In electing a man that respects the source of all life so little that he would reach out and grab at it as if trying to take a larger piece of dignity with each fat finger, you say that my health and security are no longer priorities in the place I call home.
When you elect an unpunished sexual predator, you put every abuser in history on a pedestal and tuck them away from the justice their victims deserve.
When you are holding a pen that elects a man who has committed sexual assault, you hold the hand that bruised the breasts of my mother. Through your choice, you tell her that her story is irrelevant to the progress of this nation; that her safety, my safety and the safety of all minorities are acceptable casualties to your vision for the future. You allow my mother's abuser, over 30 years later to reach out, once again, and place one hand on her thigh and press the other over her mouth.
Look into her eyes that could still reflect back the image of the monster that hurt her. They are the eyes of my mother, my whole world. She is a woman strong enough to stand up and say something. Look into her eyes and call her a liar.
Anonymous
The Ballot Box, 2016
Prose
I wrote this in a notebook during an Anthropology lecture a week or so after Trump was elected to office. Almost four years later, as two men accused of sexual misconduct will face off for the presidency, I have returned to it again.
