. On Tuesday, that expression and those ideas became inextricably bound to the results of the election. Whether the results made you feel like your voice had been ripped out of you, or whether they made you feel like you finally got your voice back, the result is so intrinsically connected to the importance of self-expression that we cannot overlook for a moment the unique position it affords us.

And so this week, I give you an issue of Street that is comprised entirely of reflections on the election. We crowd sourced the student body for their thoughts, their reactions, their feelings, and we have published them in the pages that follow—unedited, unabridged, unfiltered. The response we received was overwhelming, and it has felt like the first step to getting better. Putting together this issue has helped bring me something positive today, and it has started to give me my voice back. I can only hope it will do the same for you.

THANK YOU FOR SENDING US YOUR STORIES. THIS ISSUE IS A REFLECTION OF HOW MUCH LOVE, PASSION AND EMPATHY EXISTS AT THIS UNIVERSITY, AND I HOPE IT HELPS MAKE TOMORROW A LITTLE LESS PAINFUL FOR US ALL. IF YOU FEEL SO INCLINED, JOIN US AT OUR MEETING TONIGHT. 6:30 P.M., 4015 WALNUT. (I WILL PROBABLY HUG YOU, SO BE WARNED)

WITH LOVE, MIKAELA 34TH STREET MAGAZINE Emily Johns, Editor–in–Chief Mikaela Gilbert–Lurie, Managing Editor Giulia Imholte, Audience Engagement Director Jeffrey Yang, Design Director Remi Lederman, Design Director Corey Fader, Photo Director Genevieve Glatsky, Features Editor Orly Greenberg, Features Editor Mark Paraskevas, Supplemental Features Editor Dani Blum, Word on the Street Editor Julie Levitan, Word on the Street Editor Genny Hagedorn, Campus Editor Stephanie Barron, Culture Editor Emily Schwartz, Entertainment Editor Jack Cody, Humor Editor Sydney Hard, Music Editor Alix Steerman, Highbrow Beat Jackie Lawyer, Highbrow Beat 2

Mike Coyne, Ego Beat Liz Heit, Ego Beat Zoe Albano–Oritt, Music Beat Jamie Gobreski, Music Beat Olivia Fitzpatrick, Music Beat Colin Lodewick, Arts Beat Claris Park, Arts Beat Nick Joyner, Film & TV Beat Dayzia Terry, Film & TV Beat Caroline Harris, Tech Beat Aaron Kim, Tech Beat Haley Weiss, Vice & Virtue Beat Andreas Pavlou, Vice & Virtue Beat Katie Marshall, Lowbrow Beat Andrea Begleiter, Lowbrow Beat Nadia Kim, Design Editor Sofie Praestgaard, Design Editor Zack Greenstein, Design Editor Carissa Zou, Design Editor

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Gloria Yuen, Illustrator Anne Marie Grudem, Illustrator Alex Fisher, Photo Editor Julie Chu Cheong, Photo Editor Brinda Ramesh, Photo Editor Young Lee, Video Editor Sara Thalheimer, Copy Director Annabelle Williams, Copy Editor Morgan Potts, Copy Editor Kyler McVay, Copy Editor Perren Carillo, Copy Editor Sofia Price, Social Media Editor Sanika Puranik, Social Media Editor Staff Writers: Hallie Brookman, Hannah Noyes, Johanna Matt, Nick Castoria & Amanda Rota

Staff Photographers: Gian Paul Graziosi Unless otherwise noted, all photos are by Corey Fader, Alex Fisher, Brinda Ramesh and Julie Chu Cheong.

Contacting 34th Street Magazine: If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Emily Johns, Editor–in–Chief, at johns@34st.com. You can also call us at (215) 422-4640. www.34st.com "Now everyone's scared." ©2015 34th Street Magazine, The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc. No part may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express, written consent of the editors (but I bet we will give you the a-okay.) All rights reserved. 34th Street Magazine is published by The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc., 4015 Walnut St., Philadelphia, Pa., 19104, every Thursday.

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ORLY GREENBERG C'18 I have a theory about being a third child: either you’re quiet or you make yourself heard. I grew up as the youngest of three girls. I was always talked over at the dinner table. I was always shoved into the middle seat. My opinions were stupid and insignificant, because I was little and I didn’t know things yet.

When you’re the third child, you either accept this silent status or you reject it completely. Every other third child I know is talkative, brash, loud, always the center of attention because they have to be, they just have to. I am the opposite. For the most part growing up, I didn’t mind going unheard. My parents raised two opinionated older daughters. I was the easy one, the complacent one.

My family likes to talk politics. When I was little, they would have fierce political debates during dinner.

Everyone was passionate and exclaimed and gestured.

My dad sat calm, the moderator. My sisters were just growing into themselves as independent women, able to form political views and communicate them effectively. They pushed back, loudly, vocally.

I was still tiny and had bangs. If something piqued my interest, I would try to interject. More often than not, my opinion was waved off by my sisters, eager to get in the next word. I would sit and look down at my plate and scream internally. My thoughts were impor-

tant. They needed to be heard. And I couldn’t make anyone listen.

This Wednesday I woke up and I felt six. I am back at that kitchen table, and no one gives a damn about what I think or feel.

This election is defined by silence. It’s defined by the silent majority, who yesterday finally made their voices heard. And what an awful, hateful noise they made.

The country told me to sit down when I wanted to stand up. It told me to shut up when I wanted to scream. There’s an anger deep in my stomach today. It bubbles up a million times and catches in my throat and makes the back of my eyes feel heavy with tears. But I can’t cry, I won’t cry, because crying only validates this horrible hatred I have in my gut. But I don’t want to talk about hatred.

I don’t want to justify hatred. And I don’t want to talk about politics. I want to talk about humanity.

I am not a political person. But this election doesn’t even feel political to me. This feels human. This is not

HELEN FETAW C'18 I honestly couldn't take it last night, especially after the news about my home state Wisconsin. So I went to bed and woke up to our country having made a moment in history, but not for the reason we all hoped.

Everyone is visibly shaken up today. I think this is something none of us expected to happen. And I want to thank and appreciate everyone that's reached out to me and asked me If I was okay and needed support. More than ever I feel really fortunate to go to school where I do. Because as intolerant as we are of republicans on our very liberal campus sometimes, literally every rally I saw yesterday was one for Hillary, I think we are

conscious of how this news is affecting everyone. Whether you voted for Trump or Hillary. Thank you to my friends, my wonderful, extremely supportive, loving and conscious college house.

We truly are a nation divided, by political parties, by race and education and socioeconomic status, but at the end of the day, whether we disagree on gay marriage and women's rights, we still believe that there are fundamental human rights, that we all have access to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Today's just not gonna be one of those happy days.. Take care of one another. It's gonna be a long road ahead.

AS INTOLERANT AS WE ARE OF REPUBLICANS, I THINK WE ARE CONSCIOUS OF HOW THIS NEWS IS AFFECTING EVERYONE.

a battle of parties, this is a battle of human decency and kindness. Wednesday morning, two swastikas were painted on a building in Philadelphia—in honor of Trump's victory.

This isn't even close to the start of this election's hateful rhetoric. But it feels like some new, horrible beginning, and the results are more tangible than ever.

We are all human beings. And we should all be afraid. To every group or community targeted by this election, I stand with you. To the women who have felt silenced, know that your voice is more important than ever.

We need to listen and we need to hear. More than that, we need to understand. We need to be kind and gentle to each other, people are so fragile and easily broken. No one should need to demand a voice.

This is not where this chapter in history ends. This is where we reject hatred and prejudice and misogyny.

This is where we make our voices louder and louder until they reverberate through everything and everyone.

This is when we are heard. This is the beginning, and this is when we prove the resiliency and kindness of the human spirit.

I am not a political person.

But this election doesn’t even feel political to me.

This feels human.

MIKAELA GILBERT-LURIE C'18 On election night, I watched America have a collective panic attack.

If you’ve never had a panic attack, you might not have recognized the signs. But I’m used to them. They go something like this: first there are the inklings of uneasiness, a small pit in your stomach that indicates something’s wrong. Then comes denial: maybe if you ignore the feelings they’ll just go away. But they don’t. When you’re not looking, the anxiety grows and grows until all of a sudden your breath catches in your throat and your heart starts racing. You knew it was coming, all the signs were there, and yet the severity and the speed with which it hits you knocks the wind out of you. Suddenly there you are, your world turned upside down, struggling to remember how to breathe.

That’s what watching the election results roll in felt like. When you’re panicking, the world feels impossibly claustrophobic.

Decision making feels impossible, you cry but the relief never comes and you scream but it feels like no one can hear you. Panic is oppressive and it is overwhelming—it hurts so badly that you fear you’ll never remember what it feels like not to want to

It’s so hard to remember, when you’re in the middle of it, that panic always subsides. It always has and it always will. crawl out of your skin.

It’s so hard to remember, when you’re in the middle of it, that panic always subsides. It always has and it always will.

We cry because it feels so unjust. We scream because in Hillary we see ourselves and our mothers and our sisters, we see amazing women who have spent their entire lives losing to unqualified men.

We are angry, we are hurting, and we are scared, but we are strong. Let's widen our scope from our panic–induced tunnel vision and take stock of what we still have: each other.

Friends, it’s time to put on our big girl pantsuits and show the world that no matter what happened on Nov. 8, love really does trump hate. It does if we say it does.

And we say it does.

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GOOD & BRAVE & STRONG & KIND

We are stronger together and we should remember that as we move forward.

When I was little and my mom would tuck me in before I went to bed, we would talk about high points and low points, what I was thankful for that day and what I wanted to do better.

Her closing words before turning off the lights were always, “be good and brave and strong and kind.”

Good and brave and strong and kind. Those are really hard characteristics to uphold on their own, much less together. And as I’ve grown up I like to believe I’ve done my best to stay true to these values.

Throughout this election I tried to act with them in mind. I believe it was a good thing to remain engaged with the election process. I watched all of the debates, I read as much as I could from news outlets, press releases, transcripts of the candidates’ speeches. I spoke with family members and friends to hear their opinions in the hopes they would help me better inform or defend my own.

I was good in that I exercised my right to vote.

