The New Yorker cover for Hillary Clinton devastated me

What could have been means so much.

After Hillary Clinton recently published “What Happened,” her book chronicling her point of view through the hell-scape that was the 2016 election, the New Yorker posted the cover they would have run if the election ended up with her in the Oval Office.


And I was wrecked. I couldn’t stop looking at it, studying it, and even tried to make it my wallpaper (FYI iPhone users: the “New Yorker” covers up the date and time.) There’s nothing outright or loudly celebratory about the design. The color scheme is dark, the lines are simple, the character vaguely looks like simplistic cartoon of Clinton. There’s nothing immediately remarkable about the cover in any other time. But this isn’t any other time.

Imagine how it would have felt seeing this cover in November. After the what felt like the longest and most infuriating presidential election ever, we could all take deep breaths (not victory laps) and feel secure that it was finally over. We had survived, and an able, well experienced captain was guiding the ship. We would have seen this cover on newsstands and Facebook, and remembered that this was the start of history. A woman president. Would you look at that.

What got to me the most about the cover, and still gets me every time I see it, is the way she’s standing. Calmly, at night, in the Oval Office, looking out at the moon. It makes me want to take a breath out, drop my shoulders, and reflect back on how I got here. The journey through the inferno, the arrival at the destination, and the anticipation for what’s to come.

I know that feeling. It’s finally — finally — feeling that everything you’ve worked for has been worth it. It’s seeing that A on the project you spent weeks working on. It’s that paycheck in your bank account. It’s that one person’s eyes lighting up when they see what you’ve created and it resonates with them. It’s when you can look around, take a deep breath, and say, “Yeah. I did it.

But that is not what happened.

Not anything like it in the least. Instead I spent the night of November 8 panicking, watching the numbers come in on west coast time, and then curling up in my bed later that night. I woke up the next morning and immediately wished I hadn’t. There was no relief, or deep breaths, or security. Just sadness and fear.

Eventually, like everyone else, I got out of bed. I used my meager little platform to write how I was feeling, and began getting ready for all that’s to come. And on newsstands I saw the New Yorker getting covered by a brick wall.

What could have been is tough to think about. There’s never a winner in the “what if” game, so I try not to play. But when I saw the New Yorker of What Could Have Been, I had to stop and stare. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would have meant to see that cover everywhere. Couldn’t stop thinking about how hard she worked, and for so long. Couldn’t stop thinking about where we are now. Staring at a brick wall instead of the moon.

Not This Bitch’s President

Well America, we done fucked up.

I talk a lot about the importance of representation. Strong women, Asian American, LGBTQ, POC communities in general. Those are what I want to see, because it means so damn much to look at the media, your government, your neighborhood and feel like you belong. Your existence is valid and your voice will be heard. Last night, we saw the flip side of that.

For the next four years, any dumbass bully will look up to the highest office in the land and see themselves reflected back. Trump’s entire campaign told that idiot shit head you went to high school with that he won’t see consequences for his racist, sexist, homophobic actions. No, even better, he can become President of the United States of America. If little girls in America were going to look up at Hillary Clinton and say, That could be me some day, then so too will any little white rich boy who refuses to grow up and take responsibility.

I convinced myself at one point last night that when I woke up it was all going to be a dream. That this didn’t just happen. But it did. That man, Donald Trump, a man with no political experience or knowledge is slated to become our next President. After four years with the first black president in America, the jilted, racist, middle America felt threatened enough (by a woman leader) to vote in droves for that.

Of course they don’t really know what feeling threatened is like. I do. I am scared of the next four years. I don’t feel safe when I think of the next four years. I fear for myself, as a Chinese American, feminist, journalist. But more importantly I fear for my black, LGBTQ, Latinx, Muslim, and POC friends.

After a year and a half of being encouraged to beat, harass, and attack minorities — and many did — that atmosphere of Us vs. Them (i.e.: White vs. Other) will only heighten in the next four years. His message of hate, misogyny, fear, racism actually resonated with a 84 percent of America. With an approving president looking on from the White House, what’s stopping them?

When I went on Instagram today, I already saw the immediate hate mongering that will be our future. These are only 3 Asian Americans, targeted because they were outspoken about the real issues America faces today: immigration, Islamophobia and hate crimes, LGBTQ rights, reporting the truth in the media. I can’t imagine what the black, Islamic, and LGBTQ leaders are facing right now.

Last night and this morning, I curled up in despair. I didn’t want to see more confirmation that this was our new reality. I wanted to hide under my covers and ask Why? How? What? again and again until it made sense. I wanted to reach out to my POC, LGBTQ friends and loved ones who felt the same fear, sickness, and sadness and just hold each other. I wanted some one to blame, I wanted a recount of the votes, I wanted for this all to go away. But it won’t. So that means I have only one option:

Work. Write. I have the voice, means, and privilege to hold this motherfucker accountable at every turn and I will. I love what I do, and I’m pretty damn good at it too. This Bitch will not let him bully me, a journalist, feminist, and Asian American into silence.

