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By Amanda Knox

Tuesday, I dressed up for a big celebration—pearl tie, rainbow-plaid pantsuit—and attended The Stranger’s countdown party at the Showbox. I rubbed shoulders with colorful Democrats sipping “Donkey” cocktails made with Bombay Sapphire gin. I joined in the sportsman-like cheers and boos as predicable states were officially called for Blue or Red. But as I witnessed Hillary lose Florida, Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania…my jaw dropped. I backed up against a wall, sank to the ground, and watched as people with gold H’s painted on their cheeks trickled out of the venue, miserable and bewildered. At the end of the night, I was relieved that Hillary decided to wait until the morning to give her concession speech. I was already crying.

Like all of my politically liberal friends, I still haven’t wrapped my mind around it. I’ve not strayed far from media and social media, scrolling for signs of perspective and direction. I’ve struggled to reflect on what’s happened, what’s going to happen, and what, if anything, I can contribute to the conversation. What unique perspective do I have on the whole thing?

By Amanda Knox
 
Tuesday, I dressed up for a big celebration—pearl tie, rainbow-plaid pantsuit—and attended The Stranger’s countdown party at the Showbox. I rubbed shoulders with colorful Democrats sipping “Donkey” cocktails made with Bombay Sapphire gin. I joined in the sportsman-like cheers and boos as predicable states were officially called for Blue or Red. But as I witnessed Hillary lose Florida, Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania…my jaw dropped. I backed up against a wall, sank to the ground, and watched as people with gold H’s painted on their cheeks trickled out of the venue, miserable and bewildered. At the end of the night, I was relieved that Hillary decided to wait until the morning to give her concession speech. I was already crying.
 
Like all of my politically liberal friends, I still haven’t wrapped my mind around it. I’ve not strayed far from media and social media, scrolling for signs of perspective and direction. I’ve struggled to reflect on what’s happened, what’s going to happen, and what, if anything, I can contribute to the conversation. What unique perspective do I have on the whole thing?
 

By Amanda Knox

Approaching Century Link Field in a throng of green-and-blue people, flanked by an ecstatic marching band, I couldn’t help but think about the Roman Colosseum, and how sporting events have been experienced by humans in the exact same way for as long as civilization has existed. The same spirit of adrenaline-spiked tribalism that motivates Seattlites to show up in droves to watch grown men skillfully kick a ball around motivated the Romans to show up in droves to observe the clashing of gladiator against gladiator, Christian slave against starved lion.

We are the same. As Tim Urban wrote recently on Wait But Why, if you were to swap a newborn from a Medieval farming village with a newborn New Yorker today, no one would know the difference. That’s because the modern human brain hasn’t evolved in over 10,000 years. Some evolutionary psychologists think our brains are the same as those belonging to humans from as far back as 50,000 years. For context, that’s the stone age, around about the time humans invented the needle.

By Amanda Knox
 
In my pre-teens, I chose to ignore the sour tang that had crept into my relationship with my little sister Deanna. I dismissed her suddenly miserable, disdainful attitude towards me like it was nothing more than one of her frequent bouts of carsickness. She’d get over it.
 
It’s not like I had done something. In fact, from the way she seemed to be angry with me about everything, I deduced that her frustration wasn’t really directed at what I did, but at me. Me personally. And it was baffling. What happened to the kid who crawled into my bed whenever she had a nightmare? The little girl who counted on me to look after her on the playground, and be her voice when she was too shy to speak? Why didn’t she like me anymore?
 
The answer was obvious to everyone else. “It’s just sibling rivalry,” the adults said. “Don’t take it personally.” But it felt personal, and I was at turns skeptical and angry. I wasn’t competing with my sister, so why should she compete with me?
 
Now, nearly two decades later and in the thick of Deanna’s wedding planning, we texted the following exchange:  
 

By Amanda Knox

Just under a year ago, my sister Delaney asked me to read and help edit her senior thesis project—an essay about her year volunteering at a local youth tutoring center. “You gotta help me, Amanda,” she pleaded. “I can’t use the verb to be.”

“That’s weird,” I said. English uses to be not only to define states of being, but also as an auxiliary verb, a necessary component of many verb conjugations. Without to be, light is neither a particle, nor a wave. Without to be, I will not be! I scowled. “That can’t literally be what your teacher wants. She probably just doesn’t want you to use passive voice, like, the milk was spilled, as opposed to, I spilled the milk.”
“No!” Delaney huffed. “I can’t use to be at all! I’ll get marked down! Help!”

By Amanda Knox

In my experience, conferences can make you feel high. Between the panels, plenaries, and a sea of old and new faces, you end up inevitably spread thin, over-stimulated, and under-slept. And it’s great, because during those few days packed with professional, social, intellectual, and emotional activity, you’re swept up by a frantic, inspired joy that’s supposed to carry you through another year.

By Amanda Knox

I’ve never liked being in a rush. I forget things: my coat, my wallet, my keys. I bump into doors and doorways and stumble over cracked pavement. Or, as was recently the case, I back out of my mom’s driveway and accidentally knock over her mailbox.

Oh, don’t worry—the thing’s a tank. It’s a security box made of seamless steel, including a post sheath. When the back of my Subaru Forrester drove into the mailbox, what gave way was the twelve-inch stretch of exposed 4X4 between the bottom of the sheath and the ground, where the post was secure inside an 80lbs lump of concrete. Chris and I cut the engine, rushed out of the car, and found the mailbox lying in the grass, impermeable, scratch-less even. Meanwhile, there was now a hole in the back of my car, just below the rearview window. A quick Google search on Chris’s phone revealed that the punctured part was called the “garnish,” and replacing it would cost about $500. Ugh.

By Amanda Knox

This first week under the new administration disheartened me in many ways.

Already, President Trump has taken executive action to suppress the reality of climate change, to interfere with women’s access to reproductive healthcare, to refuse immigrants and refugees from entering the country on the basis of their religion, and to build a wall between the U.S. and Mexico, among other things.

But even on the day of the inauguration, before any of these unwelcome measures were signed into existence, I was reminded of the disheartening reality that someone like me will likely never hold the office of presidency—not from my generation, at least. What disqualifies me, or someone like me, is not the fact that I’m a woman. To our country’s credit, I think the U.S. is ready and willing for our first Madame President. No. What disqualifies me, or someone like me, is the fact that I’m atheist. I don’t believe in God.

By Amanda Knox

Tuesday, I dressed up for a big celebration—pearl tie, rainbow-plaid pantsuit—and attended The Stranger’s countdown party at the Showbox. I rubbed shoulders with colorful Democrats sipping “ Donkey” cocktails made with Bombay Sapphire gin. I joined in the sportsman-like cheers and boos as predicable states were officially called for Blue or Red. But as I witnessed Hillary lose Florida, Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania...my jaw dropped. I backed up against a wall, sank to the ground, and watched as people with gold H’ s painted on their cheeks trickled out of the venue, miserable and bewildered. At the end of the night, I was relieved that Hillary decided to wait until the morning to give her concession speech. I was already crying.