I changed my registration to Pennsylvania where I believed my vote would make more of a difference. I voted in the primaries in April and in the general on Tuesday. And I tried to do more good with my vote by thinking of more than myself when casting my ballot––keeping in mind the millions of religious, racial and LGBTQ+ minorities who could be marginalized, discounted, disenfranchised depending on how the results would swing.

I tried to emulate strength in supporting the message of “stronger together.” Remaining strong as I often questioned how many of

my fellow Americans valued my worth and my voice as a woman. Remaining strong for months facing the unprecedented sexism, racism and fear so apparent in Trump’s campaign, wanting to believe that this is not a man America would submit to.

I tried to be brave in voting for a candidate I was notably more excited about than the majority of our country, but perhaps less wholeheartedly supportive of than some of my peers. I don’t agree with all of Clinton’s stances, and I have my hesitations regarding some of her past actions. But, I believed, and still believe, that she was the best option for our country, for everyone in our country, moving forward.

Throughout this election season I think many of us, regardless of who we supported, had to be brave when defending our candidates, our opinions, our values.

It’s not easy to stand up for what you believe in.

At a place like Penn, that may not always seem to be the case, with vocal activists often lining Locust walk. But, we’re in a bubble, and a very liberal bubble at that. One that sometimes stifle the voices of those more conservative than the perceived norm.

Trump’s success and the high red turnout shows that many people who perhaps weren’t impassioned by previous candidates, who didn’t feel represented in their government, who didn’t feel motivated to turnout in past elections found a candidate they could stand behind. Or perhaps just a candidate they’d willingly defend if it meant halting the success of Hillary Clinton.

Now, the results are in. The plurality of Americans have made their opinion clear. I can only hope that as we can move forward into this new chapter for our country with kindness.

Be kind to your neighbors whether they look like you or not. Be kind to your neighbors no matter their religion or who they love.

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GIULIA IMHOLTE C'17

I am upset, I am confused, I am afraid. I’m sure many people are. But whether you were victorious on Tuesday or not, be kind to your neighbors. Be kind to your neighbors whether they look like you or not. Be kind to your neighbors no matter their religion or who they love.

Perhaps this doesn’t sound in line with ideas put forward by the Trump campaign. But I have to believe, for the sake of our country, that everyone is at some level capable of compassion and understanding.

Be kind to your neighbors whether they voted for Trump or for Clinton. If you are on the same side, great; celebrate or mourn together. If you are on different sides, reconcile and do your best to understand the values, opinions and fears of the other. I don’t just mean different in skin color or sexual orientation, heritage and gender identify. As an upper–middle class, suburban– raised straight white woman receiving a college education, I have a hard time identifying with the trials of poorer, less educated whites from rural areas. I cannot feign to fully understand the life experiences of any of those different from me, whether they come from similar backgrounds or vastly different ones. The results of this election show me that I am obviously disconnected from a large percentage of Americans.

Clinton supporters: fighting for what’s right IS worth it. It is hard, but we must now persevere in the face of perhaps the biggest obstacle we may confront in our lifetimes. I say this knowing I speak from a place of privilege, knowing that I may be one of the least affected

by Trump’s future policies. But I hope you will accept me an an ever–improving ally.

Trump supporters: the world is watching.

We cannot move forward as a country if we continue to neglect the validity of those different from us. We must work together to be good and brave and strong and kind.

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I mourn a Hillary Clinton Presidency, I grieve for the feeling of safety many people lost and I cross my arms and close my eyes to refrain myself from putting the people around me on trial for the murder.

out a list of things I wanted to talk about—Pence. Anxiety. Mattering.—on the back of the poem I planned to read, and one by one I talked about them. Even when I had

34TH STREET Magazine December 1, 2011 34TH STREET Magazine December 1, 2011 34TH STREET Magazine December 1, 2011

this is not a metaphor for America. This is America. The America I know and love and take pride in every single day is the America whose color, shape, size, language, religion, and body are indiscernible in their diversity.

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emily johns c'17

When I was little, my dad sister used to tease me for how much I cried at anything sad in a movie. I found this embarrassing, so I made myself stop crying at sad movies.

While dating an ex-boyfriend I decided that his shitty actions didn’t deserve my tears, so I stopped crying. For the whole year of our relationship, I cried twice. I have spent the larger half of my life becoming too pragmatic a person to cry over silly things like dead dogs in movies or cheating ex-boyfriends...I can probably

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count the number of external events that have made me cry in the past year on one hand.

But when I woke up this morning to a world in which Donald Trump is our President-elect, I cried. When I began scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, reading all of the heartbroken statuses from friends who now fear for their safety, for the safety of others, and for the safety of our democracy, I cried. I’m not even fucking patriotic and this fucking election made me fucking cry.

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I cried because I will be fine but others will not. I cried because the very pragmatism that I have held so dear for so long has failed in the face of hate. I cried because our country proved so divided that selfish impulses overrode simple humanity. I cried because those who will also be fine were complacent, felt that

their vote did not matter and did not use it. I cried because people I call close personal

the very foundations of global democracy are under siege.

We cannot pretend that if we just close our eyes it will all be okay, because it won’t. Complacency by the elite is the very phenomenon that has brought us here, and we must now more than ever take an active approach to change.

I feel like I try so hard to see both sides of every story.

I do not speak on issues that I do not fully understand, I do not share or comment on articles that I have not fully read, and I will not unfriend you because your views do not match mine. But that is what has made today so hard. I feel like I listen and listen and listen, but as soon as I speak no one cares what I have to say.

No one cares because I am a woman, no one cares because what I am saying might be different from what they want to hear.

There is so much to be said about this election and none of this even begins to touch it. But I will not stop talking about it. I will explore every angle of it and I will work against it and I will try my very best to make it right.

On Wednesday morning I felt like my voice had been ripped out of me. But I will spend the next four years fighting to get it back.

on wednesday morning I felt like my voice was ripped out of me. But I will spend the next four years fighting to get it back. friends voted for a man who wants to take away the natural rights of my other friends.

I cried because they voted for a man that wants to take my rights away from me.

This election will have implications for years to come. We are going to try to normalize it, because that is how humans attempt to accept tragedy. We are going to qualify it, we are going to look for the positive in it. We are going to hold our breaths and hope that we make it through the next four years in one piece. We are going to do a lot of things, but as important as it is to push on, it is equally important to never forget.

We cannot, for one second, forget that we elected a racist, xenophobic, sexist man to the most powerful position in the world. We cannot forget that our future president has openly bragged about sexually assaulting women. We must, now and for the next four years, continuously face the fact that the very system meant to prevent such an election from occurring has failed, and that

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ALEX YANG - C'19 I AM NOT AN AMERICAN CITIZEN. I was not born here, and yesterday, I did not have the privilege to cast my vote. But I grew up believing—and still do believe—that this is the greatest nation on this Earth, and the greatest leader the world has ever known.

So when the results streamed in, I asked the same question as many of my peers—how could this happen? The answer is hardly elusive—people voted according to what resonated with them, and supported the candidate they felt would protect their interests. We can never underestimate the ca-

pacity for hatred.

But just because the President-elect appealed to the baser aspects of our humanity, does not mean that those who voted for him are invalid. We are blindsided because many of us—myself included— come from positions of privilege. We forgot about the economically disenfranchised and those who perceive themselves as socially marginalized. We forgot about those who do not embrace diversity. In return, we should not hate. We should understand, and then educate.

This morning, watching

Hillary Clinton's concession speech—gracious, class act that it was—I cried. I am not American, but her message was one for all of humanity— "never stop believing that fighting for what's right is worth it."

I am not an American citizen. But I don't have to be— because today, and forever, I stand with all Americans—regardless of color, religion, or race. In the wake of an incredibly destructive, divisive campaign, I still believe that in this country, there are better days ahead.

HANNAH RIORDAN C'19 I've been sitting with this for a while feeling absolutely numb with fear, and I don't know that I'm ever going to get more ready to speak about this tragedy. So here goes. Newsflash: There is NO. SUCH. THING. as supporting Trump JUST "for change" or JUST " for the economy".

By voting for him over his opponent PERIOD, you are endorsing blatant racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, and pretty much any prejudice you can think of. You can't separate Trump's promises for change from his promises for white supremacy, because they are one in the same. Impor-

tantly, It's not even white male supremacy, because a majority of white women voted Trump.

Not a plurality, a majority. It's absolutely despicable.

So, no. I'm not going to "be reasonable" and just "spread love" and "listen to others" today. I'm going to be sad. I'm going to be scared. I'm going to be surprised. I'm going to be appalled. I'm going to be angry. I'm going to hope that I can find it within myself to start organizing so that future generations never live through an election like this one. So many of us now feel that part or all of our identities put us in danger. Today is a dark day.

Please take care of yourselves.

ANNY HU - C'10 Many people have asked me why I have been so involved in this ELECTION even though I could not vote, even though I am not a citizen of the United States.

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Many people have jokingly proposed to marry me for my Canadian citizenship, which I half-heartedly laughed at.

This morning, my mom even asked me if I felt relief for not being an American today.

The answer is no, I feel no relief.

Yesterday's loss was not simply a loss for many Americans, but for millions of people around the world. No matter your citizenship, it was a reminder that the glass ceiling is very much intact, and minorities are very much marginalized.

To the young girls around the world who look to America to realize their own self worth, to the LGBTQ+ community in nations where being yourself

is considered a crime yet see a glimpse of hope when looking across the ocean, to the generations to come that will look back at us one day: no battle is easy, but after you fall you must get up.

It is clear from the election results that the majority of young people in this nation would have chosen otherwise.

And although our time has yet to come, I'm certain it WILL come, as long as we fight for it. As a first step, we need to realize the differences and understand the struggles of 50% of the nation.

As Hillary Clinton said this morning: "This loss hurts, but please never stop believing that fighting for what's right is worth it. It is, it is worth it."

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Meriem Djelmami-hani - W'19

“Trump will be the next president of the United States of America,” I read. I couldn’t believe it.

The headlines were nauseating. I felt sick, confused, and worried about the future of my country. Trump? Really?

The same man whose platform centered around bigotry and hateful, divisive rhetoric? The man who called for a blanket ban on Muslims entering the US, assaulted and proudly objectified women, mocked the disabled, labelled Mexicans as “rapists,” disrespected African Americans, and highlighted his ignorance and incompetence every time he opened his mouth?

