How Trump Won And What Must Change

Unpacking the how's and why's of the 2024 presidential election.

This nation sustains itself on white supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism. And so, it will become the rot it so stubbornly courts.

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It was 7:04 a.m., the morning was thick and warm, a dense humidity hanging in the air like breath that never quite let go. The impact of climate change on what would normally be a chilly November morning. I was in bed, wrapped in a strange, anxious half-sleep, when the chants started to rise, thick with that certain guttural grit, the kind of sound that pulls at something primal in you whether you want it to or not.

“Trump! Trump! Trump!”

The construction workers down the block had made a game of it, some call-and-response that stretched across the scaffolding and rattled between buildings. It started with a single voice, raspy and unapologetic, then picked up with the others in a quick, loud chain. And then the honking began—sharp, pointed bursts that shattered the quiet with each gleeful blast. It felt like a warning, each honk a dagger slicing through the air, as if to say, We won. We’re still here, and we’re just getting started.

I lay there in a stifling dread, caught in a kind of paralysis—the slow, sinking realization that everything familiar outside had shifted overnight, that the city had grown extra teeth in the dark. There was a wildness in their voices, a twisted joy that I’m sure smelled of last night’s liquor, sweat, and something more sinister. Something like rage, hardened into something worse over years of resentment and propaganda, coiled so tightly now it seemed about to burst.

That was how I found out—there’d been no last-minute redemption, no miracle stretch for Kamala. Trump had done it, somehow pulling off one of the most unimaginable, ruthless wins in political history.

I had gone to bed just hours earlier, holding out a small hope that I might wake to something improbable—a glimmer of reversal, a shift that would declare that the Democrats had eked out a win. But as soon as I looked at my phone to confirm what the construction workers were chanting, that hope was gone. The nation had chosen, and it was Trump. Not in some narrow, disputed edge but with a decisive sweep through the battleground states, a statement of alignment I had not fully prepared to accept. And, as if that weren’t enough, Republicans had taken the Senate, consolidating a stronghold around him.

After breakfast, I pored over the exit polls, studied the narratives emerging from news coverage, the stark patterns laid bare—who had shown up, who had abstained, what vision of the country people had in mind. I spoke to fellow writers, strategists, friends, people who had their own ways of feeling this nation’s pulse. Each conversation offered a different story of the why’s, the jagged puzzle pieces of what we now call a colossal Democratic failure. And still, the question circles back, relentless: how did this happen?

Well—there are many answers to this question. And while I do want us to focus on what we need to do going forward, I don’t believe we can do that without understanding how we got here. Not analyzing and pivoting from 2016 is why 2024 looks so eerily similar. So I’m sharing three key takeaways I had from this election.

National exit polls for the presidential race by sex and race.

The Enabling of White Supremacy

The first answer, piercing and unavoidable, is that the majority of white men and women cast their vote for white supremacy. Sixty and fifty-three percent of them respectively. They chose it not with shame or hesitation but with a stark, almost defiant clarity, as if proclaiming that the world they inherited was one they’d die to protect. It didn’t matter that this inheritance was built on bones and blood, on lies told by those who did the harm and silenced the harmed. No, it mattered only that they keep the power, that they keep the walls high and thick, a fortress to hold their comfort, their place, their caste.

But there’s another side to white supremacy I want to examine, one that often goes unnoticed because it doesn’t look like overt support for Trump or blatant bigotry. It’s about people who don’t acknowledge that they’re enabling it.

After Trump’s victory, I shared a brief reflection on social media, and the responses came pouring in: It wasn’t me, but I’m so mad at my parents—I don’t know how we’ll get through the holidays, My boyfriend is so disappointing, I’m disgusted by how excited my friends are. These responses weren’t isolated; they were part of a pattern I’ve seen time and time again. Many white people recognize the dangers in Trump’s rhetoric and the harm his policies inflict on marginalized communities. Yet, when it’s their own family or friends embracing these ideals, they hesitate. The comfort of family gatherings, longstanding friendships, or romantic relationships suddenly seems to outweigh the moral imperative to create repercussions.

