The only thing that is certain

I'm unlocking last week's paid newsletter because it's Election Day here in the US, and it feels like many of us could use all the help we can get. Also, let's be honest: There's no way I'm getting a Wednesday newsletter out this week. You can find the online version of this article right here.

The first election I ever voted in was the 2000 election. It was, quite famously, sold as an election that didn't really matter, where both choices were seen as equally whatever. I still lived in South Dakota, and I voted for George W. Bush, largely because I was clinging to what tiny remnants remained of my conservative Christian upbringing.

I think we all know what happened next. Every presidential election since that one has been "the most important election of our lifetime," and what's truly remarkable is how that hyperbole only seems more true with each passing quartet of years. Bush gave way to Obama gave way to Trump gave way to Biden, and the world has gotten better, and the world has gotten worse, and there has always been a need, deep inside so many of us, to have somebody who will make everything stop, who will freeze us into a kind of permanent utopic state that will carry us forward into a new age.

We're all adults here. (At least, I assume we are.) We know that even the things that seem most core to our society are things we will have to fight to keep on occasion. I have only learned this to be more true the older I get. And yet some tiny part of me will always hope that The Chosen One will emerge from the darkest night to lead us forward into a glorious tomorrow.

Yet even by the standards of "most important election of our lifetimes" past, 2024 feels especially fraught. When I, personally, think about what might happen should Donald Trump win, I can quickly get to feeling downright apocalyptic. While his first term in office was sustained chaos, his general incompetence as a manager and several of the guardrails that existed within the administrative state meant that one could live through those years and conclude that things were bad but maybe not that bad. We have had every indication that a second Trump term would still feature him as its incompetent (and rapidly decaying) center but would also surround him with an administrative state dedicated to carrying out his petty vengeances against anybody who's perceived as having wronged him or his followers. And, listen, as a trans woman who's a former journalist, I'd rather not explore the possibility of what that means for me – or for plenty of other people I care about.

But here is the thing: Even if Trump wins, even if the worst happens, doom and destruction are no more inevitable than hope and renewal. To assume the former is to immediately sign away the possibility of the latter. Preparing for the worst and hoping for the best isn't either/or. It's yes-and.

In recent weeks – especially in the wake of billionaire newspaper owners leaning on their editorial boards to not issue endorsements for president – you have surely heard the first lesson from Timothy Snyder's On Tyranny: Do not obey in advance. The idea, broadly, is that any ground you give up to an authoritarian leader must not be ceded without a fight. Capitulating to the regime – even if it is not yet in power – is a surefire way to get the regime to ask for ever more from you. It's a great way to avoid having to make hard moral stands because you are constantly kicking the ground underneath you into the sea, before it can ever be washed away. Then, when you have no ground to stand on, you can wait for a helicopter to pull you to safety.

The longer I live through the world's terrifying lurch toward authoritarianism, the more I think reflexive doom and gloom is, in its own way, obeying the regime in advance. To assume that evil horrors will win the day is to automatically give them power over your life, and even if that power is only emotional or psychological, it's still power. It is not certain that evil will triumph, even when it seems like evil is triumphant. Even in the darkest periods in human history, we found ways to care for each other.

Indeed, I would say that the only thing that is certain is that every societal reaction provokes its own opposite reaction. Thus, it stands to reason a second Trump term, no matter how horrible, would still lead to people finding each other, taking care of each other, making sure the world will go on for enough of us that it might, eventually, become a better place to live. There has never been an example of tyranny that did not meet resistance, and even when resistance leaders were wiped out, it's not as though their actions became meaningless because of their imprisonments or deaths. Goodness has its own value, separate from its results, even – and perhaps especially – when it is hardest to notice.

Part of why it's so easy to feel hopeless is because of how many of us spend our lives online, letting our brains marinate in worst-case scenarios that would surely never come to pass even if Trump were re-elected. Yet this hopelessness is also a kind of self-soothing mechanism. While we know the future is unknowable, there is still comfort in believing we can anticipate even the darkest of timelines. If this is the case for you, I would encourage you to go into your community and find the people who will be there, doing the work, every time something bad happens. It might be a charity or a mutual-aid network. It might even be a religious organization. Regardless, these people are already in your community, and they always need more help. And knowing they're there might help you fight through some of your own worst fears.

I have been telling friends of late that I am cautiously optimistic about the results of this election – while also recognizing some part of my brain is preparing a bug-out bag for in case things turn from worse to worst. At first, I thought this was just my overwhelming faith in vibes and the power of narrative structure, but now, I've come to realize that I would rather not believe all hope is lost even in the moments when all hope seems lost. If the worst happens, then the morning after it does, if I'm still around, I'll look for others who are clinging to the idea that we're better off together and swim toward that. It's hard to rebuild a coastline, but it can be done. Better off trying to do that than helping the ocean do its work.

The free edition of Episodes, which (usually) covers classic TV and film, is published every other Wednesday, and the subscriber-supported edition of Episodes, which covers more recent stuff, is published every Friday. It's written by Emily St. James. If you have suggested topics, please reply to the email version of this newsletter or comment (if you are a paid subscriber).