No. There’s no way. It must be a nightmare I’ll wake up from soon, right?

Nope. The Americans have

exercised their democratic rights, and apparently, they want a misogynistic, xenophobic, Islamophobic, racist, incompetent, and power-hungry White supremacist to lead our country. The results tell me less about Trump and more about the values my peers, my neighbors, and my fellow citizens hold. The thought of such a large population of Americans cherishing such divisive policies was chilling and alienating. I felt as if a sharp needle had just pierced through my heart. As an American-Muslim woman, I’ve never felt so terri-

fied about not only my future, but also the future of my community and my country. Ever.

denial was no longer an option. Trump will become the next president of my country, and that’s a fact that I need to accept, for rejecting it would undermine the core democratic values that we cherish as Americans.

Returning back to my faith, a sense of comfort and tranquility overcame me. God has a plan, and although I may not understand it now, only He truly knows what’s best for me and what’s best for our society. I have full faith that God’s plan is better than any of our individual plans, and that puts my

As an American-Muslim woman, I’ve never felt so terrified about not only my future, but also the future of my community and my country.

A few tears dribbled down my cheek as I reflected upon the way Trump’s run for president started as a joke that has quickly evolved into a living nightmare. I then realized that

MAURIN MWOMBELA - C'17 Like most people, I've got a lot of thoughts in my head, so what follows may or may not make any sense.

I'm sure many of you are upset or even inconsolable.

Its hard not to be, especially if you are personally effected or personally interested in issues like LGBTQ rights, women's rights, immigration, xenophobia, Islamophobia, civil rights, the list goes on.

As a black man, its hard not to feel dejected and fearful about the state of race in America. For years and decades we've been told by elites and media that racism is over.

Or at the very least on a linear path toward equality. I think the rhetoric and result of this

election finally reveals the reality that black Americans have been aware of this whole time: white fear and white anger are still very much a strong political force. And all of the people who support this rhetoric just got a big confirmation that their ignorance and hate is not only acceptable but victorious.

Given all of the negative aspects of this election, you may still find yourself emotional about the election. That's okay. Take a breather and let yourself feel all the feels. Do whatever it takes to make yourself feel better.

And since I am a helpless optimist, I think I have to end this on something that gives me a sliver of hope. If you watched Donald Trump's speech, you probably noticed that none of his patented vitriolic hate speech was present.

His audience hated his speech.

He was level headed, respectful, and talked about brining the country together behind easy solutions like infrastructure investment.

And don't get me wrong, he's still a horrible person at his core and he may spend the next four years dismantling

the political and social progress of the last 40 years. But if his speech is any indication of his time in office, there's a chance he won't be a maniac.

In a 1998 interview, Trump stated that if he ever wanted to be president, he would run as a Republican, since he believed their base was so dumb that he could easily convince them to vote for him. Prescient. This is a man who has previously supported progressive, liberal policies, and maybe in office he will pivot closer to that. After all, we've been wrong about Trump plenty in the past, maybe we're wrong about what his presidency will look like. Maybe he just successfully made the biggest sale

heart at ease.

The results of this election have alarmed tens of millions of Americans—especially minority groups—and I hope we can funnel our energy toward working together to unify our nation and uphold our fundamental values of equality, freedom, and love for all. Feelings of anger and fear are natural results of such an upset, but we need to look forward, roll up our sleeves, and work toward building a better and brighter tomorrow—regardless of who sits in the Oval Office. At this time, we need to uplift each other, for we are truly stronger together.

of his life: himself as a Republican candidate.

Either way, the fight is not over. And after you take the time to recover, focus on the future, since that's all we can do. All social movements face backlash and although this may be a hard piece of backlash to accept, it is not the end of the social progress that you are fighting for. Resist.

In whatever way you can and want to. Write something, protest, start a group, talk to people, embody your beliefs more strongly, there's no one way to do it. Keep your head up. Our generation now knows what complacency and hate can bring. Let's make sure this never happens again.

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Leigh Ann Eisenhauer - C'18

It is highly unlike me to make political statements on social media, but I can’t stay quiet. I am devastated. I am devastated because it is small rural towns like the one I am from, where racism and ignorance is deep seated, that made key states like Pennsylvania red this election cycle.

I have grown up around the hateful rhetoric that prevailed this election cycle, and I am ashamed and disappointed in myself for every time I came home from college and remained silent in the presence of this dialogue. I realize now that these comments were not harmless, but reflected a

fundamental ignorance in our country that almost all of us underestimated. This is not to shame the rural population or my hometown; these are my friends, family, loved ones, and some of the hardest workers and smartest people I have ever met. However, people fear what they do not know, and growing up in a rural area can make you extremely insulated from the rest of the population. I realize how

incredibly privileged I am to have had the opportunity to travel, live abroad, and engage with many people of different races, religions, and backgrounds. Had my circumstances been different, I may have different views than I do today.

I woke up this morning to a long email from my father, who was raised 20 minutes away from where I was in a culture that I can only imagine was plagued with the same fear and ignorance

that I have experienced.

He said to my brothers and I: “You are smart, mature, sophisticated, well educated, adaptable, critical thinkers and are well equipped with the skills that allow you not only to survive but to prosper and influence change in the future…You are not alone!

There are many around you that you associate with every day that have a similar worldview and will be the synergy that creates the change needed in society.” I am fortunate enough to have the opportunity to attend college and be surrounded by people who challenge my

worldview every day. And today, more than ever, I am inspired to not let my opportunities or my education go to waste. I will never again write off hateful rhetoric as an uncomfortable conversation I do not want to have or as an unfortunate reality that I must concede to. I will continue to be proud of my country and of my small rural town. I promise to use my privileged position to fight for the equality, diversity, and acceptance that every single person in this great nation deserves and I am proud to live in a country where I have the opportunity to do so.

as I stand against hatred, and I invite you all to stand in solidarity. Just because this is the reality we have been dealt does not mean we have

love. Though Trump may be our President, he does not represent my voice. My America is one that doesn't back down from a fight. My

to accept it. We can fight back, push back against all of the horrible rhetoric and ideology. I invite you all to exercise your freedom of speech; never stop screaming, whether it be through words, art or protest. Your voice matters, and no matter how hard anyone tries, they cannot silence the echo of

America is one that fights for justice, that fights for the equality of all of its citizens.

I will fight for anyone whose voice is being threatened, for anyone whose life is in danger, for anyone who is threatened by such hatred. I will stand for you America, axe and pen in hand, ready to go to war.

Regina Salmons - C'18 I do not accept any of the hatred or the negative possible outcomes of the election. I will stand to fight and protect the reproductive rights of women to have access to abortion and

to birth control. I will stand with the LGBTQ+ community and all minority groups, especially the Black Lives Matter movement, as we are not alone in this fight. I promise to be intersectional

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Krishnan Sethumadhavan - Y'17 I’m a brown man. I get selected for extra screening when I don’t shave for a few days.

I’m a brown man. I get selected for extra screening when I don’t shave for a few days. I have no doubts that the next four years will not only be the worst of my life and those of everyone else who will be brutally impacted—the poor, LatinX folk, the disabled, LGBTQ+ people, Muslims, and almost uncountable others. After staying up to watch the returns come in with an increasing sense of disbelief, I expected waking up wanting to grieve for my country.

I woke up angry.

Let me be clear—I’m not angry at Donald Trump’s supporters. The majority of them are not the irredeemable bigots that many are making them out to be.

They voted for someone they thought would break a

system that has locked them out of the halls of power for years and callously called them obsolete relics, people whose deaths would lead to a permanent Democratic majority. I vehemently disagree with their choice, but I see why they made it.

I am angry at Hillary Clinton and her campaign. I am angry at their arrogance in believing that white working class people could be safely ignored and left to die in opioid-addicted towns in the Rust Belt. I am angry at their inability to recognize that the people don’t want or need more neoliberal bullshit—they don’t want the “freedom” to pick from 15 different health plans all of whom have premiums that are skyrocketing. They don’t want the job “retraining” that Democrats have promised for years but have never been able to de-

Christina Ingraldi - W'17 Regardless of how you voted yesterday (or if you could even vote in the first place) or how satisfied/unsatisfied you are with the results, there can be no denying that one thing is true: there are now many people in this country and on this campus who feel unsafe in this moment and/or who fear for their future safety in this country.

I do not claim to be an expert on politics or this election, but the one thing that has shocked me is the lack of empathy our

country has displayed. The world itself is a beautiful place because of the diversity of its people, cultures, natural/physical environments, etc. So, in this time, I ask you all to put aside your own self interests, put yourself in someone else's shoes (aka try to understand how they're actually feeling), and give support to a person or community that may need it right now. While we can't control the country, we have the power to make our campus a safe and supportive place.

liver on while manufacturing jobs continue to be decimated thanks to trade deals that Democrats pass.

They don’t care what the hell Lena Dunham has to say about anything. They don’t give a shit that John Oliver “eviscerated” Donald Trump by calling him “Drumpf ” or that Samantha Bee’s condescensiondripping diatribes were well received by the Facebook/Twitter literati. They don’t care about any of it and who could blame them?

This election and the inability of the Clinton campaign to have even a modicum of connection to white working-class people has revealed the astounding moral bankruptcy of the Democratic party. It has become a party of a technocratic, managerial elite (the consulting, bank-

ing, tech unicorn types that many of us aspire to be) that demands loyalty from its minority constituents based on the platform of “it’s us or the apocalypse.”

Well, now the apocalypse

has come.

The truly scary part? We are all left live in its ruins while the elite get to retreat to their make-work “thinktanks” and the lucrative lecture circuit to lick their

wounds.

More than anything else, Donald Trump’s election should make it desperately, blindingly clear the need for some sort of politics that actually works for the forgotten working class—closer to Bernie Sanders than Hillary Clinton. Nothing else can defeat Trump.

We must resist Trump’s authoritarian urges for the next 4 years.

We must resist them with every fiber of our being.

But we must also rebuild so that we can truly become a party of the people.

The Democratic party must never forget the tragic errors it made in 2016 and if it does, it need not be our party.

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Ben Kaufman - C'20

I have never been more ashamed of this country.

