107 Day of Hope

107 Days of Hope

This week, I’m forcing myself to get back into a routine. Since November 6, I’ve felt lost. While others seem to have gone merrily through the holiday season, I’ve been stalled, stuck in a doomsday countdown to January 20, 2025. I feel like Noah, warning everyone it’s about to rain. Back then, rain was a foreign concept, much like the precarious moment we find ourselves in America’s history.

As an African American, I know our history here—the pain, the struggle, the resilience. But I’m uncertain if the next generation will truly know it, let alone understand it. These days, I’m uncertain about so much.

The Kamala Harris campaign gave me 107 days of hope—a flicker of something better. I wasn’t entirely in favor of President Biden being nudged out of the race like an old racehorse. Yet, the energy and vision Vice President Harris projected resonated deeply with me. Her message of “A New Way Forward” struck a chord I hadn’t felt in years.

Like many, I knew less about her than the president. But as a fellow Californian, I knew enough to feel connected. Her Blackness isn’t performative; it’s woven into her story—Howard University, the AKAs, growing up in Oakland. This was no “wanna-be” Black woman. This was real.

My hope wasn’t just rooted in my “anyone-but-Trump” sentiments. It was the kind of hope that made me feel the words of that old spiritual: “A change is gonna come.” As Black women, we’ve always been the backbone of our communities, often relegated to the back but rising nonetheless. We’re still the first, the best qualified, the most educated. Our DNA is the blueprint of creation, and our melanin defies time. Full stop.

I was ready for my Obama 2.0 moment. I had the Audacity to Hope once again. This was Obama 2.0—only this time, the bandwagon included Taylor Swift. Surely, this was in the bag.

But the bag fumbled. And now, here we are. The usual clichés and well-meaning advice are playing on repeat, like an eight-track stuck in a loop. How long do we have to keep reliving this nightmare of racism, classism, and every other “-ism”? Now, there’s even a new word being tossed around: oligarch. It’s practically slang at this point.

I’m reminded of my first sermon at 16. The theme was simple: It’s okay to fall down; the problem is staying down. So, here I am, picking myself up and moving forward. I’m falling back into a routine—making my bed, even if I have nowhere to go.

Because moving forward is the only way through.