He Does Not Represent Me

y Sunah Chang (Harvard College Undergraduate)

When I was six years old, I asked my first grade teacher if presidents were synonymous to kings. Back then, I had no knowledge of the political system and only understood kings and queens in the context of fairy tale stories. My teacher responded, “No, kings rule their people. Presidents represent their people.”

He does not represent me.

He is only fluent in the language of reality television. I see him on screens everyday. I see him spewing, stuttering, spitting hatred, releasing oxygen onto a white flame. His words crescendo into echo chambers. I see him everywhere. I see him in news stories about boys harassing women of color on the Wellesley college campus. I see him in strangers yelling at my Asian American sisters and brothers to go back to their countries. I see him: a cascading chain reaction, a sparkling new addition to the oppressionsexismracismhomophobiaxenophobia inked into our history. I see him. He doesn’t see me.

He does not represent me.

The Oval Office has converted into a boy’s locker room. He casts an entire race as rapists. He talks about coercing women into sex, but he is excused, shrugged off, sheltered. He is building a wall. He is untouchable. I am in a room full of other women watching the election coverage. We are all locked in an inhale, suffocating. After the elections results are finalized, I enter into another room and silently embrace the first two bodies I find. We sink into the floor—our shaking spines collapse into a collective concavity.

He does not represent me.

The heroic savior declares his godly plan to battle terrorism. Meanwhile, his hateful rhetoric drops bombs. Americans implode—aliens in their own homes, chess-piece pawns tossed aside by the white king.

He does not represent me. I am angry and heart-broken and exhausted and disappointed and outraged. I am not leaving. I am here: grounded, facing forward.