The Morning After: Reflections by a Latina post 11/5/2024

​I sense there is panic in the air.
Some people are saying it more openly; others seem to feel better off not speaking much about the big impending change.

Not feeling welcome can have such deep negative effects on immigrant communities. It can be retraumatizing.

It took so much effort and bravery to leave what was once cozy and comfortable (and, in many cases, also hostile and terrifying), to brave adversity and settle down in a new, foreign place. Many felt the journey was worth it for the safety the destination would offer. Imagine their shock when the reality in their new chosen home starts to feel a lot like what they were hoping to flee from.

Perhaps a recent anecdote can help illustrate some of what I am talking about (a part of me may still be in denial about the change in leadership, and that can make it hard to put feelings into words):

I was on my morning walk with my dog, a sweet chocolate Labrador named Coya (her name means “Queen” in Quechua) around Capitol Hill the morning after the election. After the initial shock when hearing the results, I had tried to remain calm by reminding myself that this was not the first time this was happening, that I now knew the kind of rhetoric that was familiar to this regime, and that could perhaps help me not let it get to me.

As Coya and I crossed the street, I could see a security guard by the corner building with a hat on, bundled up to fight the cold. His darker skin tone reminded me of my brother’s tan during the summer days growing up in my native Peru. I imagined his mannerisms revealed someone who, like me, was a relatively recent add-on to this country. On a regular day, I am not sure I would have gone out of my way to make eye contact with a stranger, or to greet someone on the side of the street. But that day, the morning after the election, I felt we could all use all the kindness we could get.

I said, “Good morning!” to him while giving him the biggest smile I could manage while Coya and I walked by his side. I realize now what I meant was, “I see you, young man. I am with you. You are not alone.” 
He looked at us, nodded, and returned a huge grin. 

I walked a few more steps and burst into tears. 

At first I was not sure what was going on. Seconds later I realized I could try to keep myself safe and protected, telling myself I could fight back any hostile words with kindness. Facing another I pictured in a similar situation, however, I could not look away. I felt sad for what could be in store for that young, kind man, who I imagined had woken up early that morning and shown up at work to continue to build that home away from home, where he had hoped to be welcomed with open arms. I felt sad for other immigrants like me, and maybe a bit for myself, for the uncertainty, for the struggles that may lie ahead. 

And that made me more determined to carry that message with me for as long as I could:

​I see you. You are not alone. We are in this together.