How to Watch on Election Night. . .

. . . Without going crazy

By Bruce Watson

A specter is haunting Election Night, a specter but also a moment of transcendent joy.

We all know the specter.  Few have forgotten that fright night moment, towards midnight on November 8, 2016 when those unsightly red blotches mapped across our screens refused to turn blue.  When we knew that fear, arrogance, and people who light cigars with $100 bills had won the election.  We still bear the scars of that surreal night, but I say (wait for it). . .

“F—#$%# the specter!”

Because the other haunting presence tomorrow night will be that moment of transcendent joy, that giddy, soulful “A Change is Gonna Come” moment — November 4, 2008,  11:01 p.m. EST — when we realized that America had elected its first black president.  Yes, we did!

So, America, what will it be tomorrow night?  Champagne and smiles and Beyoncé singing “Freedom?”  Or fear and arrogance and — no, no. . .  Let’s not even. . .

Facing another Election Night, some dream of joy, others wallow in nightmares.  But we have learned that Election Night too often extends into the next day, the next week, sometimes the next month.  At this rate, the 2040 election won’t be decided until 2042.

How then, on November 5, 2024, should we bear witness to the fate of democracy, the future of hope, the legacy of all things Lincolnesque?  Some of us will be glued to CNN, charting each return, each “this just in!” until the moment of YES! (Or perhaps. . .  Nah, couldn’t happen!)  Others will make every effort to avoid every update, every banner, badge, and notification.  They’ll do five hours of yoga.  They’ll binge watch “The West Wing.”  They’ll walk dark streets, fighting the urge to check their phones.  Jeez, it’s dark out here.

Yet all these strategies are doomed.  Whether you’re plugged in or out, whether you’re cautiously upbeat or still scarred, tomorrow night will bring endless agony unless you add a few stimulants.

First, a glass of something strong.  Wine will hardly do.  Go for the “hooch,” first in a shot glass, then a margarita glass, finally a fishbowl.  Next you’ll need a cuddly pet somewhere in the room, one who loves you even when you shout at screens.  Finally, watching is best at a “watch party” filled with friends sworn to never mention You Know Who.  Good luck finding them.

Problem is, even these essentials will be severely tested as the night drags on and the tension tightens.  And it will tighten and tighten and all but snap, because Election Night isn’t what it used to be.

Time was when the latest returns were reported by somber “anchormen” who acquired stoic voices while reporting from the battlefields of World War II.  But these days, our “news personalities” are schooled in Stephen King and the films of Brian DePalma.  And their dizzying array of pixelated maps, screens, pullouts, pop-ups, and other digital swagger — doubtless  enhanced by AI — are calculated to leave you cowering in a corner even before Massachusetts is declared for Kamala Harris.

So hug your cuddly pet.  Fill your fishbowl with something strong.  Hunker down with friends asking, “How are you holding up?”  But you will be watching Hitchcock style, eyes peering through clutched fingers unless you arm yourself with the strongest stimulant of all. 

This ingredient has been tested throughout American history from Seneca Falls to Freedom Summer, from FDR’s “Nothing to fear. . .” to MLK’s “the arc of the moral universe. . . bends toward justice.”  This stimulant is the very bedrock of America, the Statue of Liberty in our souls.  And it is:  faith in US, the People.

(This is where you cue Spotify to play “Battle Hymn of the Republic” or “This Little Light of Mine.”  Your choice.)

Without faith in the people, this country would have tanked at the first flutter of fear.  Without faith in US, voting would still be left to “gentlemen of property standing.”  White gentlemen, of course.  Yet through pain and blood and protest, we have expanded that electorate.  First to men who owned no property (1789-1820s).  Then to black men (1865), though that was crushed and took a century to revive.  Next to women (1920), to Native-Americans (1924), and to blacks again (1965).

Yes, the powers that prey keep trying to suppress our votes.  But look at the lines tomorrow.  Look at the faces in those lines, bloodied but unbowed, checking their phones.  Look into the hearts of people queued up for an hour or more.  And believe.

With faith in Us, you can enjoy tomorrow night, the signature pageant of democracy.  And if, as seems likely, the tension stretches past an 11:01 p.m. transcendence, stretches past another day or more, still believe.  Because why did you make all those phone calls, write all those postcards, knock on all those doors, donate all those dollars, only to lose faith now?

F—#$%# the specter.  Trust the people.  Bend the arc.