This hesitation is exactly where white supremacy finds its power. People give it space in small, seemingly insignificant ways—a relative’s offhand comment at a family dinner, a boyfriend’s “joke” over text, a friend’s troubling social media post. In these moments, many white people choose to stay silent, laugh it off, or brush it aside, telling themselves, They didn’t really mean it, they’re from a different time, or Well, at least I don’t believe that. By letting these moments slide, they create room for bigotry to linger and grow.

This is the hidden machinery of white supremacy, the way it lingers quietly in the background because people choose not to see how they’re keeping it in place. The goal is to challenge loved ones to be better, but if they ultimately still support bigotry and you don’t challenge yourself to step away from them—you are part of the problem. You can’t cry to your Black, trans, or immigrant friend about Trump and then the next day have dinner with someone who wants them gone. You’re creating an environment where hatred feels safe, where bigotry doesn’t face real consequences. And without those consequences, it grows unchecked, slipping comfortably into our daily lives, hidden under the guise of “keeping the peace.”

And this quiet complicity doesn’t end with white supremacy. It stretches into every form of bigotry: homophobia, transphobia, misogyny. It’s there when someone ignores a sexist joke because it’s “locker room talk” or laughs along with a transphobic comment. When they choose to overlook a friend’s “just joking” defense after a hurtful remark. When offensive language is softened into “just opinions” or “different perspectives,” and they choose to move on.

These individual moments may seem minor, but collectively they built the bridge that led right back to Donald Trump in the White House.

For those who continue to play both sides, a question lingers: what, really, are you standing for? Because you cannot claim to stand against oppression if you’re willing to let it live freely in your own life.

Right Wing Investment In Boys and Men

One would be remiss, perhaps even naïve, to overlook the specter of patriarchy as a force in Kamala Harris’s defeat—particularly the strain of it sharpened by misogynoir. While there was a resistance to her politics and ties to the current administration; there was also a visceral backlash against her identity, a quiet but potent rage that sees a Black woman reaching for power as a breach of the natural order. Misogynoir did not simply linger beneath the surface; it was a weapon wielded openly, cloaked in certain “critique” and “analysis,” in careful dissection of her every move, tone, and expression.

Misogynoir is not just about dislike; it is distrust, resentment, and fear interwoven with centuries-old archetypes of Black womanhood, twisted to fit a narrative that Harris was too ambitious, too aggressive, too Black. These are all things that the Kamala had to face. But to look at the exit polls alone and conclude that white men and Latino men simply despise women would be convenient, almost too neat. It still misses the heart of it. The why of it—the way this allegiance has been cultivated—is where we find the real answer.

Right wing investment.

For years, the right has sown its seeds, deeply and strategically, into the soil of patriarchy. They’ve invested in men—white men, Latino men, Black men, young men—painting for them a vision of power, of stability, of authority, all carefully framed within the language of “protecting what’s ours.” This narrative has not been a passing campaign tactic; it’s been a steady drumbeat, marching on with messaging that’s woven into family, church, school, social media, entertainment, and community. It tells them who they are, where they belong, and what they are owed in a world that feels like it’s shifting beneath their feet.

The right wing has strategically targeted boys and men who feel, whether rightly or wrongly, unseen and disregarded. They’ve harnessed these feelings of isolation, converting them into a currency of resentment. Their message pervades spaces where toxic masculinity is celebrated, often unchallenged: mixed martial arts, dominated by figures like Dana White, the head of the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC); X, the platform owned by Elon Musk, where unchecked bigotry runs wild; wrestling, led by Vince McMahon, who built WWE into an empire of testosterone; as well as football, music, video games, and the world of cryptocurrency.

Each of these realms cultivates young men to view strength as exclusive, weaponized against anything outside a rigid, toxically masculine ideal—anything that falls short of dominating power, anything seen as “other,” whether women, the LGBTQIA community, or anyone challenging patriarchal hierarchies.

UFC CEO, Dana White, speaking during Trump’s celebration on election night.

It is no coincidence that figures like White, Musk, and McMahon, each a mogul in a sphere that glorifies aggression and competition, are sitting firmly in Trump’s inner-circle. They epitomize a culture that valorizes dominance, transforming boys and men into defenders of a hierarchy they feel was taken from them. Meanwhile, the left has largely remained absent, missing the opportunity to counter these messages. Take, for instance, NBA legend Dwyane Wade—a father openly and lovingly supportive of his trans daughter. From my vantage point, there has been no significant effort to elevate someone such as Wade as a counter to the toxic masculinity symbolized by personalities like Joe Rogan and Andrew Tate.

