"But aren't you scared?"
I’ve gotten this question at least once a week for the last two years of regularly riding my bike for transportation throughout my city. The question itself is telling. People seem to implicitly understand how dangerous cars are, and what a threat they pose to the safety and well-being of those outside of these massive steel cages, even if they don’t realize it.
But these past ten days or so since the election, the question has been coming more frequently and isn’t about bikes. I’ve been asked if I’m scared of Trump taking a second term, I’ve been asked if I’m afraid to go out in public in “the great State of Texas” (said with the utmost irony), I’ve been asked if I’m scared of what’s next.
And in short, the answer is always, “Yes.”
You would have to be a moron to ride your bike in the places I do without some level of fear. The reality is, there is a ticking clock counting down the months, the days, the minutes until I’m hit by a car. Knowing this, fear is the only appropriate reaction. And truly, it’s the fear that helps to keep me safe. It keeps my head on a swivel, looking for the potential threats. It keeps me paying attention much better than any of the drivers I’m sharing the road with who rarely even notice I’m there. But for better or worse, I’ve never been one to let fear get in the way of what I actually want to do.
I find this analogy too on-point for these questions of fear around the upcoming 47th presidential administration. It feels as though, especially if you hold any number of marginalized identities, fear is absolutely commonplace. So many people feel it. In reality, fear seems to be the symptom of truly understanding what’s going on in the world around us. The fear is saying, “Yes, I’m paying attention. Yes, I am present to our current reality.”
But the fear doesn’t stop me from riding my bike, and it doesn’t stop me from living my life as an out and proud trans person even in Texas. Because fear is a data point, and one data point never tells the whole story.
In the wake of the election, I’ve heard many people talking about how they’re going to leave the state, and even the country because they’re afraid. What I find so fascinating about this, though, is that I hear it coming from people who are what I consider “higher on the ladder of privilege.” This is obviously disappointing for me, but for a couple different reasons. First, I think it’s sad to see people who have more power and access to affect change abandon the fight all together, abandoning their less privileged neighbors in the process. But what is glaringly obvious to me is that these people are new to this kind of fear.
When this kind of fear is new, it can be overwhelming, it can override your nervous system in a way that few things can. I think it’s important to understand, though, that people of marginalized identities have been living their lives day in and day out with this same fear for longer than most of us have even known it existed. So, while it may seem overwhelming in the moment, we have example after example showing us that it will fade, and it’s likely not a great call to make large life decisions while this fear is in the driver’s seat.
If this fear feels new to you, I invite you to sit with it a little longer before acting on it. Explore it, get curious about it. You may find something you weren’t expecting.
When we can see fear as just one of many data points, we get a more full picture of what’s going on. Am I afraid being a trans person living in Texas? Yes, absolutely, for a list of reasons too long to go into in this article. But this fear is not the only piece of data I have to work with. I love my city, my community, my neighborhood. I experience a deep sense of safety knowing that I’ve built meaningful relationships here in Texas. I know when the power goes out (and it will, thanks ERCOT), that I can go to my neighbors and we will support each other. I know that if I was ever faced with real danger, I am literally surrounded by support and care.
Just like with riding my bike, there is always a risk. There is always a healthy level of fear, but riding my bike through the city offers me so much more than the fear could ever take away. I am happier, healthier, and more in love with my city and my community than I ever thought possible behind the wheel of a car.
Fear grows in isolation. So when I hear people talking about how they are afraid, and that’s all they can think about, what I’m really hearing is how disconnected and isolated they are. Fear finds its right place and right size when we’re grounded in authentic and meaningful community. When we’ve developed the relationships that allow us to flourish, fear doesn’t disappear (because often fear is helpful), but it becomes something we can actually work with. In community fear is not paralyzing, it is informative and generative.
So, yes, I am afraid. But if I’m honest, I am only marginally more afraid after this election than I was before it. I’m using that fear to generate a deeper awareness not just for myself, but for others in my community who may be in more dangerous situations. I’m using a healthy amount of fear to make reasonable accommodations for myself and others as I am able. But more importantly, I’m moving deeper into my community and fostering stronger connection in my relationships, so that this fear is always right-sized.
If you are feeling afraid, I invite you to do the same and see how things shift.