Electoral collage.

Whodunit? It feels like a bizarre game of Clue.

It was the white working class in the upper Midwest with the rage. It was the Bernie bros in the craft brewery with the Green Party. It was the liberals in the bubble with the complacency.

I think we know how this game ends: fights, recriminations, someone tips over the board and runs home, then we have to pick up the pieces and start all over again.

So yeah, I've been thinking about identity politics. It's all the rage these days. Which got me thinking about identity in relation to another big topic of discussion. 

It doesn't seem have become a full-on circular firing squad, but the Electoral College is also generating much heat, and some light. The basic question: Ditch the damn thing? I'm not convinced getting rid of it is the right thing to do, but I do want to point out a couple of the roots it grew from.

One: slavery. From the political melee that was Constitutional Convention we got some of The Framers greatest hits, like the Three-Fifths Compromise. Worth acknowledging the role this played in shaping the civic structure and basic governing institutions of our country — and its uncomfortable echo in the acceleration of voter suppression based on race that we're now witnessing.

Another — and yes, related — factor: property rights. Used to be, you could only vote if you owned land. (Goes without saying that you had to be white. And male. And you probably owned some people, too.)

Slavery has been outlawed and, in theory, more people have the right to vote these days. But the shadow these issues cast is immense, in spite of — no, because of — the fact that as applied to presidential elections, these roots have become almost invisible. They've been absorbed into our body politic, transformed from peculiar institution into a quirky All-American institution we can carp about once every four years or so. 

In case you didn't click through, the property rights link above copies a tweet storm (which for the record is not from James Fallows, but from "Fames Jallows") that highlights the extent to which this has skewed our civic perceptions. It presents an insidious definition of who matters and who doesn't — directly reflected in our current red/blue divide, one in which land counts more than people. And not just in a literal sense. The psychological impact of seeing a mostly red electoral map is powerful, even knowing in our rational brain that it doesn't accurately reflect population — or, once again, the popular vote. It's easy to feel isolated, in the minority, when it looks as if 75% or more of the country disagrees with you. 

So even as our definition of eligible voter has changed over the last couple of hundred years, remnants of the old order are baked into the system. There is real, outsized political power in being from a state with more land and fewer people. (At the national level, it's not just the Electoral College; it's the Senate, too. Which, once upon a time, didn't have direct elections either.) 

There is also huge symbolic power. It’s not the only cause, but our political structure feeds into and reinforces things we all, as Americans, are supposed to know: that small-town values are the best values, and small-town citizens are the salt of the earth, and small towns take care of their own and don't need city slickers (or feds) to tell them what to do. This is Real America. This is our national fetish — something that's hardwired into our sense of self; something that everyone seems to buy into, no matter where they live.

There's something wrong with this picture. 

Frankly, I'm tired of being told what Real Americans think, when that definition leaves me out. (Yeah, I know — join the club, Mr. Straight White Male.) Of course we should pay attention to the needs and concerns of flyover states and rural residents and the white working class. We should be equally concerned about the needs and concerns of coastal dwellers and people who live in cities and middle class people and poor people and black people and brown people and gay people and female people. And everyone else I just left out.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mean equally concerned in a lowest common denominator, color-, sex-, religion-blind kind of way — that just forces us back inside the Real American box, which simplistically and inaccurately defines and limits who we are and what we’re supposed to want. It’s the box in which we believe that coastal elites can't possibly "get it," and that people who live in cities don't have values worth respecting. 

Maybe that’s why it feels as if attacks on identity politics are attacks on acknowledging difference — specifically, differing from that generic, exclusionary American Ideal. And why calls to rally around economic policies that lift all boats seem to willfully ignore the fact that many people — by custom, compromise or official policy — only have access to leaky boats, or have never seen a boat, or once had a boat but saw it stolen away.

Identity matters now, because identity mattered in how we got here.

So no, I'm not sure exactly where I stand on the future of the Electoral College. But I don't think we can have an honest conversation about it without understanding what shaped it in the first place — and how those forces are still playing out today.

The circular stabbing squad.

We knew this was going to get messy. Going from shock to anger to depression to what next (oh, and back-and-forth again, believe me) creates a very circuitous path from the certainty of righteous indignation to the reality of jeez, I’ve got to burst my bubble and interact in our fuzzy, contradictory, constantly evolving, unfamiliar new reality? And that’s just on “our” side.

Well, what better for bursting a bubble than a safety pin.

It’s supposed to be a clever idea, borrowed from the United Kingdom post-Brexit, to show solidarity and identify allies.

It’s also supposed to be a commitment to take action under what may turn out to be very trying and potentially dangerous circumstances.

You’ll notice these are not the same thing. Depending on who you are, it’s not necessarily a big deal — but it’s also a very, very big deal.

If you’re wearing a pin as if it were a cancer ribbon, or a walking Facebook profile picture, you can feel good about that.

If you’re a black gay woman on a subway platform, and you’re not feeling comfortable, and you notice that a group of white men has been eying you, can you trust that the pin wearer studiously staring at a phone screen and not making eye contact is going to have your back? Is ready to step up and make sure you’re safe? What does the pin mean to you?