Without alternative examples of masculinity rooted in empathy, openness, and integrity, the voices of compassion remain muted against a cacophony that encourages boys and men to seek power, instead of peace or wholeness.

I believe that if Democratic institutions had strategically invested in anti-patriarchy over the past few years, this election might have turned out differently. My thinking here is rooted in the idea that anti-patriarchy is not the end goal, but rather a necessary first step toward a genuine commitment to feminism. Much in the way that anti-racism provides a foundation that can lead to a white person’s pro-Blackness, anti-patriarchy can lay the groundwork for men and boys to understand feminism not as an external, optional issue, but as something inherently tied to their own experiences and freedom.

Consider the difference between anti-racism and pro-Blackness. Asking a white person to not only desire but to invest in Black lives, cultures, and histories as a moral imperative—without first laying down the foundation of anti-racism often misses the mark. Anti-racism asks white people to first see how the structures they may unconsciously uphold serve to harm not only others but themselves as well. In recognizing this, they can begin to dismantle those systems in a way that is meaningful and transformative, positioning them to genuinely support and celebrate Blackness rather than just perform allyship. Anti-racism becomes a crucial step in understanding that pro-Blackness is a celebration of Black existence and agency that benefits everyone.

In the same way, we sadly can’t expect boys and men to passively consume feminist content and assume progress. Feminism asks for a full-scale embrace of sex equality, for empathy and support for women’s rights, and for an understanding of the social structures that keep women disadvantaged. But to reach that point, boys and men often need to first engage with anti-patriarchal ideas that speak to them directly, that illustrate how patriarchy is not only something that harms women but is also a system that limits and warps their own lives. They need to see how it shapes their identities, their sense of self, and even the choices they feel they can make.

In 2022 I wrote my second book, Patriarchy Blues, with this intent—to provide a resource that allows people, and especially men and boys, to recognize and confront the reach of patriarchy in their own lives. By unpacking how patriarchy conditions them to suppress vulnerability, to view relationships through a lens of dominance rather than collaboration, and to measure worth in terms of strength or control, the hope is to open up a new way of seeing. For many men, it’s not until they understand how patriarchy constrains their ability to live authentically that they can fully appreciate feminism as something far beyond “supporting women”—it becomes an invitation toward a shared liberation, one that frees both women and men from roles that confine and distort their humanity.

In truth, the investment in anti-patriarchy could reshape how men see feminism, allowing them to approach it not as an external movement but as an integral part of their own journey toward wholeness. And ultimately, make more progressive decisions with their political and social power.

They Didn’t Run Kamala On Enough Change

This is one of those moments where I wish I hadn’t been right. But when I looked at the strategy behind Kamala Harris’s campaign, it was hard not to see the fault lines in plain view, a map of missed opportunities and squandered chances. I’d written it before: a center-right pandering approach, which seems to be a recurring tool in the Democratic playbook, wasn’t going to bring in the voters she needed.

And yet, here we are, witnessing the aftermath of an approach that played not to Harris’s potential for change but to the fears of appearing “too progressive” to the very same voters who had no intention of backing her.

In so many areas—guns, Gaza, immigration, and the climate—Harris’s stance was muted, tentative, tilted toward an imagined center that has long lost its place in American politics. Take guns: instead of adopting a vision for meaningful reform that might appeal to young voters and urban communities plagued by violence, she embraced only moderate steps. No comprehensive ban, no fundamental changes to a gun culture that continues to drain lives. For Gaza, too, her stance was measured to the point of silence early on, followed by rhetoric on Israel that mirrored that of the Republicans, a refusal to avoid real engagement or solutions for the injustices affecting Palestinian lives—a far cry from what many younger, Arab, Muslim, and broader pro-Palestine voters wanted to see. And on climate change, and specifically fracking, she fell short of the climate promises that had once animated her own presidential campaign in 2019, aligning more closely with fossil fuel interests than with the future a progressive vision would demand.

