How 107 days made me feel
From a Spelmanite who had hope
Almost a year later, I am still searching for the optimism that I possessed on November 5, 2024. The pride of seeing a Black woman on stage, proudly promoting her HBCU, and offering us a glimpse into what a future America could look like. However, like many others, I was immediately slapped back into reality on November 6th.
I so clearly remember the sound of sniffles echoing across Sisters Chapel, the feeling of heaviness and sorrow that enveloped Spelman’s campus so completely, and the look of defeat on so many of my peers and professors' faces, reminding me that I was not in mourning alone.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I am still slightly deflated following the results of our last election. Of course, my view and involvement in American politics are slightly removed at the moment. I have spent the last 7 months overseas, viewing America from the outside looking in, hearing the input of foreigners who can’t help but ask me, “What are your thoughts on Mr. Trump?” when they first learn I’m American. I think it’s been especially hard realizing that American politics are almost inescapable. Even the screens of an office waiting room in the Netherlands still flash headlines with the impacts of an American Government shutdown. America is everywhere. But it’s my choice on how much mental space I give it.
I would consider myself pretty active and informed. I begin every morning listening to a political podcast, updating myself regularly on national news; however, I have felt myself approaching the news with increasing apathy. It sometimes feels like I’m listening to the news with such a resigned mindset, no longer thinking “what can I do?” but instead “what’s next…”. But after twelve months of mourning the hope I had, I've reached the final stage of grief and have decided I need to face the beast that this last year has been and finally read Kamala Harris’ memoir, 107 Days.
I must admit that I was a Kamala sceptic and still am (as I think most people should be). I can never deny the positive impact she has had and the bravery that she has shown. But, it is crucial to acknowledge how incredibly dangerous it is to celebritize politicians. It is our duty to hold them responsible regardless of their cultural impact. Yes, the work and promise that politicians show on the campaign trail is hope-filled and inspiring, but the work that they do once they are in office shows who they truly are. And nine times out of ten, it’s disappointing. So, when I began my read of 107 Days, I had to make sure to maintain this mindset while still having empathy. Yes, Kamala Harris is a politician who has shown an incredible amount of passiveness towards the genocide in Gaza, has a past as a prosecutor in California where she made mistakes that have impacted so many, and has, time and time again, participated in and promoted policies and systems that continually hurt and disenfranchise Black and working-class communities. Nevertheless, she is a woman, a Black woman, a human, and I must always give her grace and empathy.
So enough background, let’s get into it:
She was named captain of a ship that already had holes and leaks in its structure.
Joe Biden used Kamala as a pawn. But of course, c’est la vie. For Black women who enter leadership, it is usually the norm for us to be left with the task of fixing things with little to no recognition. The White House and the political system of America has always been broken, and time and time again, White men have been selected to come into power and oftentimes take a sinking ship and make it worse. So, it is the expectation for our incoming politicians to make these big, drastic changes, but they are often given the benefit of the doubt when they don’t deliver. But what does this mean for a Black woman to have the finger pointed at her for an administration that she didn’t actually lead? The role of vice-president has been historically known to be the “yes man” position. The sounding board for the president. The role is truly very minimal. But, as soon as Joe Biden decided to jump ship, he was able to dodge the bullet of scrutiny and allow Kamala to take the blame for four years of his work. And through all this punishment, he still expected her to uplift his name and legacy, despite the backseat position that he had placed her in for so long. What did this mean for Kamala? Quite a lot. She was expected to answer for an administration that she didn’t actually have full rein over, while also having to simultaneously paint herself as something fresh and new. Which, we all must admit, is an impossible position to be placed in.
We overestimate just how much people care about a woman’s right over her own body
As many of us know and remember, one of the main points that Kamala ran her campaign on was a woman’s right to choose and equal access to abortion care. However, after reading the book and listening to her reflections, it has become quite clear that not as many Americans care about this topic as we’d expect. Of course, as a Black woman currently living in a battleground state that often goes red. I am almost hyper-aware of how these laws impact my own well-being. But, for many Americans, unfortunately, this does not keep them up at night. I think oftentimes we believe that the average American is aware, empathetic, and knowledgeable about the crucialness of women’s rights to choose; however, this is not really true. For many people, this topic didn’t really move them in any way, and yes, that is quite scary, but it helps us to know how to move from now on by not assuming inherent empathy.
