I have this awful feeling, this awful dangerous fluttering feeling I think they call ‘hope.’ The sun doesn’t help. After weeks of rain, flat white skies and gloomy afternoons, the weather is finally perfect. Indecently perfect. We have a bunch of sweet peas on our table that smells of golden syrup, and the late-morning kitchen scene is so glorious I can only watch it out of the corner of my eye. Blackberries crawl across the path outside, begging us to eat them, and when we do, they taste just right and barely stain our clothes. My point is that all is not bad right now; it is almost good.
Like watching snap peas, I read the news with one eye closed. Yes, there is horror, degrees of torment and hell. But amid the pain, there are moments of magic, like communities taking to the streets to rebuild mosques and mobilizing to defend their streets from far-right rioters, and Simone Biles flying, actually in feats of artful grandeur, and on the other channel, signs of real change. Could it be – dare we dream – that Kamala Harris will become president of America? A woman who stands firmly on abortion and reproductive rights, facing a man who is committed to overturning Roe v. Wade? That gives me hope, which in turn terrifies me.
Since the British election, the number of “optimistic” voters has risen by 14 percentage points. Polls found that before the election, only 31 percent of voters were optimistic about the country, while 43 percent were actively pessimistic. After Labour came into power, the mood has changed, with 45 percent now optimistic about the country. And while this new government is far from perfect, the speed with which it has confirmed pay rises for NHS staff, teachers and junior doctors seems straightforward and positive.
At home, too, a light breeze of optimism has entered my family’s homes: each month that has passed since my sister’s stem cell transplant quietly and bravely piles up on the last, a fragile tower of hope. Do you know that feeling when a butterfly lands on your wrist and you don’t dare move or speak above a whisper? We don’t really know what to do with ourselves.
It is much easier and more comfortable to expect the worst. There is much joy in ridicule, and pessimism is a great relief. It is much better to prepare for the worst, and then, of course, whatever happens, whether the best or the most terrible thing you expect, you win. It is much better to despair. Sure, you only live half a life, looking back and wearing wipe-clean tracksuits in all possible shades of blue that hide stains better, but – it is easier this way.
Furthermore, it is unfortunately embarrassing to express hope. Babies are hopeful, not grown-ups. Babies, for example, look at a clean spoon, their eyes widen, their mouths open, they tremble with joy. A puff? Euphoria. Suddenly he appears behind your hand with a smile and a crazy rhyming sentence? Don’t get me started on that.
Dogs too – if dogs find a piece of fried chicken under a bench, for example, they’ll drag you to that bench every day for the next eight years, just in case. That’s hope, permanent, superficial, empty. As adults, however, we should be wiser and more cynical. Partly because we’ve burned our fingers before. We can all remember the last time we allowed ourselves a spark of hope, perhaps at work, perhaps in politics, perhaps in an attempt to manipulate a loved one, only to find ourselves promptly ejected from that fantasy and slammed back to earth with a painful thud.
So the impulse is, when you try to rein it in again in the hope, to grab yourself by the shoulders and shake yourself hard, to look in the mirror and shout: “Stop it now, you stupid bitch.”
But! Remember when Sarah Palin asked Barack Obama supporters during the 2010 campaign, “How are you doing with this hope and change thing?” In hindsight, I kind of understand her appeal – affected, a little cheeky. Anyway, a few years later, Obama responded, “All this hope and change, as they say? That was real… It’s still there. Even in the midst of this emergency. But – it’s hard.”
I guess it doesn’t take a president to explain to me that hope is not just the simple act of pulling a dog toward a potential treat, but also a kind of work, a kind of struggle. Apathy and despair beget apathy and despair, and sometimes they keep us trapped in the state where only bad things happen. Whereas hope, even a small dash, can lead us to invest more than just dry little dreams of the future we want—it could mean getting involved politically, mobilizing our communities, or just being nice for the sake of joy. Yes, pessimism feels delicious, but it’s a vice and so should only be indulged in moderation.
You know, I think I’m going to try. I’m going to face that terrible light and try to mitigate the fear with actions, however mild, and help myself believe that change is possible and that good things are about to happen. I’m going to look straight into the twigs. What’s the worst that could happen?
Email Eva at [email protected] or follow her on X @EvaWiseman
