Election day approaches, and I eat sour grapes

For a moment, I wasn’t planning on voting in the US election this year. It’s not that I don’t care, because I really do. It’s just that, before I even tried, a voice told me not to bother. I’ve never voted from abroad, plus what does it matter if they miss my one vote, right?

I recognize the voice that’s telling me not to bother voting. It’s the same voice that’s told me not to rock the boat that’s already filling with water. In a crowded room, I should either keep quiet or side with the popular opinion and never get emotional or flustered. It’s the same voice I grew up with that told me to make all those dumb squinty-eyed jokes about myself before anyone else could, and that speaking Chinese to my family was something to be embarrassed about. It said that this is what you must do to fit in and survive. I’ve listened to it for so long now that sometimes I believe what it’s telling me.

But the safety of belonging it promises is at the expense of my voice, and that has lost its allure. While I hold my tongue and nod my head, behind my smokescreen is a bubbling pot of anger and resentment and self-hatred. I am a robot with no mind of its own. I can not stand my ground on my own beliefs for fear of being disliked or being wrong or looking stupid. Meanwhile, my head is about to swivel off if I continue nodding.

We have a content problem. They think we have no inner resources. But while I may look impassive, I am frantically paddling my feet underwater, always overcompensating to hide my devouring feelings of inadequacy.

Minor Feelings - Cathy Park Hong

This past summer I worked the line in a restaurant. I’ve heard the stereotypes of the hard life of a line cook: never seeing your friends and working long hours on your feet. But I’ve also heard stereotypes about the sort of people who thrive in that environment. The eccentric personalities that can sing and shout and crack jokes under the pressure of working ten things at once. Adrenaline junkies wearing tattoo sleeves with a pack of cigarettes tucked in their back pocket—the complete opposite of me. Me, whose fingers shake and brain unravels when nervous, not the personality that thrives on a restaurant line, but I wanted to be so bad. I thought maybe by the end of the summer, I’ll have a little more confidence and finally not give a fuck what people think of me. But at the end of my three months, I left pretty much the same as I was before.

The chef, I worked for is Korean-American. He has tattoos on his arms and wears backward hats. He laughs loudly, cooks well, and says exactly what he wants from you. One day at work, I was helping prep something for an event he had coming up. When I asked what the event was, he said it was to bring out Asian Americans and raise awareness for the election.

It’s a really important election, and there are a lot of us in the Asian community who aren’t very politically active, he says.

I nod, but inside I’m embarrassed. I am the person he is talking about.

While I run across the world to hide and write in my room, the world goes on. Streams of news remind me of the upcoming election and close polls. Of the consequences of another Trump administration. Of war in Ukraine and genocide in Gaza. Of irreversible effects of climate change. Whatever I believe, politics is part of my life, but I’m ignorant and not sure where to begin. That voice in my head says it’s too late, and part of me is afraid it’s right. I’ve long since volunteered myself to stand in the corner with tape over my mouth. The second I take it off, I’ll surely look like a fool. How do I expect to stand for anything if I can’t even stand up for myself? All I have is my voice, if I don’t use it, my throat will close up, and the rest of my life will be spent longing to speak. I’ve seen Asian people like myself and read Asian authors say things I can only ever dream of saying out loud. If I don’t do the same as them, why bother ever picking up another book?

Outside of the house where I’m staying, there’s a grape vine growing off the balcony. Little bunches of purple fruit hang on display. Supposedly their season lasts until the end of October, right before November and election day in the states. They’re small as blueberries and so tart that the muscles in my jaw immediately seize up.

When I call her, she is surprised when I say I might not vote this year.

Your vote is in Wisconsin, of course it’s important, she says.

I already know she’s right. When we were 19 she already knew what she stood for, while four years later I’m still trying to hide my beliefs in my pockets. Sometimes her voice is the other one I hear, telling me I should speak up. Outside the grapes still hang under the balcony, purple and tart, so I request my absentee ballot.