When class ended, they fist bumped and stretched their legs and grabbed paper towels to wipe down their bikes. A couple of shouts of “good class,” and “thanks Jeff” and people filed out of the room. As they left, I gave a quick plug for my next class, “I’ll see y’all on Saturday at eight,” and I began mopping up the puddle under my bike. I sweat more than anyone. Yes, I work out hard, but so does everyone else. I’m just a sweaty dude.
I shut off the stereo, the fans, the Christmas lights that encircle the ceiling, and I plopped down in the room’s only chair to clock out. The time clock app is always a production. I gave myself an absurd password. Lots of switching between screens—caps, numbers, special characters and those special-special characters on the deepest screen. My fingers shake. I mistype. My phone locks up after an hour of blasting music. I mistype again. As I frustrate myself and earn a few extra pennies while repeatedly trying to enter my password, Kathy and Don stand over a bike and discuss the decline of America—specifically the larger implications of the election results.
I eavesdrop, sorry I’m not part of the conversation. Although with these two, I might be out classed. Kathy is a deep thinker. A published author, a fabulous poet. Her opinions are thoughtful and measured. Never any of the off-the-cuff crap I throw out. Don has lived all over the world. Fifteen years my senior and still grinding out three spin classes each week. We haven’t spoken much, but I know he’s an avid reader of nonfiction. I’m sure I’d drag this conversation down.
“It’s overwhelming to try to combat the whole system. We each need to pick one place to make an impact.” This is Kathy, making a great point, as I expect her to. “If each Harris voter—an army of seventy-three million people—finds their own way to make a meaningful difference, maybe we can implement change.”
“Well,” I think to myself, “I do my part.” When I see something I don’t like, I write about it. From 2015 through the end of the last Trump term, I saw plenty I didn’t like. I churned out countless essays criticizing Trump and his approach to governing the country. I’m a dissident, a rebel. I sway opinions with the written word. This is what I tell myself.
But if I’m honest, I doubt I do any good. My Mourning After post, explaining my shock and depression after Trump won the recent election, received only one negative comment. The writer ranted about men playing in women’s sports and accused all democrats of being pedophiles. I didn’t sway his beliefs. My blog posts are, almost exclusively, met with likes. Facebook is the same way. I’ve surrounded myself with uniform-thinkers. I’m shouting into an echo chamber.
During the election, I didn’t knock on doors. I didn’t donate. I didn’t even put up a yard sign. “I think our pride flag says all people need to know,” says my wife Susan.
I’m certain she’s right. No one with an LGBTQ flag voted for Trump. Still, I never stood in the Gettysburg central square and chanted Harris slogans. And truthfully, I can’t see the point. I found all this talk about undecided voters over the past few months ridiculous. How could anyone possibly be undecided? You’re either a person who will vote for a rapist or you’re not. You’re either a person who will vote for a man who bragged about sexually assaulting women or you’re not. I couldn’t believe over half the voting public could overlook so many well-documented disqualifiers, but I also never doubted that Trump would win. Something is diseased in America now.
I agree with Kathy. We are each duty-bound to find a way to make a difference. I won’t stop writing, it’s in my DNA, but I also won’t fool myself into believing I change the way people think. Maybe as the leader of a weekly spin class, I can sneak in songs with inclusive messages that will seep into everyone’s subconscious when they are too tired to resist.
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Previously Published on jefftcann.com and is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
