Vol. 85: Spotting Patterns

I’ve been noticing some patterns lately. For one, I had food poisoning last Saturday for the first time since Donald Trump’s first (yikes) inauguration in January 2017. Back then, I joked that my body was rejecting his presidency; I shudder what it means this time, nearly three weeks after he won both reelection and the popular vote despite his fraud convictions, despite running a campaign with horrific xenophobia and racism littered everywhere for everyone to see.

I remember some things so clearly: In January 2017, I was at my then-girlfriend’s apartment. I had cooked us a spaghetti Hello Fresh that was probably several days past its best by (I don’t even like spaghetti! I just hate food waste!), and she’d just broached moving in together. I knew immediately I’d do it - I was and am hopelessly in love with her, eager to take the next step to see how what we had would grow in the next phase of life - but I hadn’t said yes just yet. I remember thinking how funny it was that immediately after she brought this up I was so disgustingly sick, almost as if to say, “you’re sure you want to sign up for this?” 

Other things I don’t remember, like how absolutely awful and painful food poisoning is. Roohia and I had a charming afternoon in the city catching up, exploring shoppy shops, spending money, talking about pretty jewelry and how we are bored with our jobs. We went out to lunch at a beloved spot that I will not name and refuse to blame because there is so much listeria, E. coli and random shit going around in our food that we agreed it is NOT their fault. We’ve already lost too much to lose them too! I came home to what I thought was a migraine but ended up canceling our evening date night and REDACTED/we don’t need to get into details! What I will say is that I’d done a core strength aerial yoga class the day before, so my core was already sore prior to the vomiting - I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy!

My wife took care of me, as I’m sure she did in 2017 but likely even better after years of knowing each other even deeper than we did back then. I spent Sunday and Monday taking shots of pedialyte and tapping into my inner theatre kid by tearing up watching Instagram videos of the Wicked press tour.

In 2016 on election night, I remember my wife and I at the gym. My women’s network was having an election night watch party and I kind of wanted to attend - but more than that, I wanted to be with her and she didn’t want to go. So we stayed home and as always, she was right. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves as the returns came in so we anxiously pedaled on Ellipticals in her downstairs apartment gym. I remember saying, “No matter what happens, it is bad enough that he made it this far.” I wasn’t shocked by what happened next; I was cynical and disgusted.

Another pattern: on Thursday, once I recovered from my food poisoning, I went to see the Wicked: Act One film with Cynthia Erivo as Elphaba and Ariana Grande-Butera as Glinda. As a fan of Wicked since my youth, of course I cried during Defying Gravity, a song that has faded in and out of my speakers over the years, that served as an anthem for my younger self seeking to live boldly. But beyond the joy of returning to something I loved as a young teen, the parallels to our current political moment are chilling (Light spoilers this paragraph only): when Dr. Dillamond is ushered out at the hands of police felt like a premonition of Trump’s xenophobic calls for using the military for mass deportations; when the Wizard shares that the quickest way to prevent the masses from seeing your powerlessness is through creating a common enemy, I thought of the xenophobia and racism towards immigrants; I thought of the million dollars in transphobic “Kamala isn’t for you, she’s for they/them” ads.

I’ve long thought of myself as theatre kid lite - I did theatre throughout elementary, middle, and high school. I love some mainstream musicals, but I also always had friends who were in SO MUCH deeper - and could actually sing and act! I was a techie, building sets with Maggie in the shop. I acted at my church but was rarely cast in the high school productions. I wasn’t familiar with every musical. But I remember clearly the stress of tech week and the of high emotions that followed at Denny’s or a basement cast party after each successful performance.

In November 2016, a couple weeks after Hillary Clinton lost, my mom and I went on a mother-daughter trip to New York City to see The Color Purple on Broadway. I don’t remember how the trip came about - why just me, not my other siblings? - only that it was much needed time together in a world that was as uncertain politically as it was for us personally in the wake of Donald Trump’s election and less than two months after my grandpa, her father, died peacefully in his sleep. I know it was during Cynthia Erivo’s tenure as Celie but I don’t truly remember if she performed the specific night we saw The Color Purple - though in my head, it was her. I know whenever I listen to her sing “I’m Here,” I’m transported back to that theatre, with my mom, crying tears that come when art moves you to emotional release.

In my Wicked algorithm, I came across a clip (that I have since lost, as algorithms go) of Ariana Grande interviewing Cynthia Erivo with what appears to be a lie detector strapped to her body. Ariana asks, “Is Defying Gravity the hardest song you’ve ever performed?” Cynthia immediately responds, “No. . . [it’s] I’m Here.” Ariana asks, “Vocally or emotionally?” And Cynthia replies, “Both.” There’s a thread here, I’m sure, that the song written to show a Black woman finding her voice in a world that continuously disrespects her is the more rigorous song. That The Color Purple is a musical that’s both beloved and famous, to be sure, but has faced the racism and marginalization of Black art compared to a musical like Wicked - notably, a musical I was only minimally aware of as a kid growing up in a predominantly white community, where I missed out on so much beautiful Black art.

On Election Night/Morning After 2024, I was stunned. When Joe Biden dropped out of the race in August and endorsed Vice President Kamala Harris, my wife was anxious - she has three decades of first-hand experience with how this country treats Black women; she was scared for Kamala and skeptical. For me, I decided early on that as a white women, voicing that concern about America’s disrespect for Black women - while 100% factual - felt as if I’d be promoting and actualizing the same narrative I wanted to disrupt, that America hates Black women too much to ever elect one as President. So I chose hope. I believed it was possible for her to win, for him to lose, and I hoped it was possible even when I disagreed with her on harmful policies to continue arming Israel amidst a genocide. And I was crushed when she didn’t win.

So many of my friends - particularly those who are Black women - shared that they were angry. I wish I could feel angry. I’m still working on it.

My wife wasn’t familiar with Wicked, so in the days post-poisoning, pre-Wicked, I shared some of my memories of the songs with her. I have a vivid memory of “For Good” at my senior year of high school at youth worship. That service was the last day I was to see a dear friend who was an exchange student from Pakistan that year. She was staying with a woman from my church, but also was a part of our high school theatre group, Huron Players, and in women’s literature class with me. We spent lots of time together, and I fell in love with her humor and thoughtfulness. She was Muslim, but participated in our youth group, and showed me and another friend how she tied her hijab when we were on our annual winter retreat. I displayed a picture of the two of us wearing hijab for years to come, in a frame my friend gave me that reads “Best Friends Forever.”

In my memory of this Sunday, the youth group is wearing our matching t-shirts as we always do at youth worship. It must have been my senior year because that’s the year she was an exchange student, and the boy I’d broken up with six months prior was there, already an ex. And two girls were singing “For Good.” For those who aren’t familiar with the second act of Wicked, I won’t spoil it for you except to share the iconic lyrics: “Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.”

This is where I’m not sure if I’m mixing up my memories because the girls singing in my memory were older than me, and they would have already graduated and moved away by then. But I remember the song ringing in my ears as I walked up the whole, long church aisle, pew by pew, crying, rushing to say goodbye to my friend before she moved home to Pakistan. 

I started recounting this story to my wife while listening to “For Good” with tears in my eyes. “I just remember how sad I was when Roohia moved home!” My wife looked at me and said, “Allison. Now you see her all the time!” 

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All thoughts my own and not of my wife who is a Cynthia Erivo Anti-Fan

Thank you to Lauren for serving as an editor for the piece!