Illustration by Corey BrightImagined by Tessa M. Case // News and Science Editor// news@insideuab.comHillary Rodham Clinton was inaugurated president on Jan. 20, 2017. Her platform included a fair tax system, disability rights, racial justice, LGBT rights and equality, early childhood education, infrastructure and a myriad of other promises.
I was with her. I had been a student intern with her campaign, and we all had been elated from the evening of Nov. 8, 2016 to the evening of Jan. 20. After the ceremony, I had returned to my messy D.C. apartment. Too joyful and exhausted to care, I had collapsed onto my bed and went to sleep.
When I had awoken, it was Jan. 21, 2017, and President Clinton was ready to get to work. It was like we had all collectively agreed to ignore that the House and Senate were both Republican majorities. We were just happy to have overcome Trump.
I had gone to work to help organize and clean all the ceremony materials. I had needed to find out which department I would be helping out with since my time with President Clinton had ended, but there had been no time to discuss it. I had finished early and was able to return home. Bored, I had decided to clean my apartment, binge-watch some Netflix and crash early.
The next morning was the first time we noticed. I awoke, stretched and grabbed my phone. My calendar notification alerted me to my dad’s birthday. That was strange. Yesterday was my dad’s birthday.
I slid my phone to the next screen. Jan. 21, 2017.
“What?” I muttered, tossing the clearly possessed phone aside and moving to the living room where my laptop resided. Same thing. Jan. 21, 2017.
“This is ridiculous,” I snarled, slamming the screen shut. I closed my eyes, took a breath, counted back from 10 then stood up. Something caught my attention. My apartment was dirty. I knew I had cleaned it, but there sat my clothes, shoes, papers and trash.
To say I ran to the office was an understatement. When I arrived, everyone stood bewildered. The materials, papers, speech copies and press releases that we had put away the day before had not been touched. We all just stood there staring at each other.
It was a media storm. Time had stopped in the United States. We thought it was going to be Jan. 21 forever. I couldn’t believe it; I had put in so much time and effort for time to stop moving? I had spent the last year of my life dedicated to changing the world, and the day wasn’t even going to change? I knew my life was over.
After several weeks of Jan. 21 and a growing unrest amongst the population, the phenomenon had been figured out. It was discovered after a bill had been passed to investigate the phenomenon, and we all awoke to find it was Jan. 22. Then, just as a test, another bill was pushed through allocating more funds to the research project, and the week progressed to Jan. 23. Time only worked when the legislative body did.
Ah-mazing. We had to rely on the legislators to actually do something. All hope was lost.
It’s been like that for two years now. However, our calender has only progressed to June 2, 2017.
Factories have been shut down, the grocery stores are devoid of people, and there is not a single barista left to make the perfect, fair trade cappuccino I once had every morning.
I mean, we all technically still have jobs, but what’s the point of working all day when the day is just going to start over like nothing ever happened? The rest of the world is still spinning: the EU is a powerhouse, China — the new economic superstar — is soaring uncontested and poor, little U.S. just sits here, begging our president to do something, anything really, to push the days forward. Apparently she lost all ability to motivate after the inaugural address.
“Ban all limits on abortion so it can be tomorrow already!” “Repeal Roe v. Wade so we can get through a week!” “Legalize marijuana!” “Trickle down policies!”
Facebook polarization rules the day, and our ever-faithful senators and congressional representatives answer to their ever-rational constituents. Then, in a shocking turn of events, nothing continues to happen.
The headlines still read, “The day progress stood still” as if this is all some kind of joke. Factories have closed down, no point in trying and their graffiti reads “Will work when Congress does.”
In a somewhat sick sense of humor, the growing unemployed population sits on the street corners with signs, “Will write legislation for food.”
The world seems devoid of color and energy. Most people don’t bother to come outside anymore. The streets, the shops, the entire country itself seems to be empty. I’m no exception, and, maybe, I’m the worst of all. I’ve given up hope. It’s been almost two months since it has been June 2, yet clocks show no sign of turning.
The frustration and confusion have led to even more political gridlock. Clinton is almost never seen. To be fair, not many politicians are seen at all since planning any fundraising events are pointless.
This is not what I had signed up for when I accepted my internship. I had signed up for change, for hope and for a common decency and cooperation with my fellow Americans. When the news talked about this being the most polarized and hate-filled election, I never took it seriously. All elections were like this, weren’t they? Name-calling and dragging people’s personal lives onto national debate floors avoiding any actual policy — that was what all the politicians did, right?
There was no coming together. The “nasty women” and “bad hombres” put their tents up on one side of the fence and the silent majority sat at the other. Apparently, even time stopping could not bring people together enough to make some real change. It makes them hate more.
One night, the sun had started to set. In a fit of tearful boredom, I cleaned my apartment again. I didn’t do it very often any more, but every now and then the vile virus of optimism shot itself into my veins. I had gotten lucky a few times and had an apartment that I didn’t have to clean for months. It was one of the small ways to fill the time; I didn’t work any more. Everything that I had worked for got snatched away from my hands because some old, white men refused to actually do their jobs.
An old, white woman refused to do her job too. Gone were the days of ‘stronger together.’ No more moving forward, literally and figuratively.
That morning when I woke up, I grabbed my phone, ready to shoo away the same notifications I had received the last 40 something June 2s. However, they weren’t there. Nothing was there, actually, except the date: June 3, 2017.
I leaped from bed, grabbed my laptop and hurried to open the official congressional website. My heart sank.
Congress had approved the name change of a post office.