To take advice from a piece by the Poynter Institute:

  • Tell stories. Maybe we were telling the wrong stories to the wrong people. But we know that stories help people understand each other. So we have to keep looking for stories to tell.
  • Hold the powerful accountable. This will be easier with a president than with a candidate. An actual president causes real consequences, starting with the economy today, and extending to our justice system, education system, our social welfare system and the security of our nation.
  • Explain more things. This may be the one area where journalists universally fell short. While there was some great explanatory work over the past 18 months, it paled in comparison to the horse race banter.
  • Help identify the pathway forward. Give your audience a way to be heard, a way to listen to each other and concrete actions they can take.
  • Finally, model compassion and civil discourse. We need that now more than ever.

These next four years are going to be awful, and we’re not going to get through it alone. And we don’t have to. Reach out to each other, support each other, and stay strong. And start digging because there’s not a whole lot of light at the end of this tunnel.

If you’re like me, you also just really need this right now:

Hillary Clinton does not have to be “nice”

At the tail end of the presidential debate, Trump felt attacked by Clinton’s campaign ads and told her “it’s not nice and I don’t deserve that.”

The first 2016 presidential debate on Monday was Lesson 101 in hate-watching our current political situation. Enough has been said on who won (Clinton), the high and low points, and where Lester Holt disappeared to, but I’m focusing on one overlooked comment in particular.

Near the end of the 90 minute debate Lester Holt asked Trump, “Earlier this month you said that she doesn’t have ‘a presidential look.’ She’s standing here, right now. What did you mean by that?” Trump followed by denying that he ever said that (he did) and tried to insist he meant her “stamina.” Focusing on Clinton’s stamina and her inability to negotiate with foreign powers, all Trump really did was stumble around trying to deny his sexism.

Sick burn on Clinton’s part in response:

“As soon as he travels to 112 countries and negotiates a peace deal, a cease fire, a release of dissidents, an opening of new opportunities in nations around the world, or even spends 11 hours testifying in front of a congressional committee he can talk to me about stamina.”

I want to focus on one of Trump’s pitiful temper tantrums in the last few minutes of the AP video, which starts at the 1:50 mark. He complains about Clinton’s campaign ads for their negativity (view them all here), goes on a strange side track about Rosie O-Donnel, praises himself for not insulting the Clinton family, then circles back to the ads. He says they’re too expensive, untrue, and (my favorite) “not nice.” He goes on insisting he doesn’t deserve that and the ads aren’t working anyways.

Not nice.
One of two candidates running to be the next President of the United States is complaining about the other not being nice. Campaign ads are as old as campaigns, and none were ever “nice.” The original founding fathers tore each other a part in the press, in speeches, and more recently in the greatest musical of this decade. The US presidential campaigns have never been perfect, and with half of our options this year being an outright bigoted, racist, mysoginist, I don’t know anyone who could expect the election of 2016 to even be civil.

Hillary Rodham Clinton, for all her faults (there are many) and fuck ups, is running for president and now is not the time to be nice. Nominees can be civil, respectful, mature adults to each other. They can run attack ads and tweet awful things. (Maybe lay off the pandering, HRC.) But there is no obligation to be “nice.” Especially when you, the opponent one elcetion day away from the White House, have run on a platform calling her crooked and calling to “lock her up.” You don’t get to call out your competitor for being mean just because she’s better than you.

Childish and cowardice aside, my real issue with Clinton not being “nice” enough for Trump is his underlying meaning: She’s not backing down. She’s not doing as I say when I tell her to go back into her place. Berating Clinton for not being nice is continuing the subversive sexism in our culture like street harassment, sexual harassment, slut shaming, and the insistence that women smile.

Last week, the New York Times ran an op-ed “Hillary Clinton’s ‘Angry’ Face” detailing the results of a study that looked at the ways people perceive men and women’s facial expressions. The author, Lisa Feldman Barrett, found that people were more likely to assume a woman’s expression resulted from her emotions while a man’s resulted from the situation. “Or as we summarized our discovery: “She’s a bitch, but he’s just having a bad day.” These presumptions carry over daily to women everywhere, another reason why beig told to look happy or smile is a sublte form of sexism. The Guardian ran a column by Jessica Valenti detailing the subversive meaning behind being told to smile.

“Of all the things women hear from men — whether street harassers or pundits — there is special disdain for “smile” because of its particular condescension, and the tired trope that women should be forever chipper even as they’re walking down the street or, you know, running for president of the United States.” Jessica Valenti

Smiling, looking happy, being nice — it all tells women the same message that we should be well-behaved and do as told. Consciously or subconcisouly, overt or covert, that is what women are told everyday. We’re not allowed to be angry (espcially women of color). We’re not allowed to be mean (unless it’s catty, then that’s hot). And we’re certainly not allowed to run for the President of the United States — well, at least until now.