Chapter Thirty-Three: What an Octopus Taught Me About the 2024 Election
Photo by Kiril Dobrev on Unsplash
November 17, 2024
Dear Diary,
I thought Kamala Harris was going to win. Given the choice between a convicted felon—an angry man with terrible makeup and divisive rhetoric—and a woman who exuded competence and leadership, the decision seemed obvious. I mean, literally everyone who had ever worked for him publicly declared they were voting for Kamala. Surely, I thought, she would win in a landslide.
But instead, I watched in disbelief as Donald Trump claimed a decisive victory. The results left me reeling. How could women vote against their own autonomy? How could people of color overlook his history of inflammatory rhetoric? How could working-class folks back policies like tariffs that seem so contrary to their own interests?
My disillusionment isn’t just about the results—it’s about what they reveal about our country. Immediately after the election, I couldn’t shake the idea that racism and misogyny must have played a larger role than I’d ever realized. That conclusion felt both painful and unsatisfying. Could those factors alone explain the outcome? I believe in democracy, and I couldn’t accept that hate alone was enough to secure both the popular vote and the Electoral College.
In my search for clarity, I felt compelled to dig deeper. I may not like the results, but since I truly believe in democracy, I owe it to myself to try to understand them. What motivated people to make this choice? What fears, frustrations, or values led them to see things so differently? There’s a part of me that resists this introspection—it’s easier to write it all off as prejudice, ignorance or greed. But I know that doing so won’t bring me closer to understanding, healing, or progress.
As I wrestled with these thoughts, I recently interviewed a local restaurant owner whose family roots in California run deep. His great-great-grandfather settled in Los Angeles in the 19th century, and his great-grandfather was among the first to purchase land in Manhattan Beach in the 1930s. Over the years, he’s witnessed the city’s transformation from a quirky, working-class, surf haven into a polished destination with upscale storefronts and luxury homes—a shift that reflects broader changes in society and economics.
His story felt like a microcosm of the tension I’ve been grappling with. When he vented about the skyrocketing cost of eggs and its impact on his business, it wasn’t about conspiracy theories. It was about the lived frustration of seeing policy fail him. Californians, he reminded me, had passed two propositions over the past 15 years to improve the welfare of egg-laying chickens. We thought we were doing the right thing—giving chickens more room to roam and thrive.
But instead of adapting, egg producers left the state. Now, eggs are trucked in from hundreds of miles away, with soaring transportation costs driving up prices. I probably voted for those propositions, believing I was protecting animals. But was I? The unintended consequence has made eggs less accessible for people living paycheck to paycheck. For “coastal elites”, an extra dollar or two per dozen isn’t life-changing. But for struggling families and restauranteurs on slim margins, it’s a burden.
I could suddenly understand the frustration some people feel toward progressive policies. When “wokeness” comes with unintended costs, it’s easy to see why some voters might opt for leaders who promise to disrupt the status quo.
Amidst this mental reckoning, I found myself in Hawaii for a well-timed conference, seeking clarity in the calm of the islands.There’s something about the gentle strum of ukuleles and swaying palm trees that makes it hard to be anything but relaxed. I decided to book a guided snorkel tour—a first for me, since I usually prefer to free-range snorkel (which, unlike free-range chickens, involves no regulations and minimal oversight).
The tour guides paddled us miles into open water by canoe, where I discovered a world that felt like it belonged in a dream. As I floated over the vibrant underwater landscape, the Beatles lyric, “in an Octopus’s garden in the shade,” kept playing in my mind. It seemed fitting, as I gazed at schools of fish darting between coral, turtles gliding lazily by, and the intricate beauty of the ocean floor. It was a moment of serenity—a underwater garden where, even if only briefly, I could set aside the heaviness of my thoughts.
And then, there it was: an octopus. The guide dove down and brought it up for us to see. When I reached out to touch it, its tentacle suctioned onto my finger, strong and curious. I recoiled in fear, but the guide explained that this was how octopuses explore their world—they latch on to the unknown to better understand it. It struck me as remarkable. Here I was, recoiling from the unfamiliar, struggling to make sense of a world that felt increasingly foreign. And yet, this small creature showed me the power of leaning in—of grabbing onto what feels strange to uncover its meaning.
Maybe, like snorkeling, life sometimes requires both freedom and guidance. And maybe, like the octopus, the best way forward is to grab onto the unfamiliar—even when it feels strange or unsettling—and explore what it has to teach us.
Very truly yours,
Maya