Nikki Haley and I don’t have a lot of common ground, belief-wise. I could skip invading Mexico. I’m not into her idea of raising the age for social security. I cringe at just about everything she’s ever said on social politics, from cowing to pressure to swear that America is not “a racist country” to offering that she thinks Florida’s “Don’t Say Gay” law doesn’t go far enough. (What do you want, Nikki, “Don’t Think Gay”?)
And yet, over the course of the last several weeks, I’ve been glued to Haley’s campaign. All day yesterday, I found myself scrolling obsessively through news out of New Hampshire, combing for indications that Haley might pull it out. When the returns were coming in, I was rapt, authentically sad when the race was called. “Shhh!” I went to my kids when Haley came onstage to speak. But I also didn’t tell them to listen. I didn’t want them latching on to her ideas.
That moment encapsulates my complex feelings around Nikki Haley. I can’t play off my rooting for her as purely strategic. I can’t chalk it up to the idea that we’d all be safer with Trump off the ballot. It goes deeper. I didn’t just want her to beat Trump last night, I wanted her to win. I don’t want her to be president, but I want more people to want her to be president. Does that make sense? No, I know it doesn’t. I am now one of those voters on the street who, when they describe their convoluted voting thoughts on cable news, make you want to throw your sandwich at the TV.
But with Haley, I sometimes glimpse the feeling men have had for two hundred years: I relate to her. Not when she shows up somewhere and says that “God is so good”, as she did last night after the race was called in Trump’s favor. If I ever opened with that, my friends would think I had a concussion. But I feel her just-get-it-done attitude. I appreciate that she’s a mom, and I can feel in my jaw the way she held her face patiently last night as her own supporters interrupted her. I admired the way she made her concession sound like a victory speech. I loved when she said, in a brilliantly precise chord of bless his heart, “I wanna congratulate Donald Trump on his victory tonight…. He earned that.” Her tone was the same one I use when I tell my kids they made these cupcakes—they worked so hard! Haley’s vibe on that stage was one I think most women recognize: This is fine, I’ll do this speech, but my mind is already on to-dos for tomorrow, and the rest of 2024, and my five-year plan. In my heart, I believe she went to bed last night determined to look up some self-care serums, but ended up deciding the 2 a.m. hour was better spent returning emails.
Also, Nikki Haley is not an 80-year-old man. I’m not being flip. While I know and acknowledge that the two octogenarian men we have are very different—while I respect and will vote for Biden—sometimes I just glance at the TV and think: Jesus Christ.
That frustration, though, has led to revelation. Looking at Haley, I get what men feel. The pull of a candidate you can project yourself onto is strong. That’s why I pay attention to Haley even though we share nothing values-wise. While men can constantly sort avatars in their search for the ideal candidate, women only get a brief window to see themselves in an imperfect fit.
This is an election that may end up being won or lost on a woman’s right to run her own body, and it now seems likely that both candidates will have to speak on this issue secondhand. I am under no illusion that—despite being more moderate on abortion than her opponents—Haley is an ally. But it’s still depressing to me that there will be no woman in an abortion-focused race. It’s depressing that there won’t be a woman when it comes to caretaking issues, and equal pay, and workplace discrimination. And I know this isn’t nuanced, but it’s depressing to me that Haley is the only serious contender. As a voter, I’m getting to a place where I’m losing the ability to be nuanced—it’s just annoying to have to pretend, every four years, that while women do every paid job in the world and most of the unpaid ones, only big boy in big tie can do this one. (They worked so hard on those cupcakes!)
These are lizard-brain thoughts. But I’m sick of being the only one who doesn’t get to use my lizard brain. The first presidential election I ever voted in was won by someone whose appeal boiled down to “I’d like to have a beer with him”. Now I’ve spent eight years watching white men confuse their rage for kinship with a rapist who owns gold toilets. I think I am entitled to be a little bit pissed that this is where women are, to sit back with my arms crossed and just want what I want. To feel some grief watching polished, prepared Nikki Haley being played off the stage.
And the grief is familiar, echoing. Since November 9, 2016, many women in this country have been in firefighting mode. Stop him, stop them. It’s been triage, a horror movie where the quiet parts were said out loud and instead of being outraged, as we imagined they might be, many people laughed. From Christine Blasey Ford, to Roe v. Wade, to Trump snickering at Haley last night (“When I watched her in the fancy dress”), our heads are on a swivel 24/7. This vigilance means we never really processed what went down on that fateful election day: In less than 24 hours, we went from thinking we were about to see the first female president to feeling pretty certain we would not live to see one at all. This is why I can’t help wanting Haley to succeed, despite our political differences. I am surprised that I can feel it for her at all, in such a polarized time. But I do. I want a sign that we’ll see it someday. Somehow, someone. Once.