by Claire L Lanier

My father worked for the State Department for 35 years. Before that, he was a history professor, insistent that we learn about the past so that we could better understand the world around us. In the late ’80s and early ’90s, my family lived overseas, primarily in developing countries. We interacted intimately with other cultures, and my brothers and I had friends from all over the world. After I moved back to the US in 1997, my parents got divorced, but my father continued to travel for his career, and we visited him at almost all of his international posts, mostly developing countries in Africa. I hated broad generalizations and stereotypes about the continent. If friends spouted misinformation, I always tried to clarify.

Back in the States, we lived in the suburbs of Washington, DC, a diverse metropolitan area known for its mélange of cultures and people. But I didn’t feel confined to the elitist DC bubble. Both my parents grew up in rural North Carolina, so trips visiting relatives were spent in small, Southeast towns. We saw, over the course of time, many of these towns devastated by modernization. Though we didn’t visit too often, we were familiar enough with these communities to know that money and jobs were leaving, and Walmart was the only one picking up the slack. I have family members who label themselves rednecks while simultaneously adhering to left-leaning principles on education, civil liberties, and reproductive rights, to name just a few. And indeed, I have family members who believe things on the other side of the spectrum. I always hated when the South was generalized as racist and Republican. I knew first-hand this wasn’t always the case, and when friends repeated those stereotypes, I defended the South and my family.

I thought I was aware of the dichotomies around me. I thought I saw many sides. I thought I knew the complexities of the United States and the context of the US globally. I used to tell people that you never appreciate the expansive democracy of the States until you live somewhere else. I used to tout how incredible the US was, how free, how open, how kind.

But it turns out, to my astonishment, I was sheltered by my global viewpoint; my exposure to international systems left me blind to the realities of the US. None of my supposed well-roundedness exempted me from my bubble. Even with the disclaimers that accompanied the Bush administration, even as a feminist who saw the country’s misogyny, even with the knowledge of our extensive history of racism and discrimination, I was still missing the bigger picture of The Now, and my touting of the greatness of our nation ended up limiting my viewpoint, furthering my idealism, and stunting my interest in activism; I didn’t think it was even necessary. I always saw the federal government as a protector, a service. I don’t need to fight for others, I thought, because those fights are pretty small anyway; the government and the courts will come around. Progress is inevitable.

I was wrong.

Since the election, essay upon essay has been written about the bubbles Americans are living in — most notably the “liberal bubble,” to which I begrudgingly but surely belong (see above). But regrettably, the value of self-scrutiny and “bubble” self-analysis bears repeating, as we continue to see Americans (of all political persuasions) misunderstanding privilege and the legal barriers faced by women, immigrants, people of color, and LGBTQ people — or any combination thereof. It seems clear to me that we all have to constantly reevaluate our own biases and perceptions of the country in order to be effective activists. For me, arriving at this state means first confronting the realities of the guilt, shame, despair, and confusion that are both enraging and paralyzing me.  As the Trump administration’s policies undoubtedly become more divisive and incendiary, we have to know the difference between our impulses and our intellect. How do we do that?

We need to confront history.

Dive deep, really deep in history. All day, we’re exhausted by the present. All I know to do with my downtime is explore the past. There are ample opportunities in media (film, TV, books, YouTube even) to learn about the precedents our country has set for itself. Empathy starts with staring truth and history in the face, whether we want to or not, whether we have the stomach to do it or not. No more, “I’ve been meaning to watch that, but I know it’ll just make me feel depressed.” Of course it will. Deal with it. Do not use media to escape — use media to step inside. And if you still can’t sit through 90 minutes of uncomfortable truth, things are going to be really hard for you moving forward.

Go to a museum you’ve never been to. Find art in places you wouldn’t usually go. Seek to learn histories that are real, authentic, not propagandized or white-washed or misconstrued. Question who is telling you that history and what their biases may be. What story have you been avoiding? What do you pride yourself on knowing? Is that pride justified? Admit what you don’t know, if only to yourself, then learn it for real this time, even when you’re too scared to explore it. We all fear that the road ahead is mired with more destruction than we’re anticipating. Arm yourself with education.

Look at reality, your real reality.

Where have you skewed up your perception of reality? Poke holes in your memories. Listen. Listen again. And again. Repeat.

In my life, the reality is that when a coworker of mine, a woman of color, recently took pictures of a work event, her pics included more people of color than white photographers included of the exact same event. The reality is that people have been using the peaceful nature of the women’s marches to further denigrate Black Lives Matter and its sometimes violent incidences, which were heightened in and of themselves because police and positions of authority treat black protests differently from white protests. Where have I been that I didn’t see these barriers years ago?

The reality is that when I’ve talked about the history of feminism, I haven’t been intersectional. How long have I been doing this? The reality is that even though I couldn’t stop reading and thinking about it, I didn’t think BLM was my fight to fight. The reality is I’ve been choosing convenience over justice because I can access a certain level justice for myself and that has seemed to suffice. The reality is that I’ve been looking for relief from these uncomfortable feelings of anguish for a few months while my fellow citizens carry this their whole lives.

