In college I worked at the Hispanic Society of America, a Grecian-domed building that houses the premier collection of Spanish art outside of Spain. In the museum’s courtyard stands an enormous statute of Don Quixote atop his horse, Rocinante. He looks long and angular, but not frail like in the Dali painting. He’s constructed from hundreds of pounds of steel and looks it. His face tilts upward. Whenever it rained that summer, I checked to see if the water streaming down Quixote’s face looked like tears. When you’re young you take poetry where you can get it. But it didn’t. It looked like water pouring down hundreds of pounds of steel.
I have watched every Presidential election on television since I was a child, but I have never felt the degree of terror my loved ones and I feel now.