When Fear turns into Action
The Dissenters: The Untold Stories from the Picket Lines
On November 6 at around 3:00 AM PST, millions woke. A sense of foreboding shook the nation from it’s slumber. They rose to the news—Donald Trump had won.
As a resident of the southwest, I had fallen asleep knowing our nation’s fate. Hoping to offer comfort or solidarity, I posted, “If you’re still awake, and heartbroken, I understand. I am as well. Share your worries or sadness here and I’ll respond to each one in the morning.”
I expected a couple dozen replies. There were hundreds. To date, it has been viewed 150,000 times. Every time I read them, I cry. To respect their privacy and their grief, I will not post quotes, though, when you have a quiet moment, they can be read here.
In summary, there were stories of families afraid of being torn apart by this administration’s deportation policies or its stance on the LGBTQIA+ community. Woman after woman wondered whether they should wait to start a family, expressing fears about the risks of becoming pregnant and their ability to seek care in an emergency. Then, there were those without hope—the ones I still call to mind. Their grief was palpable. I hope they found support.
Those comments weren’t merely words, they were the culmination of a life-time of decisions and circumstances that led that commenter to that moment. It’s easy to forget that the behind each dotted I and each crossed T is a person. They are children, partners, co-workers, and neighbors. They are multitudes.
That night, they drew back the curtain to reveal their fear.
Fear is a complex emotion. Simply, it’s the body’s early warning system—a cocktail of biology and experience. Though it is prone to misfire, leading us to endure anxiety, panic, etc., it quite literally saves lives.
As I have collected stories for We (the People) Dissent’s audio and visual diary, I have noticed fear emerge time and time again.
People are afraid: for their livelihoods, their healthcare, their children, and their futures. It was as though the clock stopped ticking on November 6th at 3:00 AM. On that morning, our nation emerged from a restless slumber to a reality it could hardly fathom.
One dissenter, Cad, shared that she is concerned how the administration is “. . . cutting so many programs that support and protect the people.”
In her spare time, besides sewing, tending to her plants, and hiking the hills of her western home state, Cad volunteers in hospice care. It’s no wonder, then, that she fears that the “Medicaid cuts will be disastrous to the elderly . . . and working class people who will not be able to afford higher prices on every day goods.”
When I asked Cad what she hopes for, her response resonated with me. She hopes that “. . . enough young people will understand the damage that is done by dominant self-interest, evil leadership, and priorities that favor the wealthy over the people who have the least. That as a generation, they will be motivated to invent a new political system for the United States—a system that values compassion, hard work and making this world a better place to live. I don’t ask for much, huh?”
“I have never been more afraid of losing my rights.” This is Lynda, an avid camper from rural Kansas. She continued, “I fear the dismantling of our democracy. I want to leave a better legacy to my grandchildren!”
Her concerns, though, did begin and end with her family. It extended to her neighbors and friends, especially friends among the LGBTQIA+ community. “It hurts my heart to see this administration treat them like less than human. I’m also very concerned about the deportation of innocent people to awful prisons without due process.”
As a retiree, Lynda relies on Social Security and Medicare. Like 68 million other Americans, she fears those benefits may vanish next year. “I can’t afford to live on my own, so I invested in a travel trailer to live in. It is what many new retirees are doing because of the lack of affordable living.”
And still, Lynda hopes for a future filled with, “Love, kindness, empathy.”
No one should live in the wealthiest nation on earth and fear losing their housing, their family, or their dignity at the stroke of a pen.
No one should have to consider fleeing their state to keep their children.
No one should decide against pregnancy because they are afraid they will not be able to get life-saving healthcare should they miscarry.
Yet they do.
Despite their fear, both of the people I wrote about today are standing up. They are protesting. They are volunteering. They are doing their part. And in that, they are finding solidarity.
Fear isolates us, it calls us to hide, flee, freeze, or fight. Community, on the other hand, emboldens. In a crowd of people waving signs or at a beach clean up, we can discover strength. Togetherness can be a catalyst for resolve.
It has been for these women.
It can be for you.
It is for me.
And, please hear this, your fear is not an overreaction, it’s valid. Don’t be shamed into silence. You are not alone. Find your people and stand with them.
Hold onto hope. It is the buoy to which me must cling during these times.
P.S. Please share this with a friend who may feel alone.
If you love this story and would like more like it, subscribe
Submit a story, image, or audio recording to us. There is a growing record of our resistance at wethepeopledissent.net.
I’m seeking national organizations committed to nonviolence who are standing alongside Palestine and immigrant communities. Please comment with ideas. I prefer ones that offer ways for people to get involved without donating.
THANK YOU. I cry almost every night, worried for my kid/her job, our retirement, how anyone -- EVERYONE -- in their right mind can possibly survive this horrific time in America. THE AMERICA I USED TO KNOW has changed -- for the worse. And we MUST GET IT BACK.
This is a beautiful post. Thank you. The journey for me from terror-and-uncertainty to fear-uncertainty-solidarity-and-resistance has been a fairly quick one, when looked at in terms of my lifetime. It is thanks to the excellent perspectives, caring, community-building, and reporting on our actions and victories, from you and other Substack writers that I have developed the courage to get out to rallies, to meetings, to phone banks, to making banners and so many signs. I feel better on weeks when there's something concrete I can do, rather than reading all the terrible news. And there's something to be done every day! So it's just a matter of gauging whether it's a self care day or a fix this f-ing nightmare day. Today is self care.