I woke up early on the morning after the election. Like many other Americans, the first thing I did was go onto Google to see who had won the presidential race. Donald Trump’s name glared up at me and I felt my eyes well with tears. I spent a lot of the day in despair, my entire body aching with a grief I had not fully anticipated. I cried for myself, for the reality of what this could mean for me, especially given my impending criminal case. I cried for the future of our planet, for the climate crisis that is rapidly becoming irreversible. I cried for the transgender kids who were villainized throughout this election. I cried for immigrants and their families, who will now have to live in even more fear than before. I realized, however, that I did not cry for the animals that morning. I did not cry for the baby chicken who was undoubtedly writhing in pain on a factory farm as my tears fell. I did not cry for the pig who was choking on his own blood in a slaughterhouse. I did not cry for the fish who was violently suffocating on a ship deck. For them, November 6th was a day like any other. For them, the worst thing imaginable had already happened. It happened to them every day of Joe Biden’s presidency, every day of Donald Trump’s first term in office, and every day of Obama’s. No matter who is president, the animals, particularly those farmed for food, are always forgotten. It is true that some presidents have been more inclined to protect wolves and other endangered wildlife, which is important. I do fear that Trump will roll back the few protections animals have, but the bulk of animals who suffer each day will suffer no matter who sits in the oval office.
A few days before the election, I was speaking to my mom on the phone. She was about to phone bank for Kamala Harris. I was skeptical if it was going to make a difference, and, perhaps rudely, I told her so. She wasn’t sure either, but she was set on doing it anyway. She felt she had to do something. As I spoke to her, our rescued rooster Glenn had walked into the kitchen, where she was preparing to make calls to swing state voters. Glenn was rescued from a factory farm as a baby. He was found slowly dying of dehydration. My mom greeted him and said to me, half jokingly, “Glenn would vote for Kamala Harris if he could.”
Immediately, without hesitation, I disagreed.
“No, he wouldn’t.”
My mom didn’t immediately understand my response. She, more seriously now, argued that he would because Trump would be worse for animals. I agreed, he would be, but I still did not think Glenn would vote for either of them.
“They would both eat him,” I said, “Why would he vote for someone who would eat him?”
My mom grew quiet. Then, through the phone, I heard her sadly say, “Yeah… I guess you’re right. He wouldn’t vote for Kamala Harris.”
As I grieve the results of this election, I realize that my grief comes from a place of privilege. I am so privileged to have things that I now fear losing. Animals do not even have the right to their own lives.
This morning, forty monkeys escaped from the Alpha Genesis research facility in South Carolina. I am inspired by their act of resistance. However, as they are currently being hunted by police, I know there are no legal protections to stop them from being executed for this resistance. If the police deem them even a minor threat to human safety, they will take their lives without hesitation. They will not be given a trial or an opportunity to share their side of the story. They do have the right to their own lives.
Over the next several years, we must all pledge not to do what every president has done. We must pledge to never forget the animals. We must continue to fight for them, to free them from the chains that keep them trapped in a life, and eventually a death, that is defined by human supremacy. Fight for the trans community. Fight for immigrants. Fight for women. Fight for people trapped in the criminal justice system. Fight for our planet. But please, don’t forget our nonhuman friends. They’ve been forgotten for far too long.