To put it lightly, it’s never a good sign when a gleeful Rudy Giuliani gets on MSNBC and, searching for a historical precedent, laughs and says that Trump is the next Andrew Jackson.

To everyone who voted for Hillary, whether you’ve been a die-hard supporter since 2008 or, like me, a Bernie supporter who easily saw that Clinton’s vision was infinitely closer to Bernie’s than anyone else’s in the race (Stein included), I’m proud to stand with you on the right side of history.

To everyone else, however, I hope you can fit a lot of happiness in the next few months because I’m willing to wager you’ve got a lot of sleepless nights ahead of you.

The way I see it, Trump supporters can be broken down into two groups. Those who genuinely think that Trump has policy plans that will make their lives better and those who voted for him cause he had an R next to his name.

To the first group, you did not do your homework, plain and simple. I wonder what will happen when uneducated working class people who

overwhelmingly voted for Trump bear four years of trickle down economics. I wonder what will happen when they lose health care.

I cannot stand to hear one more pundit implore liberal white elites to have more sympathy for the plight of the working class. The median income of Trump voters is $72,000, well above the national median of $56,000, and these voters are far better off than they were eight years ago. Calling these votes for Trump, who will cut taxes for the wealthy and gut social programs for boondoggles like the wall, anything but deluded masochism would be a mischaracterization.

To the second group (which I like to call the Paul Ryan Bloc), you have for-

feited the GOP’s claim to be the patriotic party. Any true patriot would not have been able to bring themselves to vote for a man who denigrates, immigrants, minorities, women, disabled people, and political opponents for the sole purpose of defeating the democrat. The only thing I take solace in is that spineless politicians like Ryan will have to live with this decision for the next four years.

Lastly, if you were a fellow Bernie supporter during the primary and didn’t vote for Clinton, I don’t know whose speeches you were listening to. The futures of Trump, Johnson, and yes, Stein, are absolutely not ones that I

can believe in when compared with that of Clinton.

There is no greater insult to Bernie’s message than

terrorism—more than once.

Any of this, on its own, would be enough to chip away at my faith in the hope

afraid.

Today, I am. I am shocked, numb, vulnerable.

I am heartbroken, even as I

this country is supposed to represent.

And yet, it didn’t. Despite all of it, I still believed in the promise of America, because I believed in America to be better. I have never been

struggle to be hopeful.

The truth is, America, I want to fight for you.

What I no longer know, is whether or not you will fight for me.

not voting for Clinton. I’m ashamed to have supported the same candidate as you.

America had a chance to take a huge step forward tonight and decided to elect someone who embodies the absolute worst this country has to offer. I truly had a higher opinion of this country beforehand. Offense intended.

Stephanie Tang - C'18 America, you and I have had a rocky relationship.

I have idealized you for my entire life. I was always told, ever since I was little, that you were the land of hope, the land of freedom and justice and endless possibility. I was told that in America, anything can happen—it doesn’t matter what race you are, what gender, what religion or sexuality…I was told that anyone could do anything they set their mind to. All you needed was a dream, and to believe in the possibility of the future. When I came here, two years ago, this is the spirit I

expected to find.

In a way, I did find it.

In America, I have found unprecedented growth and development through the numerous people who have

opened my eyes to things I had never before experienced or considered, and who have supported me through every

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kind of challenge I have had to face in the last few years.

But I have also experienced harassment, ignorance, and hate. As a woman, I have been subjected to the same catcalls, the same leers and jeers and fears of things and people lurking around the corner in places that are supposed to be safe.

As a person of color, I have been forced to deal with every kind of comment from, “Why is your English so good?” to, “I’ve heard Asian women are wild in bed.

Are you?” As a citizen of a Muslim country, I have been pulled out of the immigration line at JFK and subjected to hours of interrogation under suspicion of

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CALVARY ROGERS – C'19 We have so much work to do, but I know that it isn’t more than what we can bear.

"First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action;" who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season." Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will.

Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection." – MLK, 1963

••• If I had a dollar for every time I asked myself if today was a reality, I wouldn’t need Penn. Seriously, I wouldn’t. Truly, I am in complete disbelief that America could push a man into office that has openly bragged of sexually assaulting women. Who has called Mexicans rapists, thugs, and criminals. Who has proposed a national ban on Muslims. Who has mocked a disabled reporter. Who utilized the Orlando Massacre of our LGBTQ community to boost his own agenda and self-righteousness. Who calls for national stop and frisk.

Who has violated trade embargo with Cuba. Who was sued over Trump U fraud. Who flat out hasn’t paid taxes for 20 years. Who has called for more extreme forms of torture to be used. Who has said women should be punished for having abortions. Who has openly threatened freedom of the press. Who literally has called global warming a Chinese hoax. Who praised Putin and Kim Jong Un's strong leadership. Who has openly admitted to not paying his employees during presidential debates. Who called Obama an illegitimate noncitizen from Kenya hundreds of times over 7 years.

Who used campaign donations to fund his own businesses and buildings. Who openly stated that laziness is an inherent trait in black people. Who has openly employed a campaign manager involved in illegal corruption with Russia. Who has called for ban of an entire religion from entering US. Who has lied about support for Iraq War over and over in debate. Who has been pe-

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nalized for racial housing discrimination. Who has filed for bankruptcy over 6 times. Who questions judges' integrity and intellectualism because of their parent's heritage. Who, ironically, deleted emails involved in his Trump casino scandal. Who committed insurance fraud after the Florida hurricane. Who HAS dozens of assault victims and witnesses come forward with allegations of sexual abuse.

Who attacked former Ms. America for being overweight. Who called for US citizens to be sent to Gitmo.

being as a black man in this country more than my homework. I usually pull things together set aside my blackness and identity to keep up with this university, but today was just different. I cried with friends whom I never knew were emotional. I trapped myself in a safe space. I called my sisters and parents. I talked the weight off of my chest out. I surrounded myself with love because this country refuses to. This election is personal to me, and therefore it should be personal to you. There’s a reason why you didn’t see some of the people you normally see in routine today. Reach out. Care about your friends. Listen more than you speak. When I was asked “How are you?’ today, it stepped outside of the bounds of small talk. I encourage you to extend love to your Muslim friends, the women in your life, those who identify as undocumented, you're African American friends, the LGBTQ community, the Latinx community, your disabled classmates, those who identify as low-income, and every single intersection in-between by doing the same. Because for many, today isn’t about partisanship, it is about fear and hopelessness.

For the thousandth time this year, I thought of my own well-being as a black man in this country more than my homework.

I ask that you re-read that paragraph out loud. And if you feel tired of “reading” about his explicit disqualifications, to imagine the lives of those who have had to and will have to “experience” his explicit racism, sexism, xenophobia, ableism, elitism, and twisted take on nationalism. We speak so much of the significance of Barack Obama, but what is the value of our first black president when his successor refused to disavow the KKK? Oddly, at a the Ivy League Institution of my dreams, I feel restricted and temporary. I have truly never felt so down. Its as if what I am doing to break apart the yoke of social oppression from where I am is simply not enough. This is Donald Trump. Not Jeb Bush, not Marco Rubio, not John Kasich… but Donald Trump. And he isn’t the full problem here.

It is the police unions across America that refused to disavow his statements. It’s the National Rifle Association, who dismissed the violently racist rhetoric at their rallies as political emotion and disagreement. The men who felt that having a “wife, mother, and daughter” was the primary reason to be angered over Trump’s sexual assault, (all in all to vote for him.) Or the friends I have who laugh with me in one breathe, yet sponsor an openly racist man in the other. My professors who have overstepped Trump’s racism, xenophobia, and sexism through jokes in lecture. The professors I had who refused to change the due date of my assignments on such an intimidating day.

For me, I am starting where I’m at. For the thousandth time this year, I thought of my own well-

As much as I am in mourning, I am active. I refuse to let my country take steps backwards, I refuse to act as if this presidential election is normal, and most of all, I refuse to let the divisiveness in this country that has plagued his campaign, plague my campus. I ask that as a University we accept that we deserve to “not be okay” for the next few days. That we embrace each other with hope and love, rather than fear and hate. That we ask those who work in our dining halls, who clean our bathrooms, who ask you for a dollar every other day if they need a hug. That you take a second and simply try to grasp empathy and compassion for once in your life. That as the University that played a role in the rise Trump we make it clear that we do not tolerate his bigotry and divisiveness. We have so much work to do, but I know that it isn’t more than what we can bear. We can all be comfortable, we can all be loved, and we can all be at home. Let’s start here by empowering a community that already needs so much work.

MIKE COYNE – C'17

I keep on wanting to cry. I keep on almost crying and I don’t know for who or for what precisely, but I always stop just short for some reason.

When the race was called I sat in silence with four other people; myself, a gay man, two powerful Muslim women, an unapologetically black man, and a brilliant South Asian woman sat in silence, it was real now. We had been waiting in what felt like a bunker in Hamco for seven hours as the results rolled in painfully slowly, every “Key Race Alert” filled us with anxiety while simultaneously just making us laugh at their uselessness.

At the end of those seven hours, being with those people in that room, seeing any hope for the first female president of the United States dashed, made the inevitable consequences of this election all the more real.

Not a single person in that room would be championed

by Trump. Maybe that means it was an echo chamber of liberalism—it probably does—but it also means that my fear bounced around the room. “What is going to happen to my community?” turned into “Are my friends going to be able to walk home safely tonight?” or “Are my friends going to be slurred at in the streets, am I?” And before you say I was overreacting, remember that there were swastikas painted on buildings in

South Philly yesterday morning and that the histories of oppression people fear we will explicitly revert to are not too far off in history, besides the fact that they probably never went away in the first place. Before you say I was overreacting, let me explain how I, personally, already self-police, without this alt-right disease ravaging our nation. I’ve considered whether or not I should take pink sticky notes on the bus to visit my boyfriend because, well, my pants are already pretty tight and I don’t want anyone being able to figure me out; maybe they can hear it in my voice, too, it’s unclear. There was that guy two weeks ago that came up and pinched my jeans and laughed, so maybe I shouldn’t even wear that pair on the bus, even though I go on so many runs so that I like how I look in them. Better not take any chances; I’ll just bring green even though the pink ones were the closest on the desk. Once I actually get off the bus, I better be careful holding my boyfriend’s hand in public, because Uncle Bill used to get gay-bashed in the 70s, and we all know that still happens, right? So is stunting my relationship worth my physical safety?