I’ve got to thank one of my top 10 favorite nieces for helping me think through this, and realize how much and at the same time how embarrassingly little the wearing of a pin can mean.

Here’s part of what she said:

I just feel like there are already so many people thinking they are doing well by saying I’m in solidarity and that’s sufficient — even lots of liberals can’t have a real discussion about race. This is an easy way to be, like, “I’m cool with black people,” but I don’t actually have to have a conversation. Or you might just be like, “Hey, I’m with all y’all but if someone yells ‘gay,’ too bad.” It’s another way people can say they are doing something that doesn’t mean much.

And she’s completely right. But does that mean that people who are, at the current moment, not aware enough or not brave enough or not sure enough aren’t allowed to participate at all? Many people may have had light-bulb moments after last Tuesday, but that doesn’t immediately flip the switch from uninvolved to 100% action.

My niece and I and her mom talked about the pin being the start of something — a very incomplete but for many people necessary first step toward commitment and action. It’s going to take time for some of us to get from mean well to do well.

This argument, of course, screams of white privilege — I have the luxury of taking my time and gently waking up to what many other people have always lived with. And as I’m rousing myself, people who are in real, serious physical and emotional peril have no idea if they can trust me or not.

So it’s on me, and people like me, to wake the hell up fast.

We also agreed that in a few days, maybe the meaning of the safety pin will have been sufficiently debated throughout the socialsphere and an “official” meaning will gel. And both wearers and people in need of support will agree on what it stands for.

But this is just one of countless potential landmines we’ll have to identify and talk about and step around as our new coalition-of-the-unwilling-to-take-it evolves and a structure for fighting back takes shape.

My plea: Be hard on ourselves. Be kind to each other.

There will never be a single path forward, a single type of action to take, a single answer for all of us. Beyond our universal revulsion about the results of the presidential election, we’re not all processing at the same rate. We’re not all coming from the same place. We’re not all focusing our anger at the same targets. We’re not all equally comfortable engaging with people with whom we disagree. We haven’t all thought about racism, sexism, misogyny, Islamophobia, fear of brown people, scorn for the differently abled or many other isms in the same way, with the same depth or for the same length of time.

That’s okay. It’d better be okay, because I have a lot of catching up to do.  

Not today.

I'm teetering between outreach and outrage right now.

I've been reading and thinking a lot about "what do we do now." My Day after post had started out leaning even more toward the angry side, but ended up a little closer to something conciliatory, an attempt to say, "try to imagine how we feel." And then the thought: well, I guess I owe it to others to find out how they feel. 

As a lot of people have been asking: how do we start the dialog? What is there for people on opposite sides of the Trump Divide to talk about? I'm not looking for kumbaya, but for a more practical idea of how can we separate out the real (read: overt, conscious) racists — who I don't believe are worth engaging with — and talk with thoughtful, reasonable people about issues where we may have common ground, and also about the very fraught and central topic of unconscious or adjacent racism (insert also: sexism, xenophobia, Islamophobia, etc.).

But then I started getting angry again.

It's taken less than 72 hours to get really tired of pleas to come together and unite behind the Will Of The (Electoral College) People and give the man a chance and don't be a sore loser.

Sorry; this is not the normal, "My side didn't win so I'm unhappy" situation; this is, "My side is being targeted by policies — along with explicit appeals to hatred — that will if enacted lead to violence, deportation, harassment, torture and a climate of fear against specifically targeted minority populations because of absolutely nothing more than their skin color, religion, sexual orientation or gender identity."

So no, don't tell me that 2016 is the flip side of 2008. You may not have liked President Obama's policies, but they didn't (no matter what you may have heard) lead logically to internment camps and extrajudicial violence. No, we can't really all get along. No, we won't calm down and give the president elect the benefit of the doubt. In word and deed, he hasn't earned it. In fact, he's done the opposite.

So no, not today. 

Tomorrow? Ultimately, common ground is the only constructive answer. Fighting hate with hate seems a little counterproductive. But when the day comes, where will the line be drawn? What level of racism/sexism/xenophobia/etc. — or more specifically, what level of acceptance of or lack of concern about or blindness to racism/sexism/xenophobia/etc. — is beyond outreach? The simple, right and obvious answer is zero tolerance. 

But the simple, right and obvious answer is also: you can't expect someone to shed vestiges of racism if they can't even see it in the first place. (Remember, I'm a straight white guy; I still have no idea how much I don't know and can't see.) So it's my obligation to engage, illuminate and provide a space for growth and change.

I know a lot of people who will say that second answer is bullshit; you can't have been even semiconscious during the Trump campaign and not had all of its isms made blindingly clear — it shouldn't take any more cajoling for someone to decide which side they're on. And that is true.

