Beaten for Now, but not forever | by Patricia Stover

I’m finding my heart heavy as I write this. That it even needs to be written. For some, it will be just another day. They will wake up, go to work, have their lunch, and do it all with a smile on their face and a skip in their step. For the rest of us, the women, the people of color, the immigrants, the all the ‘other’ people, we will wake up with the heavy feeling in our gut that something is not right. We’ll turn on our phones, look at the numbers, and die inside.

I’ve lived through a lot in my lifetime. In the eighties, I watched women and other marginalized groups fight for their rights—The right for equal pay and to end racism and sexism in the workplace. I watched more and more of the LGBTQ community come out, and I witnessed the terrible hatred that they faced just for being themselves. I experienced the fight of women to use their voice and express their sexuality. I even watched the news in horror as black men were tied up and dragged behind vehicles until they were dead for no other reason than that they were black.

Yes, I was young, but I still remember. Our country took strides during my lifetime. The wage gap started to close . . . some. More job opportunities opened for minorities and things started to look up little by little.

The first time Trump got elected, I knew terrible things would happen. It was the first election where I ever felt that if I did not vote, I was letting my country down. Because it was the first time I remember being afraid for our country and my rights as a woman. He won.

After, I watched as affirmative action was stripped away, women lost their reproductive rights when he overturned Roe vs. Wade, a mob of HIS supporters stormed the Capital and innocent people died. He ignored scientists and refuted vaccines and MILLIONS of people died as a result. I knew several of them. One, my cousin.

On the day of her funeral my mother and uncle, who are both older and probably not in the best health, arrived in their masks. After receiving side-eyed stares from others, including the sister of the deceased, my uncle approached her. He put his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort his niece.

She yelled. She yelled at him not to touch her, to leave her alone, to get off of her. She screamed at the top of her lungs and jerked her shoulder away. Away from a family member who cared for her and who was merely trying to give her solace. Who loves her deeply and who had watched her grow up. She pushed him away because she, like many others, had let social media brainwash her into believing that covid wasn’t so bad and that masks weren't necessary and that everyone was just overreacting because they are all “crazy liberals.”

I wonder if she realized that she’d been lied to? I wonder if while looking down at her sister’s body, still and cold, if she said to herself, “I was wrong. I was wrong and I am so, so sorry. Forgive me.” Did she say these words to herself, or did she make excuses and blame the liberals once again? I don’t know. I may never know. Because after that day, I’ve never spoken to her again. I lost two cousins that day.

Tammy trusted our President and genuinely believed that he had her best interests in mind. So, she refused the vaccines and now, sadly, she is dead. Since then, I’ve watched as women die because they were refused medical treatment. They were forced to carry their dead babies until they turned septic all because HE decided what was best for OUR bodies. He “Protected” us “whether we liked it or not.”

He’s called women nasty names and told others that you gotta “grab them by the pussy.” Some of those women have come forward to tell their stories, only to be ignored and to see no consequences for the crimes he has committed. Even when E. Jean Carroll won her defamation case, even when there was proof and he did have to pay, his supporters touted that none of it was true. He’s mocked people with disabilities, women, and other minorities and this is just the tip of the iceberg. He has committed MULTIPLE crimes. Not one, not two, not three, but so many that I can’t even keep track.

But because he started as a celebrity, he’d already won. Because he was a face that everyone knew, and he had fans, he won. Because of social media and conspiracy theories, and television, and the fact that he gave racists and misogynists a hate platform . . . he won.

I live in Oklahoma. A deep red state. I hear the noise every day. At work, in the restaurants, from my family. I listen quietly as they try to make excuses for his behavior. They say that women are murdering babies and that illegals are stealing their jobs. I’ve tried to figure out where it all comes from. From what I’ve heard, anger and fear.

I work for a conservative company, unfortunately. I live in an area where job options are minimal and, had I known about the feel of the place beforehand I would never have applied. I am the secretary, a Peabody if you will. I file and type and put together the board meetings. A board which is made up entirely of men, none of which are under fifty. Old men with old-fashioned values.