That’s just some of it, and I’m white, let’s just be honest about it all.

While we were waiting for the results, one of my

friends half-jokingly asked, “Do you think America is cursed because we took it from other people?” I think she’s on to something. Not cursed, maybe, but poisoned. Poisoned by the idea that America looks like something specific that includes some and not others and by the structural reality that America has been forcibly created, and not always in the noblest of ways; anyone from a marginalized community can probably tell you how they’ve never seen themselves in that picture of America, but decidedly outside of it, and how the formation of American society has often, if not always, kept them out of it. When you can’t see yourself as completely and totally a part of your own nation, and at least half of the the political system tells you that too, there’s reason to be afraid. When you already watch your back and now your President can’t, won’t, you have reason to be afraid. When others can control your bodies, your rights, and, largely, how other people perceive your status as a threat or not, or as worthy or not, YOU GET TO BE AFRAID. I keep on almost crying, and I wish I would just cry.

I think it’s because I don’t know where to start first, whose fear do I cry for first?

Once while I was studying abroad I had a dream that I was back at Penn. I was at a crowded party with loud music and colorful pulsing lights. I was flitting between conversations, trying desperately not to be seen standing by myself. I woke up and was immediately filled with relief to still be lying on my floor mat, surrounded by my mosquito net in the home in rural Thailand I was staying in. I noticed my body was shaking and damp with sweat and I realized I had been having a nightmare. I spent my last two days in Thailand ceaselessly sobbing. I cried at our final party.

I cried while packing. I cried in the cab to the airport.

I cried so much that people stopped being concerned and just interacted with me as they normally would. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much, and I didn’t think I would until this week.

When it dawned on me that Donald Trump was going to be the next President of the United States I was filled with a sense of dread and panic. I felt the tears running down my face even as I told myself that this couldn’t possible be real. I kept waiting to wake up, for the nightmare to end, but it never did. I cried on the walk home from the DP office when I realized that nothing would be the same. I cried when I woke up from an hour of trying to sleep. I cried when I heard

my grandmother break into tears on the phone. I cried when I watched Hillary’s concession speech instead of finishing an assignment.

Then and now I found myself standing at the precipice of the unknown, terrified of what the future might hold. When I left Thailand I was leaving a program where every day was fulfilling, every hour spent exploring ideas of progress, justice and human rights. The burden of coming back from a life-changing transformative abroad experience is that the comparison made the loneliness, the exclusivity, the superficiality, the callousness that existed at Penn all the more painful.

I threw myself into it anyway, joined new groups, and tried to meet new people. Because although everyone around may not have been my people, they were the ones I was stuck with and I was determined to make the best of it. And many of my worst fears were confirmed. I felt depressed, I felt anxious and I felt lonely. But I learned a lot about myself, what I want out of life and for the future.

Right now the transition between the Obama presidency to the Trump presidency feels all the more striking. Since the age of 12 when I first became politically aware I have only known a president for whom I feel an overwhelming amount of love and respect,

who routinely comforts and inspires me. Seeing him replaced by someone I find so abhorrent feels wrong, it feels shameful, it feels downright dirty. The idea of Trump sitting in his office, filling his position, standing at his podium makes me feel nauseous, angry and powerless. A Trump presidency might not be as bad as we think it is, or it might be worse, but it is the one half of my country has chosen. And whether they be educated or not, racist or not we are stuck with them.

I didn’t isolate myself from my peers and we can’t isolate ourselves from ours. We need to confront why these people were not represented in the polls, why they were not swayed by countless celebrities, newspapers and politicians, and why they somehow found his rhetoric appealing. When Hillary Clinton told me I owed Trump “an open mind and the chance to lead” I was filled with a childish sense of anger. This is all wrong, I wanted to shout at her. You weren’t supposed to console me, you were supposed to by my President.

But I want to believe her when she said I should “never stop believing that fighting for what's right is worth it.” And when I look at the tattoo on my wrist that says “keep fighting” in Thai I know that someday this new world might feel normal. And I know that while I’m not there yet, I might just be okay.

GENEVIEVE GLATSKY – C'17

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Liza Bernstein - C'17 No matter how heavy my heart is today, I refuse to stop asking: "how long must women wait to get their liberty? Let us have the rights we deserve." I refuse to stop fighting for an end to xenophobia, for an end to rape culture, for an end to

as inferior based off their genitalia, their color, their religion.

When I got my first Ready for Hillary sign, I signed Alice Paul's name on it. Today I cry with Alice Paul—tears of anger of frustration of anxiety of fear—but also tears of awe. I cry tears of awe because no I refuse to stop fighting matter how ashamed for a world in which we and disappointed in my country I am, I look at each other as know that I will always equals and not as en- remember Hillary as a fighter—as someone emies. who took all the pain and anger that was thrown at her and put racism. I refuse to stop fight- it towards cracking the glass ceiling. No matter who won ing for a world in which we the election, the glass ceiling look at each other as equals was always going to be there and not as enemies. I refuse on November 9—but Hillto stop fighting for an end to a world that judges people ary forced us to get a little

glass in our skin.

She made some cracks, and she sacrificed herself for her scars, and I will always look to Hillary Clinton in awe for how hard she fought— not just in this election but throughout her entire life, and no one can take that fight away from us. And so today, I wake up terrified and sad and tearful, but I also know that while I have the privilege to tune out, to ignore what's happening, to retreat into white privilege, I cannot, and I will not. I will keep fighting—for Hillary Clinton, for Alice Paul, for Lucy Burns, for Emily Leighton, for Sojourner

were not allowed to join the fight in 1920, for the women who thought they won the fight in 1920, for all who thought they won the fight in 1965.

So let the glass ceiling try to suppress us, cause with Hillary Clinton in my heart there is no chance my pain is going anywhere but towards shattering it. #stillwithher

I will keep fighting—for Hillary Clinton, for Alice Paul, for Lucy Burns, for Emily Leighton, for Sojourner Truth, for Ida B. Wells, for all the women who taught me how to fight.

Truth, for Ida B. Wells, for all the women who taught me how to fight. I will keep fighting for the women who

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HOW TO

LOVE FRIENDS WITH

INTERNALIZED RACISM WHEN I FIRST MOVED TO AMERICA, I WAS INCREDIBLY EXCITED. I was going to a liberal and educated environment. In Thailand, I attended a privileged international school, with a huge expat community. I am fluent in English.

I did not think I would have any trouble fitting in. The short story is, I was wrong.

On the second day of NSO, a hall-mate refused to say my name properly. When I tried

to correct him, he said he preferred his version which whimsically changed from “Mumei” to “Meemy”. My roommate, unknowing that I was in the room, called her mother and told her she felt uncomfortable: “Thailand is sketchy, and we don’t know what her family is like.”

During freshman year, a friend flirtatiously told me

that I am the “exception to my race” and, “to take it as a compliment, I usually have a rule for Mayflower descendants only.” A NonAmerican peer told me I’m not like the other Asians. I’m the “cool kind.” I am both repulsed by and compassionate to the tiny part of me that felt flattered.

Sometimes my friends eat the Thai food I cook, and I am warmed. Other times, the ingredients used repulse them viscerally and I am quieted. I’ve learned there are

I can’t wait to study for the LSAT.

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many ways to silencing. My sophomore year, I had a pixie haircut. At a fraternity party, of an organization of mostly White-American men, a brother tried to kick me out of the party because he thought I was a “little Chinese boy”. We fought, with him threatening physical violence, until we were pushed into the bright light of the porch outside his house. He realized with horror, I was, in fact, a “little Chinese girl”.

When I reported this to sorority members, they laughed and told me to not take it seriously. No one took this boy seriously! He was the class clown and was also sooo drunk. I mentioned to closer friends that I have never felt attractive in all-White Male

and jungle cat”. He called me “cute and ethnic”when I wore a headband. Let us be real—it was not my headband, but my physical features. His ex implied she felt unintimidated because “Asian girls aren’t pretty”.

He excused her comments as “jealous pettiness.” Unlike her, my jealous retorts will never translate into the stinging pain of racism. When I tried to explain this he said, “I don’t see your race. I just see you.” While I am more than my race, my race is also me in a wonderful, wholesome way. I wished everyone saw that too. I do not want us to be color-blind. The world is too colorful for that.

This does not just happen in America. Growing up in

I’ve learned there are many ways to silencing. spaces. I was told “it’s just in your head.” I felt frustrated by the cheerful friendliness of my mostly WhiteAmerican sorority sisters who support diversity but made me feel, at times, like an exotic token to parade at social events. If I am “cool,” please let it not be because I am from Thailand.

A boy to whom I was linked in a biracial coupling with has described me, out of affection, as a “lotus flower

Thailand, I became accustomed to Caucasian tourists speaking to me with broken English in a tone of benevolent pity. I then watched them act in inappropriate ways because “in Thailand you can do whatever you want” and their looks of shock when I rebuked them in perfect English. At the age of fifteen, Caucasian men would ask me if I had a penis just “to make sure.” During my study abroad in Edin-

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burgh, I was chased down a public road by four young men shouting “ching-chong.”

When I told them to fuck off, they recoiled briefly at my fluency, only to become more aggressive with gibberish they assumed sounded Chinese. I ran and escaped onto a bus, heart racing and shaking in fear.

These instances, and many others, remind me daily that to some, and even to those closest to me, I am not always Mymai. I slip in and out; and when I am out, I am the Female Asian. I am the Other, and unbelonging to the country I live in. On top of it, I can also be insulted by this Otherness in my own home.

It is inescapable. There is no getting on a plane away from it. I am ashamed of the unkind strangers and the kinder friends. But I am also ashamed of myself. I have looked down quietly too many times.