And yet. In the messy real world, with very few absolutes, I think dialog is necessary. Maybe I'm trying to be too empathetic, or I'm more kumbaya than I like to admit. Maybe I'm a little concerned that my liberal bubble is too small. Maybe it's just the instinctive peacemaker and inveterate conflict-avoider in me talking. For any and all reasons, in my still-conflicted emotional state, while I'm sorting through reams of contradictory ideas and generating clashing, synapse-frying impulses, I'm not ready to close any door.

But who sets the terms? Who should be bending over backwards (or forwards) to make it happen? Do we need a pinky swear? "I promise to acknowledge the economic hardships of the white working class if you recognize that being endorsed by the KKK might make African Americans a little nervous about your guy?"

That's actually a semi-serious question. When I'm ready — feeling less angry and brittle — it's the kind of question that has to be put on the table. And I'll need to be prepared for questions from the other side of the table that bring me up short, and expose my own prejudices and blind spots. It may take a series of uncomfortable Q&A sessions to find common ground — or, maybe, find out that there can't be common ground with some people I now think of as friends. 

None of that can come ahead of protecting the vulnerable, and ensuring civil rights, and fighting for the ideals this country has always been chasing. But the day will come, even as these other battles continue. And at least until then, I'm pretty sure I'll keep walking the line between outrage and outreach.

To-do list.

Okay, let's get busy — we've got a lot of work to do. Let's begin by making a list! For starters, let's protect:
- a woman's right to choose
- a child's right to attend school, no matter where her parents come from
- a black man's right to walk down any street in any town without fear of being stopped, harassed or shot
- a Muslim's right to worship in safety
- an immigrant's right to simply be here
- a gay couple's right to marry
- a transgender person's right to use the bathroom
- every person's right to breath clean air, and live on a planet that isn't warming at an alarming rate

That's just off the top of my head. What am I forgetting?

View from the left, the day after.

I’ve been playing Kubler-Ross pinball most of the day, bumping up mostly against anger and depression. Which led to some thoughts — lots of thoughts, really, too many to count or process in total just yet — but in this case some perspective for my Trump-supporting friends and acquaintances about not being immediately ready to move on. About not being able to put the election that just happened behind us. About it not being, ultimately, about you.

Your vote does not come with an asterisk. When you submit your ballot, you don’t get to explain why you did what you did, or have the luxury of picking and choosing which positions you’re willing to be publicly associated with and which don’t apply to you. Unfair, but that’s the way our system works. Voting is not about choosing the right hat. It’s about enabling the people we elect to take action. Action that will be based, for lack of a better guide, on the policies those people propose. Actions that will have consequences.

So I want you to think about what it sounds like when you say, “I voted for Trump, but....”

You may say, I voted for Trump, but I don’t hate Muslims. I’m sure you don’t. But you voted for a man who has inflamed anti-Muslim sentiments and actions. More important, you voted for his Islamophobic policies.

You may say, I voted for Trump, but I don’t hate Central and South American immigrants. I’m sure you don’t. But you voted for a man who used anti-immigrant diatribes as the springboard for his campaign. More important, you voted for his anti-immigrant and anti-Latino policies.

You may say, I voted for Trump, but I don’t hate gays or transgender people. I’m sure you don’t. But you voted for a man who sought support from anti-LGBTQ groups. More important, you voted for his anti-LGBTQ policies, including eliminating same-sex marriage and giving states the ability to legalize discrimination.

You may say, I voted for Trump, but I don’t hate black people. I’m sure you don’t. But you voted for a man who was endorsed by the KKK, and whose speeches present all African-Americans as living in drug- and crime-infested ghettos. More important, you voted for his policies that will make the lives of real African-Americans more difficult and more dangerous.

You may say, I voted for Trump, but I don’t hate women. I’m sure you don’t. But you voted for a man whose misogyny was on clear display throughout the campaign. More important, you voted for his policies that would deny women necessary healthcare treatment and coverage, and make it illegal for women to fully control their own bodies.

You may say, I voted for Trump, but I’m not about hate or fear. I’m sure you aren’t. But you voted for a man whose entire campaign was premised on finding scapegoats, inciting alarm about specific minority groups, and promoting divisions across racial, gender and religious lines. More important, you voted for policies that will enshrine hate and embed fear in our daily lives. 

Maybe you don’t think he really means any of that stuff. Maybe you don’t agree with any of his rhetoric or policies in these particular areas, but all of that’s outweighed by something else important to you. Maybe you don’t look at your vote as an endorsement of these policies.

I just want you to know what your vote looks like from the other side.

What it looks like to the Latino parents who are going to be afraid to let their kids go back to school. To the teenagers still trying to figure out who they are, and if they even have a reason to live. To the black men driving through your neighborhood on their way to work. To the Muslims who aren’t sure it’s safe to go to the mosque at night anymore. To the women who have to decide if they’re brave enough to report a sexual assault.

Too dramatic? Maybe. Honestly, I don’t know what it looks like to any of those people. I’m a straight, white middle-aged man who doesn’t have to worry about any of that, because none of these policies will have a direct impact on me. I have the luxury of thinking about all of this as an intellectual exercise instead of a fact of daily life.

But even just as an exercise, it’s hard to explain just how much it hurts.