At the moment that I write this column, it is still not known who the next president of the United States will be. But one thing is clear: the country is so polarized that one no longer understands the truths or the lies that make one decide for whom one will vote and why.
The sirens and helicopters returned to my neighborhood. They began on Tuesday night, but it was after Wednesday that the deafening noise of the engines wandering the skies of Greenwich Village made me feel even more uneasy than before. And the protests returned to the heart of Manhattan: protests to protect the election’s results and defend democracy, protests so all votes are counted, protests against racism and fascism, protests against some and for others…
The truth is that I am not quite clear about what will happen over the next few days nor how society will react. I suppose that all will depend on the behavior of the presidential candidates, who for better or worse represent half of the population. That is the reality in which we find ourselves. And in these months when I devoured the complete works of García Márquez, I cannot stop thinking in the idea that, between the pandemic and the sociopolitical division, the world is immersed in a kind of magical realism that leans towards the tragic, and from which we know it will take us a while to come out of (if it’s not that we are going in circles).
On this side of the ocean, each one will show the worst of themselves to be able to win. And on the side of the mortals who don’t compete for anything but for survival, we will continue to worry about cultivating patience and hope, looking for something that will make our lives happy while we dream of the day when we may leave uncertainties behind.