Perhaps this sounds like a whiny laundry-list to some, but I wish to express deeprooted resentments in order to convey the magnitude of the issue. I share these small stories of every-day incidents to create a reaffirming space for all marginalized people, who share or do not share my background. I am thankful that the recent elections extracted out into daylight what has always festered and simmered. This now allows us to openly hack at its ugliness. The rhetoric of the U.S. elections finally eliminated a pervasive self-doubt that I was “self-pitying,” a notion bolstered by various forms of silencing. The discomfort and anger from racism, even

2 Asians.” You know who you Many of my friends who have derstand more because I am are, dear friend—and I love unknowingly offended I have not exempt from prejudices. you so much for helping me This will not change those also shared my happiest and with determined hatefulness, carve a home here again. coziest times with here. The To the many high-school freshman year hall-mate who but we must do our best by friends who are now also beginning with what is closmocked my name is now a immigrant minorities, these close friend. I est to us. Three years since held him when moving to the U.S., I am still conversations with you have excited to be here. I am proud felt like a physical relief to he sobbed for that very recently, my White- the body. I appeal directly to the LGBT those in positions similar to community the American best friend and I ours, who have been diminmorning after finally had an honest conished but in subtler ways. the elections. In versation on race to free our beautiful friendship of resent- Subtle enough to make us that moment, believe in “good enough”.

I learned again ment. It was triggered by a that things are pungent dish of Thai ferment- Good enough is not good.

We must speak. We must never irrepaed anchovies and her asking have these difficult but very rable. We have me to say something in my important conversations. We mother tongue for the first to sit by each time since we’ve known each must love our friends enough other, even to trust them to listen, and if hesitantly other. Our conversation was also the first time I felt myself listen back. This is how we but warmly, and listen. And the stages of internalizing to listening means asking ques- truly open up to someone in can love and move beyond assimilate, I ruled you off. I our internalized aggressions the U.S. She is asked, often, stamped you as “White” and tions too.

As I write this, I am aware why she “only hangs out with together. therefore, unable to access all of me. I do not write now as a of my privilege. I understand passive aggressive demand for that my story is one of many awkward apologies or to have different kinds. I want to unyou amplify your outrage and bewilderment on my behalf.

Because more importantly, I have shared these stories to convey the complexity of intimacy across marginalization.

Systematic racism has always been present. Yes, even among the liberal and educated.

The power of oppression is such that I spent years in America calling myself close to people while hiding away components as intrinsic and important to me as breathing. Loving with internalized racism is not a simple thing to navigate. The sorority sister who laughed at the “Little Chinese Boy” incident Open 6 Days a Week (CLOSED TUESDAYS) • FREE Delivery • Lunch and Dinner Buffet also rallied huge numbers of people to a Vagina Monologues performance I was part of. The boy with the jealous ex surprised me with a trip Present your to the best Thai restaurant in Student ID for New York when he caught me crying with homesickness af(215) 662-0818 | 60 South 38th Street ter a Skype call to my mother. among those you consider closest to you, is real. To my friends who I considered too different to care about elements of my identity, I am sorry. I was scared. In

I am not always Mymai. I slip in and out; and when I am out, I am the Female Asian. I am the Other, and unbelonging to the country I live in.

MYMAI YUAN - C'17

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sofie praestgaard - c'19

selfish

here because they lacked basic human rights in their own homes. Shutting immigrants out is not going to make them go away and it is not going to Make America Great. Voting based on the issues that only you personally face or personally care about does not solve the bigger issues. There is a I'm ashamed to be Ameriin generations down the line. I whole world out there, it’s not can in this very moment. I'm am so sad. just you.

Yesterday my dad joked with ashamed to live in the kind of Selflessness is a pillar of country that would vote a man me that, “he bought my vote.” Christian teaching. Over the It’s true. He came here from into office who embodies the years of a.) going to Christian things we have worked so hard Denmark for grad school and school until 8 th grade, b.) livto overcome. With my whole is paying to live here, paying ing in Pennsyltucky, the top of heart I believe that others must to work here, paying to raise the Bible Belt of this country, come before self. Tonight has a family here. He’s a white c.) generally knowing a shit ton guy and able to do so without about Christian theology, I’ve proven that many Americans do not even consider anything issue. We have to think about come to see something really but themselves and themselves the people that weren’t born to sad. It is shocking to me the be able to vote and the people way devout Christians vote. right now—not the beautiful that don’t have the money to world they live in, or those The Bible teaches stewardship; they share it with that may buy a say in American politics. they vote against taking care This country has been built on of the Earth we’ve so badly not be as fortunate, or the world their children will live the backs of people who came polluted. The Bible teaches

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taking care of the poor and the sick; they vote to try to repeal Obamacare and raise taxes on the poor with the thought that someone else will take care of it, that they’re not personally responsible and that the government shouldn’t intervene.

The Bible teaches that respect and equality belongs to all human beings; they vote to silence the voices of women and minorities. The Bible teaches at all costs, others before self;

all I see in a vote for Trump is a vote for only oneself. I don’t understand it.

So thank you, Dad, for buying my vote. I wouldn’t have used it any other way than against this monster of a man we now have as President. Thank you, Denmark, for keeping me. My Children, like me, may be an immigrant’s sons and daughters. Just not here.

Maya arthur - c'18 I USUALLY LIKE THE RAIN...

But walking out of my house Wednesday morning, the rain felt hostile. Like the tips of sharp knives and pitchforks and they kept hitting me. The sound of the rain was dull and lifeless. It was 8:51 a.m. and only a handful of faces were on Locust Walk. Maybe they didn’t even have faces. Everyone’s heads hung low, obscured by their umbrella, their hood, their quiet. It seemed that everyone was on the verge of tears. After the initial waking up to see the results, and then the shower, and then the walk to campus, I still had dry eyes.

It hadn’t sunk in.

I walked into my job at the Kelly Writer’s House and sat there for a minute. More and more coworkers came into the kitchen where we have our best conversations, our best arguments, our best camaraderie.

And we cried together. Five women of different backgrounds, ages, sexualities, incomes, lives. We all cried.

And I kept thinking to myself, “How can supposed “democracy” feel like such a hostile attack on every single woman

in this room?” I feel none of us really worked Wednesday. Routine was attempted, but futile.

Classes were nice distractions, work was bearable, but then you walked out of the building and back into rain. And this rain was absolutely spiteful.

Yet somehow during the Solidarity Walk later, so many of us soaked and wet were able to scream and chant and be there for each other. The rain hung on to every little article of clothing, the water splotched the words on our signs and we all looked like we were crying with the rain dripping down on our faces, but we were together. A solidarity built out of many paradoxes— desperation and hope, fear and safety, unity and division. We fought through rain Wednesday night though. We fought through a harsh day. And the ability to come together so quickly, to grieve communally, to chant and yell together is all the inspiration and energy I need to get through the future rains and the future storm approaching us.

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Anonymous - C'18

Our next president sparks my PTSD. My first kiss was with a boy who told me I was lucky he didn’t rape me. We were on a wooden bench in my high school after track practice; he felt me up in my spandex and sports bra, and I thought that was some form of being cherished. He tried to push his fingers inside my underwear. When I said no—once, twice—he shook his head, murmured, “Good thing you’re with me and not some of my friends.” He kissed me on my forehead. “Some guys I know, they’d be like—vagina!”

And with his hands, he mimed assaulting me.

My first DFMO at Penn was with a boy who pressed me against the wall at Theos.

It was NSO, and I was bleary– drunk on Bankers and store brand cranberry juice. I felt special; I’d been chosen. Fresh-

man year, I learned to measure my worth by the number of boys who slid up against me in basements, who leered at me on frat porches and decided my push–up bras and crop tops made me hot enough to enter their parties. That first boy who kissed me slid his hands into my pockets. “Like, how morally wrong do we really think rape is?” he slurred.

“I mean, I know it’s wrong, but, like..." A friend snaked through the crowd, pulled me away, walked me home. I wonder all the time what would have happened if I’d been left with him.

My first sexual assault was on St. Patty’s Day of my freshman year. Two years later, I’ve been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I sink into flashbacks at parties, in class, during sex—and run

to the nearest bathroom. And I can see myself there, reeling, but what I feel is the worming of my rapist's tongue in my mouth, his hands flattening me against the bed, everything in me wanting to scream but in the dark my eyes wobble and I can’t stand. Acid rises in my throat; my forehead slips against the edge of the toilet. My shoulders jolt with fight-or-flight electricity. I see in squiggles and can feel his weight. I try to swim back to the present but what I hear is his voice cracking in my ear—the boy who raped me, and, lately, the voice of Donald Trump. Our next president has become a catalyst of my flashbacks. Declaring his right to grab me by the pussy. Staking his claim to this body that has already been taken from me.

I haven’t had the mental

seen that reflected in the men space to worry about what at Penn who have groped and Trump will do in office. What bruised and grabbed me. They, scares me shitless is what too, will become Penn alumni.

Trump’s election signifies— Over the past weekend, my that a majority of Americans flashbacks intensified. I had to are not deterred by a president who brags about sexual assault. drink half a bottle of Nyquil to fall asleep. I chugged vodka That his comments weren’t from the handle to forget my enough to cross a line of basic own thoughts. Tuesday night, decency; that my worth as I bit holes into my sweaters a woman will continue to from nerves; I sat up until depend on what my pussy, 3, drunk and alone in my my body, my appearance can apartment, offer to men like for We, as a country, had a waiting the election Trump.

We, as a chance to stand up for sur- to be over. clawed country, vivors and to rape culture Ithrough had a chance as a whole. And we didn’t. the panic as best I could, to stand mascara up for stains dribbling down my survivors and to rape culture cheeks, the words of my rapist as a whole. And we didn’t. We and my next president merging let “locker room talk” become into one. acceptable behavior, and I’ve

Rebecca BrowN - C'17 32 Brand new one-bedroom units

It is easy to relate this election to when Umbridge was the headmaster of Hogwarts.

Umbridge is my most hated character of all time. She’s mean, she lies, she doesn’t care about fairness. And now it feels like Umbridge is in the White House, and my fellow Americans put her (him) there. My instinct is to say “how dumb are we?!?!” but I know that this story is much more complicated.

The hardest thing for me is that it could have been such a celebration. I know that a lot of people dislike Hillary, but I don’t. In fact, I love her. I see her as a role model, which is why I’ve been volunteering for her campaign since this summer.

So it’s not just that we’ve elected an orange, intolerant, inexperienced Umbridge. It’s that we’ve passed up the chance to have a

qualified, strong, poised leader who just happens to be female.