I sit with my pen and notepad every other month and take down the minutes. A large portion of this is politics. I’ve had to sit steady as they talk about the election and who women should vote for. On the topic of abortion, one had the audacity to state “When they look at the gas prices, they’ll know who to vote for.” The “They” in question being women. Because apparently gas prices are much more important than reproductive rights. (If any of you are hiring, let me know.)

I’ve grown up in a conservative family. One of the memories that most sits with me to this day is of inherited racism. A racism that was passed from generation to generation. A racism that I never understood and as I grew older hated.

I had a cousin who I adored. She was more like a big sister to me than anything really. I was like the bratty little sister who she couldn’t get away from but she tolerated me and showed me love, nonetheless. I idolized her so. I thought that she could do no wrong. She was EVERYTHING to me.

She was four years older than I and had a bit of a wild streak, as a lot of teenagers do. It happened one Christmas, or Thanksgiving, I can’t remember which. I know it was a holiday because I remember the smell of dressing in the oven and giblet gravy on the stove. Her mother and my parents were gathered around the old wood-burning stove. I was sitting on the edge of my grandmother’s blue sofa and my cousin stood in the hallway next to me.

As usual, she and I were whispering about something and my brother, standing nearby, overheard. The next thing I know is I heard him yell, “Amy’s dating a _____.” I’ll let you fill in the blank.

Silence.

I didn’t understand why it made everyone in the house stop talking and start staring at my cousin. In tears, she retreated to her room. I tried to follow but was told to stop. I remember my father saying that we were leaving and me asking him why, but he would never tell me. I think he was ashamed to say. He did not want to admit his own prejudice in front of his only daughter. The daughter who had, up until that point, idolized him as well.

I was no longer allowed to hang out with my cousin, and we lost touch for a while. I missed out on so much of her life and her of mine all because of this inherited racism. But then, when the baby was born, my father went to the delivery as if nothing had ever happened. I was off on my own adventures by then, deep into my own downfall. But I remember wondering why, if he was so strongly against this, did he go?

I never got an answer to that question. Years later, when I was twenty-seven and thought I was in love, I brought a man home. He was from Puerto Rico and black. My father never said a negative word. He welcomed him with open arms. No nasty slurs were spoken, and I was not disowned as I had feared. I think my father knew then, as he does now, that I do what I want and I never ask permission. That I am full of love for everyone and if he is going to be in my life he needs to be too.

Because somewhere between my cousin being ostracized and my bringing Ernesto home, I had hard conversations. I spoke my heart and my mind, and I told my family how I really felt. I did it over and over and over. I spoke it with anger. I spoke it with disgust. Then I spoke it with love and every emotion in between. I spoke it with tears in my eyes and my heart thrumming my sternum and I’ll keep speaking my truth until the day I die. Because issues like these will never go away.

They will never leave because they are fueled by fear-soaked rags drenched in hate kerosene and social media gasoline. By years of harmful beliefs, handed down from one generation to the next and now given a podium to sit on and spew conspiracy theory rhetoric thought up by people with nothing better to do than sit behind their keyboard or pound their thumbs against the cracked screens of their phones. Too angry, too afraid, or just too damned lazy to educate themselves with the truth. So ready to swallow pills of misinformation to better justify the beliefs handed down to them from their parents and grandparents before them.

Hope is action. Have hard conversations. Keep writing, keep protesting, and keep voting, keep learning. And when someone shows you that they are bad news the first time, believe it. Do what you can to get involved, if you are able. Our voices DO MATTER. We matter. Don’t let a group of hateful people convince you that we don’t. Don’t shut down and give in, no matter how depressed or angry you get. Instead, use it to fight for our rights. Tell them that they cannot have what is rightfully yours. Keep your chins up and your hearts open and lead with love. There are still people out there who have love for you. In fact, there are millions of us.

Patricia Stover is a Horror and Feminist author from Southern Oklahoma. Her works have been published with Weirdsmith, The Radical Notion, and Scout Media Books and Music. To learn more about Patricia and her work you can visit her website at: www.patriciastover.com. You can connect with her on Instagram, Threads, and Bluesky.