November 7, the day after the 2024 American election in Japan.

I had a post ready to go and scheduled to be published today, but in light of the election—specifically, its results—I delayed it. Even though it wasn’t really about America at all, it just didn’t feel like the right time.

Yesterday, in the middle of teaching a class, I felt a buzz on my wrist. I glanced at my watch and saw a notification reading: Trump Takes Texas. It was expected, of course. I know some were hoping for this election to be the moment Texas finally flipped blue, but I had remained skeptical. I quickly dismissed the notification and resumed playing the role of teacher. Soon enough, the bell declared class to be over, and I returned to my desk and viewed the current election results on my laptop: Trump had taken Texas by 14 points. It wasn’t even close.

I wasn’t born in the Lone Star State, but I did live there for well over 20 years. In fact, it’s the only place I ever remember living in, prior to Japan. Ultimately, I left Texas because it became clear to me that I wasn’t really wanted there.

Still, while Texas may never have loved me, it was the only home I ever had for a long, long time. I graduated from university in Texas. I had my first girlfriend there. My first kiss. I learned to drive a stick-shift. I found God, then deemed him nonexistent years later. I met many people: good, honest people—and some pretty terrible ones, too. It was there that I found my love for writing, and it was there that I lost my voice for writing. Texas and I had been in an abusive relationship, but even so, the majority of my memories—of my life—happened within its borders.

Late last night, it was clear that Trump had won. The election was yet to be called, but it would take a miracle for Harris to attain victory. I drew a hot bath, put on a face mask, and soaked for a while. After some time, I started scrolling TikTok and was served a video from a reporter reading verbatim Project 2025’s plans for anti-trans policies.

I haven’t cried in a very long time. I’ve tried to. I’ve craved a big emotional release many times over the past few years, but all I’ve managed was a single tear, maybe two. It’s felt like where my emotions should be, a numb fuzziness has resided in their place.

Last night was different, though. Last night, I wept.

Now, the election has been called. There is no miracle coming to save us from another Trump presidency. I am once again reminded of how I am simply not wanted by many of the people in the place I called home for most of my life. I’m reminded of how so many of my “fellow Americans” are openly supporting a raging racist, rapist, convicted felon, mocker of the disabled; hater of women, gays, trans people, and anyone else deemed “the enemy” (which probably includes you).

Today, bigotry and hatred has won.

No, we are not without hope. No, the fight isn’t over. I went to bed last night with news of Trump’s victory, but the sun still rose this morning, just as it will tomorrow and the day after that. There will be time to pick up the pieces. There will be time to rebuild.

I could say more, but frankly, I’m tired. There are much better writers than myself discussing all of this, anyhow.

For now, I’ll end with this: Fuck, man.