This election feels so personal.

It is so easy to judge others: for voting absentee in non-swing states, for not volunteering, for voting for Johnson or Stein, for not trying to convince an elderly uncle to vote blue. I feel myself falling into this trap. But then I remember that that’s the trap Trump has set. He wants us to turn against each other, to be motivated by anger. And we cannot give in. Instead, we should band together and find a way to stand up to Umbridge.

Donate to Planned Parenthood.

Volunteer for pro-bono lawyers who will defend undocumented immigrants. Start working ahead towards making congress blue in two short years.

Eventually he, too, will be thrown to the Centaurs (at least metaphorically).

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PROGRESS IN A VULNERABLE STATE

There is no time where our passion and political efficacy has been more crucial to the future of the United States—not even during the election. ERIN FARRELL - C'19

As I listened to my American Politics professor Wednesday morning, in what I can honestly only call a state of mourning after a night without showering or changing out of the clothes I had been wearing since canvassing the morning of election day, speaking about bureaucracy, the legacy of Obama, and the legislation he’s left behind through executive orders, I couldn’t help

but feel the loss anew. The loss, of all that we are set to see dismantled in a week of Trump’s presidency, and the feeling anew that we had failed. After volunteering for the Hillary campaign, as well as working with Pennsylvania Senate candidate Katie McGinty, Attorney General candidate Josh Shapiro, and Congressman Dwight Evans, over months and months of late

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nights of phone banking, hours and hours spent weekly registering Philadelphia residents and Penn students alike to vote regardless of partisanship, and mornings spent going doorto-door campaigning in West Philadelphia, I could only process the state of devastation that all had been for nothing, thinking that the white slides of that lecture hall could only further

pummel the remaining political hopes I had, and thinking over and over that we had failed.

We had failed to uphold the progressive legacy that we and the Obama administration worked so hard to create, that the American Supreme Court has helped to mold through the last half a century, undone by a right wing movement of populism and what many have deemed a “white lash” in reaction to a diversifying and globalizing America. In the span of eight hours, we had watched the sheer invalidation of the efforts of the last 100 years in American progress to create safeguards to defend the marginalized, all unraveled by a night of cavalier and unpredicted loss. In one night, we had gone from having the first black president of the United States, to having a president elect who has been celebrated openly by white-clad KKK members, elected on a platform of sexism, political apathy, and general disenfranchisement with the American political system that has eventuated in the election of a misogynistic, racist, xenophobic, and corrupt excuse for a presidential candidate.

We have failed all women, young and old, who had waited patiently to see the shattering of that starkest glass ceiling, both in presidential and senate races

across the country. Daughters who we had promised the ability to do anything they desired could only look on as the man who has openly and verbally espoused sexual harassment, who still faces multiple court cases in the coming months before his inauguration, accepted his victory as the leader of the Free World. We have failed the 22 million Americans who will face the loss of insurance under the destruction of Obamacare and the countless more who will see their welfare and WIC payments decrease expeditiously.

We have failed the LGBTQ+ community, who now face the return of legal discrimination to the local level through the relegation of this legislation to state jurisdiction, under a vice president who still advocates for gay conversion therapy and who continues to openly deride female leadership in the military. We have failed so many American families who face potential deportation, following the destruction of DACA and the eventual loss of all that they have gained through Obama’s presidency, seeing the prospect of rent apart families as a near and coming possibility (if campaign promises hold true).

We have failed those who have previously believed in our Constitution and the once upheld

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(now, falsified) political cultural value of tolerance, who now face the consequences of the violence and bigotry that Islamophobia has bred in this country and their own potential expulsion, violating every principle of religious tolerance upon which the very colonies that preceded the United States of America were founded.

We have failed to protect our planet in its rapid trajectory of global warming, through electing a president who fails to recognize that global warming is real, not an artificial myth to propagate liberal agenda. We have failed the international community that we have led for the past century by electing a president who is a clear bedfellow of the Russian government, facing the revocation of the Iran Nuclear Deal within the first month of Trump’s presidency in tandem with various other acts of international diplomacy that threaten the perilous balance at which the global arena currently rests—arguably at a more dangerous precipice than any point in recent history since the Cold War. We have failed every American who is not a straight, cisgender, white, upper-class Christian white male. Today, I am hardly afraid for myself—I am a college-educated, white-cis-het upper-class American. I have the luxury of my privilege as a defense from true fear. But I know that my friends of color, my queer friends, those who I love of every walk of marginalized communities in this country have reason to be afraid, for we have elected a candidate whose campaign was derived from fear and violent Othering.

However, despite the despair so apparent still in that gloomy lecture hall, in a matter of hours I had the opportunity to remember that this failure was no permanent and lasting state in

which we were to find ourselves, especially as impassioned youth who have so much at stake in preserving for ourselves a future of legitimate, inclusive democracy.

Almost immediately following the results of the election, a movement of support and a refusal to be silenced in our devastation began through social media on Penn’s campus.

In conjunction with copious status updates and posts, a solidarity march was organized for the night following Election Day. In an environment as devastated as it was electric and defiant, we took to Walnut after organizing on College Green. In the midst of the pouring rain, walking by myself in a moment that will remain suspended in paralysis in my memory for as long as I can humanly imagine, I looked at the marchers beside me as the series of chants wore on, echoing back from the front of the thousands-long line in slight delay because of sheer distance.

To my right, my friend held her girlfriend’s hand, walking in front of three students with linked arms; beside them, two apparent strangers sharing a poster reading “We will not back down.” To my left, then, silent in the midst of a shouting and profoundly driven crowd, I noticed an African-American professor who had spoken at the beginning of the protest about the salience of defiance and commitment to remaining involved, no matter how marginalized and rejected we felt. Yet now, with tears streaming down his face, I observed him, looking tired, sad, frustrated—shouting nothing, saying nothing, for it seemed there was nothing left

to say, and found myself crying harder.

As the tears began to pour, I found a stranger putting her arm around me, consoling me wordlessly and nodding her head in affirmation. I held her hand, crying harder as the rain wore on, feeling a sense of comfort and solidarity despite not knowing her at all, and knowing I didn’t have to say anything either.

thetical to the very principles with which we all began this fight against Trump’s candidacy.

Looking at the students, staff, and faculty assembled, I could only help but think that we are emboldened now and that we bear now, the responsibility to not mourn, but organize—or ourselves, for those we love, for those who inspire us, for that idyllic future and the vestiges of the American Dream we hope

we still have a lot left to fight for and a lot of hope left to fight with – and we will not and cannot back down, nor can we be silenced.

Yet, we know just how much there is left to say. We know that as tired as we are, as frustrated as we are by the further denial of the shattering of that final and so despairing glass ceiling and the continued oppression and neglect of so many marginalized communities in our country, inaction and acceptance of this outcome are anti-

to preserve from the wreck of partisanship, polarization, and state of destruction of the spirit of compromise that we currently find ourselves in. We owe it to ourselves, after this tremendous loss, months and months of working tirelessly on senatorial, presidential, congressional, policy-oriented campaigns, to not waver. In truth, there

is no time where our passion and political efficacy has been more crucial to the future of the United States—not even during the election. To give up, to be stagnant, to passively accept the reality we have arrived at is no course of political action and negates the passion and hope with which we entered this cycle—if we falter now, all will have truly been for nothing. Eight years of progressive presidency, replete with the beginning of universal American health care, the Supreme Court’s defense of same-sex marriage, movements towards greater entry of transgendered Americans to choose their own bathrooms—we have made tremendous progress. In fact, as Obama urged time and time again while campaigning for Hillary, “Progress is on the ballot.”

Progress remains in a vulnerable state—perhaps it has never been more at stake than it is in the present moment. However, we still have a lot left to fight for and a lot of hope left to fight with—and we will not and cannot back down, nor can we be silenced.

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ALIX STEERMAN - c'19 Yesterday, at 3:00 p.m., I left campus to fulfill my civic duty.

I returned to my middle school, in what most would consider as an affluent suburb of Philadelphia, one that is predominantly white, to vote for who I expected to be the first female President. I walked up to the polling place with my mother and sister by my side; three educated women that are fortunate enough to make informed votes and experience life without the constant threat of deportation, racism, and hatred that many of my friends and peers experience on a daily basis. We knew it was our duty to make the right choice, a choice that would ensure that our country did not undo the progress it had so recently made from its intolerant past. A choice that guaranteed us hope for a better future, not fear of a regressive one.

The voting machines were located in what used to be my

family and consumer science classroom—a class that I despised because it taught antiquated ideals about a woman’s role in the house as a caretaker and homemaker. I told my sister about the irony of voting for the first female president in the classroom that had once instilled in me and my female peers that a woman should feel most comfortable in the home. After voting, I felt empowered. I passed the two older women on my way out that had handed me a republican ticket on my way into the polls and giggled (naively) at the fact that there were actually women who supported the outwardly sexist Donald Trump.

At 11:00 p.m. I sat in my bed, nervously, with two of my female housemates as we switched between news stations so that we could see who had the most recent updates

of the unimaginable numbers that reflected that Trump had the potential to be our president-elect. We discussed our fear, disgust, shock, and honest confusion about how a nation could elect such a hateful and truthfully, under qualified candidate for president. When the reality of the future of our nation started to set in, the empowerment that I had felt earlier that same day quickly turned into a sense of defeat and hopelessness.

This morning, when I realized that our fears had become our reality, I was afraid.

I opened a text from my mom that said, “today is a sad day but we must continue to be, speak and act our conscience.

Our voices are important

maybe now more than ever.”

After reading this, I realized that now is the time when the combination of our actions and words can actually make an important change in the fate of our futures. The white supremacy, anti-semitism, racism and misogyny that we

people, cannot reverse the rifts we’ve created amongst ourselves.

This election shows us that America is broken. We are a broken nation that needs to put itself back together. This election has brought hatred back to the forefront of society. Hateful beliefs are no longer things we can neglect to acknowledge because the supporters of these beliefs now hold the “power.” The work we have done to make America more accepting, inclusive, progressive and an all around better place is going to be challenged. Now, more than ever, we need to let our convictions be heard. We need to take action, not be reactionary. There is nothing more important to the success of this nation than our respect for one another. In the end, we are stronger together, not apart.