Is it really empowering and classy to just smile and wave?
In one of the chapters of the book, Kamala reflects on a visit that she and Joe Biden took to a New York firehouse that was filled with the families of the first responder heroes who were the first to arrive on the scene of 9/11. She recounts that many of them refused to shake her hand or really even acknowledge her in any way, but she smiled and waved, and continued to try to make inroads with them. This experience struck a kind of discomfort within me, which I soon realized was because it was a reflection of the Black experience in America: constantly trying to humanize ourselves and work to be acceptable enough to our oppressors. But, where does this end? At what point can we admit that the inhumanity we are shown is unacceptable and that we shouldn’t put the expectation on ourselves to try and prove our humanity? Is trying to appease white supremacists really a path towards liberation?
This led me to reflect on my own relationship with racism and W.E.B. DuBois’ theory of double consciousness. Always having to be aware of not just ourselves but also our perception, working tirelessly to prove our worth to people who couldn't care less about us, and still, after all of the abuse and disregard, promising to do our best and serve those who couldn't care less.
I recently was listening to a podcast episode by “Higher Learning” (shoutout to my fellow thought warriors), where the host posed a new position that I have been thinking a lot about. He was reflecting on the murder of Charlie Kirk and the aftermath that followed, and presented the idea that it is a function of White Supremacy for oppressed people to always feel the need to sympathize with those who simultaneously wish death upon them. We are fed this rhetoric that, despite the evilness and dehumanization of White supremacy, it is the “right thing to do” to continue to care and wish the best for our oppressors.
Reading Kamala’s words and listening to her continual promise to those who adamantly opposed her, that, despite everything, she will still work tirelessly to represent and improve their lives, was a harsh reminder for me that although death and destruction can constantly be wished upon marginalized communities, it is still an expectation for us to hold out a hand and smile.
Do we have to be in the room where change happens to make a difference?
“When I decided to become a prosecutor, I had to defend that decision to my family, like a student defending a thesis. I asked why, when we see change, must it either be by breaking down doors or crawling on bended knee? I wanted a seat at the table. I wanted to make a change from inside the system. Today, I’m no longer sure about that. Because the system is failing us. At every level: executive, judicial, legislative, corporate, institutional, and media. Every single guardrail that is supposed to protect our democracy is buckling. I thought those guardrails would be stronger. I was wrong”.
This passage came from the Afterword of 107 Days as Kamala reflects on her political perception from the other side. I had to really sit with these words and try to make sense of what they mean to me as a student preparing to enter the world of public service. What does change look like in a system where cheating, lying, fraud, belittling, and dehumanizing are praised instead of punished? As Black Americans, who are no strangers to the work of constantly advocating for our humanity and promotion, at what point must we realize that perhaps our liberation cannot be achieved within the democratic party?
After reading 107 Days, I was forced to sit with myself and ask, “What will my advocacy look like in the future?” I cannot stay resigned or apathetic forever. That isn’t an option, and it would be a disgrace to lie down and put my feet up, despite generations before me constantly climbing a mountain that seemingly looks endless. I recently was reading a poem in one of my classes that read, “All the generations before me donated me little by little so that I’d rise up all at once…that’s a big obligation”. And this “obligation” really stuck with me. The fight for Black advancement has never not looked daunting. But, I always like to remind myself of the words of Dr. Spence during convocation the day after the election: “We have seen worse.” No matter how daunting times may look, no matter how much I want to delete the news app, click not interested on my feed, and stop indulging, I have an obligation. Because we have seen worse, and we have always persisted. All those who came before me donated, invested, fought, and cried so that I can continue to wake up every morning and know that things can always get better, and will.
