The morning after the election, I went to Wonderland. It was a quiet, inaptly named transit station at the end of the Blue Line and a short walk to Revere Beach—a strip of sand and seaweed where old couples basked in the last of November’s sunlight. My friend had woken me up an hour before, convincing me with minimal effort to skip the class I was already planning on sleeping through to join her on this expedition. We mostly spoke about the weather. We complained about work and joked about our classmates. We briefly mentioned a vague sadness in the air; a sadness so profound and unsettling that neither of us dared to claim it as our own. We changed the subject when we strayed too close to despair, or to the future, or to how the lines were quickly blurring between the two. She ran into the ocean three times, and I sat blinking at the sun, and then we left.

At first, I was shocked by the silence that permeated every inch of Boston that day. I was expecting chanting, weeping, screaming, even laughter, but not silence. When my friend and I returned from Wonderland, we walked through the Public Garden and every face I saw wore the same scowl. It was an uncomfortably beautiful afternoon, with a light breeze and a rare late autumn warmth that I couldn’t quite enjoy. Perhaps it was guilt—not a personal guilt exactly, but a grander sense that none of us deserved such lovely weather; or perhaps it was dread that had seeped into my subconscious, as if the tranquil sky would at any moment crash down upon us. 

We made our way to the edge of the pond and I stared at myself. I began to picture the water evaporating. Soon, the flowers wilted and the trees burned, and at last, when nothing in the garden remained but ash and dirt, I understood the silence. I understood this did not stem from indifference, but resignation, from the knowledge that our fate had been sealed and we only had to await our punishment. And it was not luck, nor God, nor Russia, that won him the election, but our fellow citizens, our relatives and friends. There is undoubtedly evil embedded in every major, modern political party, but a certain spirit lives within his most loyal supporters that is distinctly cruel and ferocious. A spirit that has taken hold of countless, and spreads across this nation faster than wildfire.

That night, I found myself on a train to Cambridge. After such an uncanny day, another friend of mine suggested a showing of “The Muppet Movie” at The Brattle Theatre. I was overjoyed—the theater was one of the few places where I could forget myself and my world for 90 minutes or so, and become immersed in another. However, as I settled into my seat, I began to worry that watching a childhood relic reborn on the big screen would feel wrong. The Muppets are practically the archetype of sincerity and joy, and I feared my cynical eyes would somehow corrupt their innocence. Yet, as the film started rolling, the nation that raged outside the walls of The Brattle faded, and I believed, for at least a moment, in a nation where love and friendship are the essential ingredients of success and happiness. 

Then, about a quarter of the way through the film, Fozzie Bear sang “America the Beautiful” to a montage of gorgeous mountains, canyons, and fields. I closed my eyes and I saw the world in ruin. I saw the glaciers melting and the trees aflame, and as our nation swallowed itself in greed, I heard legions of people cheering for a hollow victory. The song ended, and Fozzie Bear said, to no one in particular, “Patriotism swells in the heart of the American bear.” And I thought, how right he is.