I mean, hell, at one point the campaign had Kamala give a speech in Arizona saying she would be tougher on the border than Donald Trump. All while she was also campaigning with Liz Cheney who is deeply pro-life, while Harris campaign was largely focused on abortion access and rights. It made no sense.

Kamala Harris (left) speaks during a moderated conversation with Liz Cheney. KAMIL KRZACZYNSKI/AFP VIA GETTY IMAGES

What strikes me most is the contradiction in how the media often celebrates Black women as the most progressive and forward-thinking group in this country, an engine of change and resilience, pushing toward justice in every sphere. And yet, in Kamala’s campaign, beyond the identity politics capturing the vote of Black women and men, they ran her as though they were primarily trying to appeal to Bush-era Republican voters.

Once her campaign’s early focus on joy was over, and they actually got into what they stood for, it was as if she were stepping into a role of placation, one crafted to neutralize rather than mobilize. This image, watered down, softened, was supposed to carry her through the election, but it missed the point entirely. The foundation of her campaign wasn’t built to resonate with those who felt disillusioned by the broken promises of Biden and the Democrats, those tired of seeing no real change for the most marginalized.

Kamala’s underperformance—falling short of Biden’s numbers by over 11 million votes—reveals the failure of this centrist approach. Yes, some of this can be chalked up to the grip of patriarchy, a refusal to see a Black woman as capable and deserving of power. You could even blame people’s belief that the economy is in poor shape and holding her accountable as Biden’s Vice President. But that alone doesn’t account for the vast number of voters she couldn’t reach. Many people weren’t looking for half-measures or safe, calculated stances on existential issues like climate change, genocide, or gun violence. They were looking for a vision of a better, bolder future. And instead, they saw a candidate championing things that at times somehow flanked Joe Biden to the right, undermining some of the progress her own agenda had laid out just four years prior in her 2019 presidential bid.

This pandering to a center-right base didn’t mobilize many of the voters who are the backbone of the Democratic Party. It alienated those who had hoped for transformation, those who had cast their votes in 2020 with the promise of systemic change in mind, only to see those promises deferred, watered down, and made palatable to center-right voters who had long since moved on to Trump. In trying to placate, they forgot the people who needed her to stand firm. They forgot who she could be, and who they could have been behind her.

And so here we are, left wondering how this vision of progress continues to slip through our hands.

So, Where Do We Go From Here?

What comes next, in many ways, is harder than anything we've known before. I’ve said this before, but it rings truer now than ever: we need to be in community with like-minded and actionable people. Not just to brace ourselves and wait out these storms, but to build strategic alliances that can actively work to withstand—and resist—the tempest.

It’s not enough now to sit back, hold our breath, and hope the worst doesn’t find its way to our doorsteps. The path forward is a collective one. The most powerful shield we have is each other—individuals and groups committed to upholding justice and demanding accountability. We must move forward with purpose, with fierce clarity on what’s at stake and the tools needed to protect those most vulnerable. Our work must be deliberate and discerning, recognizing that when one group suffers, all are left more exposed.

In the coming weeks, Democratic leadership that remains in power has a moral obligation to create safe passageways, protective barriers, and legislative scaffolding for those on the margins. They need to use every ounce of leverage, every parliamentary procedure and policy loophole, every whisper of influence to protect communities—immigrants, trans youth, Black and brown families, working people—who will feel the weight of this administration’s policies the heaviest.

But this alone won’t be enough.

We’ve got to think beyond political respectability and make it clear that preservation of life is the current mandate. Right now, Joe Biden holds the authority to enact lasting protections that will be harder for any successor to dismantle. Presidential immunity, now reinforced by the Supreme Court, offers him unprecedented power to initiate transformative, structural changes. He can make sweeping moves before his tenure ends. Adding gender equality to the Constitution, canceling student loan debt, granting clemency to non-violent drug offenders—these acts wouldn’t just be wins for his administration but for generations to come. They would rewrite the laws not in the brittle, temporary ink of executive orders but in the language of irrevocable rights and freedoms.

All of that said, I send you all love and strength, because that’s what it will take to walk this road. We’re not only in this together; we are the ones who will shape what “together” means, what it looks like, and what it holds.

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