I don't teach on Tuesdays, so when I called to schedule two long-overdue medical appointments a few weeks ago and both offices had availability on Election Day, November 5, I took them.
The early morning air felt heavy with uncertainty as I slipped into my car to make the hour-long trek to Santa Monica, not having changed doctors since moving over the summer. I listened to an audiobook of historical fiction set in the Canadian West to distract myself from what was occurring in our country that day.
Arriving early to my first appointment, I said an election day prayer, then sat in silence in my car in the parking lot before going into my optometrist's office, bracing myself for talk of the election, for expressions of uncertainty, of hope, of frustration, of optimism, of fear, of anything. Instead, I was met with... silence.
Oh, the receptionist greeted me cordially and the technician who conducted my vision tests was pleasant, but neither mentioned the day, so neither did I. My optometrist and I had a long conversation about my vision, changes to my prescription, and discussed at length the preventative care protocol that my daughter's optometrist had prescribed for her just a few days earlier. But nothing of the election.
I drove to my next appointment in a multi-story medical building, and no one - not the parking lot attendants, not the people in the lobby, not fellow patients in the elevator, nor staff in the hallways - were discussing the election.
I sat through blood draws, measurements, an echocardiogram, x-rays, and a long conversation with my physician during my annual physical, and during those two hours, no one mentioned the election. No one, that is, until I stood waiting to submit my co-pay and the receptionist hung up the phone and turned toward me apologetically.
"Everyone's canceling their appointments," she told me, indicating the phone. "We'll have no one in the office this afternoon."
"Oh," was all I thought to say.
"Most of tomorrow's patients cancelled, too," she continued. She shook her head. "No one wants to come down here because everyone's afraid there will be riots in Santa Monica tomorrow."
I suppose I should not have been surprised that no one mentioned the election on election day, because for me, this election has been one of silences. Unlike previous elections -most notably in 2016 when I had endless conversations about the candidates with many different kinds of people including colleagues and students - no one around me spoke about this one. No one. Not at church, not at the parish school, not during my various classes, presentations, or talks. It struck me as odd, but I thought perhaps it's because I'm new to this school/church community and no one knows me well enough to bring up the divisive topic of presidential politics.
The day after the election I thought I might hear something, but again, I heard nothing about the election from the other school parents. I coach my daughter's school volleyball team and we had practice and a home game on November 6, a gym full of cheering families, mere hours after the election had been called, and again, no talk of it reached my ears.
Reading some of the recent pre- and post-election posts from my fellow AB bloggers, I've been reflecting upon the meaning of the silences I've experienced during this election cycle.
The main word that comes to mind is one that Philip Jenkins mentioned in his post Faith and Reconciliation After A Horribly Bitter Election: kindness.
Though our small parish school is Roman Catholic, our families represent a diversity of faiths beyond Roman Catholic: Ukrainian Greek Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Coptic Christian, and Muslim, and those are only the ones I've met so far. Families are racially, socioeconomically, and linguistically diverse; some are scholarship families and others are millionaires. We have immigrants and those who can trace their local lineage back generations. Some live 5 minutes away, and some live 25 minutes away and three towns over. What binds everyone through all these differences is kindness. Everyone loves one another. As a newcomer to this school, I've found it rather astonishing.
So, why the silence surrounding the election?
There are many reasons for remaining silent. Out of fear. Out of resignation. Out of duty. Out of a certainly that you won't be heard. Out of not being allowed to speak. Out of self-sacrifice. Out of self-interest. Out of so much more.
Importantly, silence does not mean inaction. Silence can, of course, be a provocative statement or an act of defiance. But silence in one arena, i.e., the school community, does not mean that these families do not engage in private political conversations, or that they are not politically active outside of school. I know several to be active in local politics, and others to be deeply embedded in their local communities and invested in outreach to the overlooked.
I'm left to wonder if the reason election talk has not pervaded conversations on school grounds or appeared during birthday gatherings in local parks or at one another's homes is because the topic is so divisive. Could the kindness of this school family have prompted an avoidance of election talk as a respectful alternative to the vitriol expressed by the candidates and their campaigns? Could this community's silence surrounding the election be an act of love?