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• 1 media/Control Screen.jpg 2016-12-07T17:15:39-08:00 Fast-Forward 8 image_header 2016-12-15T10:38:04-08:00 I’m sitting at my computer filling out applications for a Masters of Teaching, downing a Diet Pepsi, a caffeinated comfort not quite realized. I’m twenty- three years old and look more like my mother than ever, my wavy hair up in a clip, a book to be read beside my bed and a paper to be written looming somewhere in my stratosphere. I’m just about to finish my application and start on the next “to-do” item, when I turn on the news and see that Donald Trump is ahead in the poles. It’s November 8^th, 2016. I can’t believe it- ahead.
  
   I think back a week before when my car was in the shop and my mom had to pick me up from work. Janie, my coworker, and I were standing out front making conversation. Suddenly, the color left my face and my hands began to shake. I liked Janie, I really did. It took her months to warm up to me, the new girl, and I was so ecstatic the day she invited me to sit with our other coworkers at lunch, breezily saying, “This is Vannah, she’s cool.” Cool. She thought I was cool. Three months in and I had finally made my first friend. It was quickly approaching 8:00pm and my mother was never late. I had to think fast. I found myself prefacing my mother’s arrival with stories of my childhood and what a great mom she is. I went on to tell Janie all about my mother’s academic achievements and volunteer work right up until the moment her car pulled up. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow!” I said cheerily, hoping Janie would start walking to her car. But she didn’t- she stayed right there, waving until she disappeared from my rear-view mirror. I melted into a puddle in the passenger seat, knowing that my mom’s bumper sticker was blatantly obvious by now to Janie. “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN” in all capital letters, trimmed in a fire-engine red, was the lasting impression she got of me that day. Definitely not cool. Janie is African American.