Now, more than ever, we need to let our convictions be heard. We need to take action, not be reactionary. have so vigorously fought to suppress has finally made its way out of the areas that it had been silently festering in and found its own voice. I shuttered with fear. Fear of this resurgence of hatred. Fear of the fact that I feel too powerless, too female, and too little to make the impact that I want to make. Fear that we, as a

Noah Katcher - W'19 no amount of legislation— perhaps barring agricultural—has any tangible impact on their lives.

These are people who value a practical education over an academic one, who value tradition over experimentation, who value their comfort over others.

I spent the entirety of Tuesday night wondering how such a seemingly improbable defeat had been executed be-

I grew up next to a farm, in the middle of nowhere.

I know the people who do not traditionally vote. I grew up with them, I went to school with them, I went to church with them and I am friends with them. I know that they don’t care for politicians, but they don’t take the time to care in general. I know that they have no interest in government because

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fore the horrified eyes of millions. It wasn’t until I got a text from my parents back home that I understood. “We had to wait thirty minutes to vote today.” My family votes in a valley church with a congregation of twenty people.

The woman who lives down the road runs the polling center. We have never waited in line to vote. There were more of my neighbors voting at one given moment Tuesday than had ever been in that small church simultaneously and

this wasn’t because they’d recently learned the location of their polling place.

As I come to accept the reality of an unexpected presidency, I am concerned. I am confused. I am doubting.

Though after hours of reflection, I find myself more ashamed than anything. I am ashamed to represent this portion of America. Since arriving at university, I have joked heartily about being “redneck diversity” at a far more prim and proper institution. I am

proud to come from a small town and a rural area. It has taught me values I hold near and dear to my heart. But not one of those values condone hate.

It is uniquely difficult to take responsibility for that which we cannot control. But in these following hours, I have never felt more obligated to do so. On behalf of smalltown America, I am very sorry.

We are better people than this and need to be in the future.

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Scheherbano hannah Rafay - w'20 stulberg - c'18 When I woke up this morning I was hoping it was all a dream.

But then I felt the dried tears on my cheek.

My female tears.

My Muslim tears.

My immigrant tears.

My tears of color. i feel grief and sadness more than I knew i could.

I know now what the feeling of having a heavy heart is.

I grew up in alabama, surrounded by people who, while politely coexisting with me, truly believed in their hearts that America was a place, first and foremost, for people like them.

I got through that experience due to the belief that humanity was better than that, that people in general are good. That if you work hard, do your homework, and treat people decently, you can overcome those barriers.

These beliefs have now been smashed into two hundred and seventy pieces.

I am going to be honest—I did not do enough this election. I left the voter registration efforts, GOTV efforts, canvassing efforts, and so much more to my peers who I perceive as being more "politically active" and "into politics" than I am.

I will not make this mistake again.

"Democracy is not a spectator sport" is a quote that has been tossed around often this election cycle.

After last night, I have truly realized the meaning of this phrase. Participating in our democracy means more than just voting once every four years on Election Day. It means that we all need to play our part along the way too—helping to register voters, canvassing, campaigning and more. It

1. Be kind to one another.

Show basic human decency to your neighbor and rival. Give us time to cope. Some of us are feeling true fear for ourselves and our families.

2. Do not forget this.

Do not push this aside as a fluke or just usual politics. This matters and will change the direction of this country. Turn your grief into action.

but did not play their part in the real world this time around, I hope that you will do the same. To everyone posting on social media about their frustration, anger and sadness today—remember these feelings when

I am going to be honest.

I did not do enough this election. my mistakes this election cycle and making a pledge to play an active role in the next election in order to encourage my peers to do the same. To everyone who made the same mistake that I did, who posted about this election on social media

you have the opportunity to take an active role in the next election.

Four years from now, when I wake up after Election Day, I plan to wake up knowing that I played my part. I truly hope that everyone reading this will too.

CAll FOR A GOOD TIME Voted Penn’s

Now all I ask of you is two things:

means doing the hard and dirty work necessary in order to truly form a more perfect union.

Playing a part in our democracy means more than just posting on social media. I am publicly admitting

ROWDIEST

BYO

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H-A-D-J-I picture a family of three: a young–ish married couple and a four–month–old baby— sitting at an immigration office in Greece, all three with olive skin and varying degrees of curly hair. The first five letters the immigration officer sees on their last name? H–A– D–J–I, or "hadji", the noun for a Muslim person who has made the sacred pilgrimage to Mecca. How do you think these people would be perceived by Trump's proposed immigration process, even if it's just the "extreme vetting" he described as a step back from his original proposal?

I'm not asking you to picture Syrian refugees, I'm asking you to picture my father and grandparents in 1961 when they took the leap of faith and came across the

pond. My dad, Ted, the same guy who could tell you who has won the World Series for the past 40 years and describe the most intricate details of the American political system, is a first-generation American and a naturalized citizen. I remember being confused as a kid when he told me he couldn't run for president (although after this election I believe anything is possible).

In Trump's America, my grandparents probably would've said "fuck it" and moved to Melbourne, the other option that was on the table.

On the bright side I would've had a cool accent and could have spent a gap year between high school and college living as a nomad in the pouch of a kangaroo like most young

Australians, but at the same time I would've missed out on living in a country that for most of my life I have considered to be beautiful, diverse, accepting, and progressive. Sure, we might spend a little extra time at JFK customs when the security guard uses a little extra caution after seeing my father's appearance and middle name (he removed Hadji from the last name and made it a middle name, not for political reasons but probably because "Hadjiparaskevas" doesn't even fit on the SAT bubbles), but for the most part it has been smooth sailing.

Maybe I thought these things because I'm in a position of extreme privilege in

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(

NOUN: a Muslim who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca.

MARK PARASKEVAS - C'17

America. My outward appearance, financial safety, strong upbringing, and incredible educational opportunity has reinforced that for my entire life. I also grew up in Queens, New York—the most diverse place on earth, which can be confirmed through statistics or just anecdotally when you stand on a given corner in Jackson Heights and can see a Hindu temple, Korean church and a Colombian restaurant adjacent to each other.

this guy as president. I don't even think he knows. Beyond the questions of his eligibility due to his history as a sexual abuser and general racially insensitive, not–PC–for–the– sake–of–not–being–PC attitude, he doesn't really have any concrete ideas or plans to offer.

What we need to do—no matter what your background is—is reach out to those of us who are more vulnerable than others and keep them in our sights for at least the next four years. I saw some really dedicated political activity on campus and I hope that doesn't go away just because of this stinging loss. The nation may not have reaffirmed what we consider to be the right direction, but that doesn't mean we should change course. If we sit there pouting with our arms crossed we will be wasting our education, privilege, and honestly, our lives.

I'm going to fight so that one day everyone in America, and all the baby Teds in the world who will seek to become a part of America, can enjoy the things I've enjoyed in this country. I want to be a part of the generation that educates the next generation on the beauties of this world and teaches them how to reject deceptive fear-mongering when they see it. Well, either that or I'll try to get New York City to secede and become like Hong Kong. Like I'm kidding but I'm also not. Lmk.

I saw some really dedicated political activity on campus.

I hope that doesn't go away.

Of course the irony of the whole thing is that there's a short list of people who have grown up where I did and have gone to the school I go to, and I can only think of two famous people on that list—rapper Homeboy Sandman and the orange man himself. How this man came to believe the things he believes, despite growing up in the very place that would prove his xenophobia to be paranoia, is beyond me, but I would suspect it has to do with a sheltered upbringing and a lack of interaction with people who are different from him. In this sense he has a lot in common with most of his voter base.

While most of us sit here baffled like "what the fuck just happened" I think it's important that we don't take our eyes off the prize. Honestly no one has any fucking idea what's going to happen with

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annabelle williams - c'20

THE SECOND MILE CENTER

TO ALL THOSE PENN STUDENTS DESPAIRING TODAY, I woke up this morning to 40 texts and 5 missed calls asking if I was okay, if I had seen the news, if my family should come to Philly to check on me. Emails about CAPs and support groups and help for minority and LGBT students flooded my inbox. A misty pallor covered the skyline I usually can see from my window. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to November 9, 2016.

As a Clinton Fellow (read: fancy term for intern) with the Democratic National Committee, I worked 20 hours each week with the campaign in West Philadelphia. My colleagues and I occupied a small office on 533 S. 52nd Street for 4 months, 7 days out of the week, 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. My tireless organizer, my fellow fellows, our hardworking volunteers—we all worked our asses off to turn out votes for the first Madam President.

In effect, I gave my first semester of my freshman year here to this campaign. I don't regret it for a second. Since I could remember, I empathized with Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Like her, I would not "sit home and bake cookies and have teas".

I wanted, since the age of 6, to be Secretary of State, too. This summer at the DNC, I witnessed the roll call vote that nominated her to run for the presidency. Yes, I cried.

But my relationship with Hillary was not borne totally out of identity politics. Working so hard on this campaign gave me friends, a shitty hole– in–the–wall office in West

Philadelphia to call home, a constant supply of phone calls to make and doors to knock.

More than anything, though, this work gave me purpose. I was proud to work for Hillary, not just because of the flaws of her opponent but for the good I believed she would enact as our first female president.

Then and now, I admire her tenacity, her policy, her ability to weather the storm of 30 years in public life, her tireless work in defense of children and families.

I'm not a reluctant supporter who voted for her against Donald Trump—I'm all in. I'm with her, and nothing is ever going to change that.

Election night, I watched live as John Podesta told attendees at Hillary's final campaign party to go home and sleep. I slept too, but I woke up afraid.

I so badly wanted HRC to shatter that last glass ceiling. So badly that it hurts like a dull punch straight to the stomach.

I have to be content that the work of our office and our organizers led to record turnout in Philadelphia County, that the millennial vote proved overwhelmingly pro–Clinton and that people are still, somehow, good at heart.

There's only one thing to do with this fear and despair— channel it into action. Protect Planned Parenthood. Protect immigrants and Muslim–Americans. Protect the LGBTQ community. Penn, it's on us to protect ourselves, to protect each other and to persevere, for her and for us.

SINCERELY, A (PROUD) FORMER CLINTON FELLOW

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