Every year for the last nearly 30 years, Representative John Conyers from Michigan has proposed the Commission to Study Reparation Proposals for African-Americans Act in Congress to comprehensively examine the long-term social and economic impact of slavery and reparations, and it has been rejected every single year on both sides of the aisle. The reality is what Leslie Jones said. Some people reading these paragraphs will think I’m lame and ignorant and exceptionally late to the game. “Duh.” And others will have learned it for the very first time. Waking up is super humiliating. But there is no other way.

This is what scares me

Some, perhaps unsurprisingly, seem to be finding a sense of purpose in doomsday. For once in our lives, finally, we are rising up, fighting back. What’s troubling to me are what expectations we may hold for these actions. In no way am I suggesting that #theresistance isn’t worthwhile — all of us need to be constant, vigilant in protesting, advocating, donating, standing up, all of it — but what are we expecting to occur, and how quickly? Are those of us who haven’t fought much for social justice before, namely white people, expecting that our privilege will extend to this sphere? The government moves slowly in response to the will of the people, and more often than not, ignores it.

While we have to demand swift justice, we have to accept that success may come very, very slowly, and we cannot let that pace diminish our fervor. History shows us that the government moves slowly: Slavery ended in 1863. The Civil Rights Act was passed in 1964. Do you think that’s because people started suddenly mobilizing in 1963? (Nope.) Women earned the right to vote in 1920, but the Seneca Falls Convention was all the way back in 1848. Yes, our world today moves much faster than the worlds of the past. But one of the oddest truths to discover as an adult is that life can be underwhelming and mundane when you might have expected it to be explosive.

“Resistance fatigue” is a risk. Do I have the endurance to fight the fight? It’s been 11 days, and pretty much every single person I know is in a constant state of anger, anxiety, frustration, and depression. I’ve heard “I can’t even,” and “I just can’t read the news today,” already outpaced by the Trump administration’s erratic behavior. This fight is going to be long and hard, and it will feel even longer and harder.

Can I trust myself to show up? How do I hold myself accountable to this democracy, this nation, and more importantly than anything — my fellow Americans? Rage alone cannot sustain us. We have to learn how to feel okay with anxiety without normalizing the politics around us. We have to seek solace in grief, and allow it to sustain our frustration, that mid-range feeling in your stomach that something just isn’t right. This discomfort and uncertainty has to be embraced, controlled, endured — not quelled. I fear that if we consistently stay heightened and reject desensitization to discomfort, we will lack the stamina to continue; we will so deeply crave any kind of relief that the first time a policy goes through that’s maybe not great, but not evil, we won’t be able to resist breathing that long heavy sigh we’ve been waiting for. That will be the first sign that the resistance is weakening — and it’s already happening.

Last week, the Trump administration announced they will uphold President Obama’s executive order prohibiting workplace discrimination of LGBT federal workers. I’ve seen comments like “Really! I am pleasantly surprised.” and “Well, here’s some good news.” While we have to prepare for change happening slowly, we cannot mistake passive actions like this for legitimate change. In fact, this is literally not a change — Trump is simply choosing to continue to implement something put forth by Obama that should have existed anyway. And at any point, Trump could reject this EO and/or establish policies that allow private business owners to discriminate under the guise of religious freedom. (Evidently, it was Ivanka and Jared Kushner who helped prevent this from getting scrapped anyway. Even more reason to be wary of congratulating the president.) Celebrating this as a win is dangerous. When you feel yourself bending to these small moments of joy, go back to history. Go back to reality. Go back to everything that still exists and re-up your commitment. To be sure, in this monstrous era, acceptance of the mediocre for the sake of what seems like compromise is a slick, dangerous, black-ice covered slope.

It’s not about guilt. It’s not about making yourself feel like shit. A family member recently told me, “Guilt helps no one. You are stronger without guilt and more effective.” Yes, wallowing in fear, guilt, and shame serves no purpose. This is about honesty. It’s like parenting — if you don’t actively decide what kind of parent you want to be, in moments of stress, your impulses will lead you to respond exactly the way your parents did, whether you praised or ridiculed them for those behaviors.

Our honesty about our complicity is imperative to increasing our longevity. Exhaustion is not something we can risk. I wasn’t wrong in touting that American democracy is great. But those are just the empty words of a lazy, self-serving liberal if I can’t live up to them now.

Claire L. Lanier is an editor and writer who spends her days chugging out social media content for a New York history museum. Last year she was the host of Claire’s Clues. When she’s not thinking about American history or watching too much TV, she’s working on her M.A. in Media Studies from The New School for Public Engagement. She doesn’t really use Twitter, but if you want to connect, shoot her a DM @ritaskeetskeet.