Three years ago, on a hot and clammy October afternoon, I walked into the Chapman Barbershop on Tustin Avenue only to be greeted by my barber, a burly, middle-aged man who reeked of cigarette smoke. I sat down in that ominous swivel chair, nodding politely while half-mindedly listening to him spout this week’s headlines. But, about halfway through the cut, a question snapped me out of it; he asked me if politics had ever affected me. I realized the answer was no.

Then, he replied something that still resonates with me to this day: “You won’t start to care about politics until it affects you at a personal level.”

I brushed it off. Not only did I hate discussing politics, but I always doubted that one singular person – the president of the United States – could completely alter my quality of life.

By God, was that barber correct.

It’s been two days since election night 2020 and I’m a wreck. Watching these results has left me with a constant headache that can only be described as a heavy pressing of the temples. I find myself scattered, only able to focus on each vote being counted, each percentage going up or down. 

In March, when the world shut down from the COVID-19 pandemic, I returned home to the San Francisco Bay Area to finish up my junior year. It started off OK, until I saw how poorly many people – including President Donald Trump – were handling the pandemic. As someone with a number of family members in the medical field, I understand how important it is to follow health and safety guidelines – not just for yourself, but for the well-being of others. 

Yet out of nowhere, a major public health issue became politicized. Of course I’m going to take science’s side.

In June, I saw videos of a Black man, George Floyd, brutally killed in the streets by a white police officer. My morals, regardless of my apolitical nature, were simple: it’s wrong to murder anyone barring extremely dangerous circumstances. That’s about as uncontroversial as it gets. Yet I saw people attempting to justify an officer taking the life of someone whose crime was using a counterfeit bill. 

It made me sick to my stomach. Of course I’m going to take the simple side of empathy.

That grew into full-fledged passion. During the summer, my friend and I turned our burning anger at the government into action. We made signs to support the Black Lives Matter movement and put them up around our neighborhood. As I moved back to school for the fall, I only became more invested in the state of our democracy. During the final presidential debate, I finally realized how furious I was. 

Trump started discussing racism in America, and under my skin, I could feel my blood boiling. Then, he proceeded to call himself the least racist person in the room, despite a history of bigoted statements and actions. 

I snapped. I shouted obscenities at the little orange man on the screen. I even went as far as to throw objects around my apartment. After that hurricane of emotion blew through, I glanced to my left and saw my friend staring at me in disbelief at the rage that had come over me. 

In that moment, I fully understood the change I’ve gone through as a person. Now, politics did affect me on a personal level.

I sit here, still refreshing Google for election updates and I can’t help but think there could be four more years of this. Four more years of hate. Four more years of division. And four more years of anger.

I no longer have the choice to be apolitical.