It's the Hope That Killed – And, Weirdly Revived – Me

There are plenty of awful stories about this election—boys in classrooms taunting girls with “your body, my choice,” racists sending vile texts, pickup trucks full of angry men waving nooses, and the endless Democrat blame game. The truth they don't want to admit is pretty simple: America is still too racist and sexist to hire a Black woman.

But I don't want to dwell on all that. Instead, I want to talk about the weird little rays of sunshine that showed up during this election.

Every morning I walk my dog—a feisty terrier mix we rescued in 2017. We live in a small, dog-friendly retirement community. My dog has a few friends we bump into on these walks. Until recently, politics never came up, aside from some mild tension when we put up our pride flag. The dogs didn't care, of course, and their humans just warned me about a few snarky neighbors who might have a problem. We laughed it off.

There’s V, an 89-year-old woman who walks her little white dog five times a day. N, in his 60s, has a small dog also named Maggie—we call her “other Maggie.” And C, in her 70s, has a little dog named Chevy. My dog, Maggie, is always eager to meet anyone and everyone. On our walks, we share info about coyote sightings and talk about the weather and HOA drama. V gives me the best gossip. N is chill and always ready to chat, while C is a bit more reserved but loves a good dog playdate.

So that’s the crew—one Silent Generation, a couple Boomers, and me, the Gen X kid.

When we moved in two years ago, we weren't ready to be all “out and proud.” We barely managed to afford the place, thanks to the VA and my husband turning 55. Even then, it was a stretch. We were broke when we got here, but we put out small pride garden flags and an “In This House We Believe” sign to show who we are. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

I’m not usually a yard-sign kind of person, but I believe in existing loudly as a marginalized person. It pisses off the right when we’re just happy and living our lives, and that’s reason enough for me. No one else in the neighborhood had signs, and we figured our pride flag said enough. Then a new set of MAGAts moved in and put out their Trump signs. Naturally, I picked up a Harris/Walz sign.

I got mine from the campaign—union-made, union-printed, and pricey to ship. Theirs came from China, cheap junk off Amazon. That’s the difference between us and them.

While waiting for my sign, the Trump signs came down. I figured the HOA intervened, though I knew California law protects homeowners’ free speech rights, even in HOAs. When my sign arrived, it went up right away, tucked in a bed of flowers by the carport—looking pretty cute, honestly.

We got a call from the HOA asking us to take it down, citing the CC&Rs. It wasn't in the CC&Rs, and we knew the law, so we pushed back. They quickly backed down, admitting the CC&Rs hadn’t been updated for years. Meanwhile, I learned the MAGAts had gotten a letter from the management company, and they just obeyed without question. They didn’t even check if it was legal—like dumbasses.

I briefly considered telling them they could put their signs back up, but then I remembered the paradox of tolerance and shrugged it off. If they’re willing to silence themselves, let them. They only put their signs back up the day before the election, and ours came down the morning after. Theirs are still up. I do appreciate when Nazis identify themselves clearly.

Our sign and pride flag caused some behind-the-scenes kerfuffle, but no one complained to me directly. N and V asked if the HOA had given me trouble and were shocked when I explained the law and how we pushed back. Apparently, there was a sign war in the past—probably back in 2016. The HOA had to step in, likely for aesthetic reasons. We live in a nice park with well-kept gardens, and people get picky about weeds.

Despite the complaints, we found “our people” here. All the dog walkers, the woman from India who wanted Kamala to win, the guy with the Dodgers obsession, V’s neighbors, the folks two doors up who complimented our pride flag. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone.

After the election, we’ve been checking in with each other—lamenting the loss, talking about what’s next. V invited me in, showed me the dolls and stuffed animals she makes, and welcomed me over anytime for coffee and sourdough. N’s the kind of guy I’d invite to a BBQ. Once we finish our landscaping, I’m definitely inviting them over for a doggie playdate.

I lost a lot in this election. The cynical side of me saw it coming. I knew in 2020 that Biden was the wrong choice and that we were setting ourselves up for another Trump term. Still, I let myself hope—just a little—that maybe this time we’d break that last glass ceiling. And of course, the expected happened. It hurts. But in the chaos, I found community.

I also sell buttons on Etsy, and since Election Day, I've had a flood of orders for my “You Are Safe With Me” pride buttons. The work is appreciated, but more than that, it’s comforting. People are scared and reaching out, and I can offer love, support, some buttons, and my refusal to be silenced.

I don’t know what’s coming. I know it won’t be good, and I’m shattered that our own people plunged us into this mess. But at least there’s community. At least we’re not alone.

I ordered a new one of those corny “In This House We Believe” signs just to annoy the MAGAts up the hill. Our pride flag is wearing out, so I’m replacing it with a transgender pride flag—just to rile them up a bit more. Don’t let Nazis ever feel comfortable.

Here’s to the little pockets of resistance. Remember, your joy really annoys the hell out of them.

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