On the night of the first presidential debate, Mere and I were hanging out with a couple friends after having dinner together. At about 8:55, one of us remembered the debate and asked if the others would be interested in watching it. Because it had been previewed and advertised so much in the days leading up to it, I had already been thinking about that question. I remembered very well the first debate in 2020, and how horrifying it had been to witness the collective traumas of a nation playing out through the clash of two disembodied old men on stage in front of millions of people, trading attacks in a way no healthy parent, teacher, or coach would ever condone in their children, students, or athletes.
I hadn't yet made a final decision about watching this year’s first debate, but I had told myself that I would only watch it as an exercise in staying present, grounded, and centered amidst what I knew would be a deeply disturbing spectacle. I couldn’t see any benefit in watching it just as something to do, or in the expectation that I would learn something new; I knew, as many of us probably did, that there would be nothing substantive whatsoever that would feel enlightening or thought-provoking, let alone that would influence my vote.
We only had a couple minutes to decide whether to watch, and initially there seemed to be openness to the idea, including from me, because of the social expectation to go with the flow and not be the wet blanket. But I suggested that we all do a quick pause, slow down, ground ourselves, and check in with our bodies about what we wanted to be doing for the next hour and a half.
I’m extremely grateful to be a part of a circle in which a request like this wouldn't feel totally weird; we all readily agreed to do it. It only took a minute for all of us to reach the clarity that watching the debate was not how we wanted to spend the rest of the evening. We all shared that we’d rather just enjoy the time with each other than glued to a screen, that we probably wouldn’t sleep better having watched it, and that there wasn’t really anything we’d gain from it other than feeling like we’re in “the know” or maybe some mindless entertainment. We were all relieved by the decision and spent the rest of the evening continuing to chat, joke, and just connect.
I confess that I did, however, take a few minutes to check the highlights the next day, making sure I set the intention of being centered, and practicing coming back to a centered place whenever I was knocked adrift, which was often. The highlights were just as surreal and disturbing as I expected. I also read a bit of the commentary, seeing how desperate liberals seemed to be, with some in favor of scrambling to find a replacement candidate for Biden. This sense of urgency was surprising only in that it was only now that they seemed to be registering the real possibility, likelihood even, of a second Trump presidency. I’m sure some of that was a frantic trauma response triggered by the act of watching the debate itself.
I must say I don’t share quite the same urgency about the 2024 election. I do, at times, feel a good deal of fear and grief about the future of this land and its people—a future which, according to predominant ideas about what makes a “good life,” will certainly be a regression for most. But I don’t think that that future can be avoided through an election—at least not in the long term. Yes, another Trump presidency will almost certainly mean a turn toward authoritarianism, reactionary politics, and political violence. I don’t mean to minimize this or the detrimental consequences it could have on people’s lives, particularly women, people of color, immigrants, to name a few.
But Trump is not single-handedly responsible for this, and defeating him in the election won't get rid of the threat (in fact, it will likely only prime the pump further because it will come with election denial and calls for revenge). He is only an archetype, a figurehead representing something that's long been lingering just beneath the surface of our modern, rationalist, "progress"-oriented society, always ready to rear its ugly head. Other trumps and right-wing movements are popping up all over the world: in France, Germany, Hungary, Brazil, Argentina, and many more. They inevitably reemerge in capitalist, liberal "democracies" due to the decades-long utter failure to adequately address the crises of our time.
Anyone who's recently been to the doctor, worked in a school or the courts, or followed congressional politics (to name a few) knows that our institutions are failing. Their failure, not trump, is responsible for the eroding trust in said institutions. When everything seems to be falling apart and no viable path forward is visible, a certain segment of people inevitably turn to a strongman promising quick and ruthless solutions. Defeating the strongman alone doesn't do anything to address these underlying issues. It's like we're all in a boat with a giant hole in it, and everyone is pointing out the different places water is showing up and arguing about where to scoop it out from. For years and years and years. Maybe it's time to address the hole.
Except our predicament is infinitely bigger and more complicated than a hole that can be patched. There aren't any magic bullet solutions to what the planet is facing right now, or any (real) solutions at all for that matter. This makes it understandable why there's so much denial about our situation, and an insistence that we focus on symptoms instead of root causes. But at some point we have to realize how destructive our current way of life is, and all the systems that support it—that no amount of reforms, no amount of electric cars, no amount of scapegoating people we find to be at fault can make up for an inherently destructive system, ideology, and way of life—and decide that the only way we can save ourselves is to link arms and jump ship.
I can already hear the voices of sanctimonious liberals lecturing me about how bad Trump is and calling me irresponsible and hopeless for focusing on anything other than the election. In response, I'll say that my intention is not to set up some kind of either/or binary and tell people that voting or working within the system is completely pointless. I will probably vote, and like most of us, I have to work within the system, and I try do the best I can at it. But can we please start having conversations about the sinking boat, and what comes next? They would be infinitely more life-giving, nourishing, and paradoxically, provide more hope for us as a people than any presidential debate.
In my opinion, what we four friends decided to do on debate night for 90 minutes—to stay present with and connected to one another—was much more powerful than any vote we could cast in 2024. It's not that I don't believe in macro-level, collective change, but that I recognize the whole concept of voting in our two-party, money-driven "democracy" as an individualistic illusion of collective action and people power. Let's get outside of that whole paradigm! Let's focus on building the relationships, communities, and practices that we will be nourished by even when all else collapses. When we choose with our communities, however small, not to conform to the norms and expectations of mainstream culture, but to practice what we want to see more of, we plant the seeds of a future world that aligns with our values much more than this one does.
*If you're interested in these ideas, I recommend looking into the work of the following people (among many others I'm probably forgetting): adrienne maree brown, Prentis Hemphill, Jem Bendell, Vanessa Machado de Oliveira. I've been reading the latter's "Hospicing Modernity," which definitely influenced me to write this.
