As Kamala Harris gave her concession speech dressed not in suffragette white but funereal black, it was hard not to recall when the first would-be female president, Hillary Clinton, took the stage under a proverbial glass ceiling, still unbroken.
Unlike Clinton, Harris didn’t mention the historic nature of her campaign or the particular kind of disappointment that comes with again seeing a potential first become a devastating second. And yet her speech, and the whole moment, seemed awfully burdened by what was.
Both women struck tones that were alternately grateful and defiant. Both emphasized the importance of the peaceful transfer of power, and of accepting the results of a free and fair election with grace and integrity. Both spoke directly to young people in the audience, telling them that setbacks happen but they should, as Clinton put it, “never stop believing that fighting for what’s right is worth it.”
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And both captured the core emotions of these overlapping but distinct moments. Clinton’s speech was a heartbreak; her loss had been a profound shock, and what would come next was a open question. This time around, Harris’ loss held a different kind of despair: Americans, having already refused to elect one extraordinary woman, did it again. Americans, having lived through four chaotic and disastrous Trump years, had somehow decided they wanted more.
“My heart is full today,” Harris told the crowd. “On the campaign, I would often say when we fight, we win,” she added. “Here’s the thing: sometimes the fight takes a while. That doesn’t mean we won’t win. The important thing is don’t ever give up.”
It’s good advice. But it didn’t quite land. The general post-election mood today feels less like the determined resistance of 2016 and more like a dark resignation.
By nearly all accounts, Harris ran a strong campaign. It was organized and disciplined, with an extensive ground game and a positive message. But Harris was hamstrung by being a member of an increasingly unpopular party, and part of an unpopular administration. Voters wanted change, and as much as Harris would be a far fresher candidate than Trump, it’s hard to make the “change” case when you’re attached to the incumbent.
And Harris was, of course, also a woman—a Black woman to boot. It’s difficult to measure just how much of an impact that had on her candidacy. It does seem telling, though, that Trump has run three times; both times he’s triumphed it’s been against women, while the one time he lost, it was to a white man.
His face painted extra bronze for the occasion, the former and now future president had given a bizarre and rambling victory speech in West Palm Beach, Florida, the night prior. He cheered himself on before digressing into a long soliloquy about Elon Musk’s rockets and UFC fighters (“they really go at it,” Trump said approvingly).
Throughout this election cycle, it had been stunning to watch the often-incoherent Trump remain tied in the polls with the lucid Harris—polls that appeared to undercount his support, no less. In their final acts as opponents, both Harris and Trump were, for better or worse, themselves.
Harris was stubbornly optimistic, emotionally continent and fundamentally generous. Trump was nonsensical. He did set aside the dark and retributive tone he took especially toward the end of his campaign, but nevertheless didn’t bother with the usual political necessity of making a lick of sense. “We’re going to… we’re going to turn it around,” he told a cheering audience. “It’s got to be turned around. It’s got to be turned around, fast. And we’re going to turn it around. We’re going to do it in every way, in so many ways, but we’re going to do it in every way.”
About that, American voters should have no doubt.
