“‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool–that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’”

— Daisy Buchanan

The Roaring 20’s were supposed to be filled with Gatsby-esque parties and promises of a bright future. Isn’t that right, ol’ sport? 

I had the highest of hopes for this year, I really did. I hoped for a new election with a President that wasn’t a low-rate tangerine Idi Amin but with less jewelry. I hoped for a new job that didn’t have me regularly careening towards burnout or crying in the substandard Regus bathrooms again. I hoped for a savings account and a rent-controlled apartment, rather than a spare bedroom in my family’s house and my friends all 2+ hour drives away. I hoped for dogs, snacks, tattoos, friends, and boys. I hoped that if I worked hard, did the right things, and put all of my attention where it belongs, I could move upward and onward. Live the American Dream. 

And yet. Here we are. In a state-sanctioned quarantine. 

I started 2020 being shaken down in a Mexican police station and it has not gotten better since. And the rollicking unfairness and painful irony of this new decade has not gone unlost on me.

2020, you’ve hurt my fucking feelings. 

My last job was really tough. I’ve written about it before, because I am enormously grateful for the opportunities that my last company gave me. I had phenomenal mentors (lookin’ at you, Jessi and Sam) and I made even better friends — the fiercest, baddest bitches in Democratic politics (always lookin’ at you, Emma and Ava). I gained confidence in my skills and was working at the margins, making a difference on a federal level. If my words were quick enough, clever enough, compelling enough, strategic enough; I could fundraise a ton of money strictly from the magic of the internet. And I did. Without question, the internet will tell if you’re wrong or if your idea sucks. I ended up raising millions of dollars on behalf of candidates and causes I believed in, and some that I thought were frankly just okay but better than another shitty white Republican man. 

But despite my highest hopes, burnout, heartbreak, and mismanagement won. On my last day at work, my dog died: Rosie, my bestest girl. I didn’t get to properly say goodbye and my heart still aches without her. Everything hurt — breathing, feeling, not seeing Rosie’s big floppy ears and ample jowls lie on my bed. I still miss her so much. If I was a superstitious sort, I would say it was a time for change and rebirth. 

I left with lessons learned, scars earned, a new memorial tattoo, and hopes for something better and brighter in The Bay. 

I really hoped that this was it: San Francisco. It’s the epicenter of progressive California politics: Harvey Milk, Dianne Feinstein, The Black Panthers, and Kamala Harris all started here. My new job demonstrated through their actions, as well as their words, that they had a vision of political strategy that I could faithfully believe in. I even found a cute apartment within walking distance of my new office that had a reasonable rent and a fat old cat named Killswitch. Every time I came home, she rolled over in front of the door and showed me her belly. Paint me like one of your French girls, Jack. 

For six weeks, I had it. Or at least, I really, really hoped that I did. I felt so close to a life that 16 year old Savannah would be proud of. 

On Super Tuesday, I found myself running through the Lower Haight with my co-workers, deliciously delirious with exhaustion. An eighteen hour day of GOTV-ing, election-monitoring and I was fueled on nothing but string cheese, Diet Coke and peanut butter pretzel bites. I sprinted through the BART station in heels and a dress to catch the last train to a party for Democratic strategists and consultants. I belonged in these rooms with activists, elected officials, lobbyists, and other lefty politicos.

This was it. I was doing the work. 

I had friends in the same city as me for the first time in several years. I went to farmer’s markets, house parties, concerts, and out to brunch. I was doing the stuff that twenty-somethings are supposed to do instead of maniacally working and crashing next to Netflix and my dog. I even met a boy during my last week in the city. Someone who was cute, funny, and charming. He had cool tattoos, a solid taste in music, and made me feel fluttery inside when he called me beautiful. We stayed up until 2AM texting and made a plan to see each other on my last day in the city. It was a cute date and we knocked knees on his bed while watching a movie and talked about our favorite burritos. He bought me a milkshake and fries and made me laugh. Even with him having what I’m pretty sure was a well-concealed anxiety attack in the dining room, I wanted to see him again. I had a good time. We made plans for when I was back in the city. I had high hopes and felt a tender curiosity, even if it was only one date. He was the cherry on top of my San Francisco sundae.

And then, disaster struck. 

He never texted me back. He ghosted. And it hurt my feelings too. Because I liked him, and I thought he liked me too. I don’t know if he just didn’t like me anymore or if I did something. Was I disappointing, unlikable, or ugly? Perhaps he was embarrassed about showing his anxiety or I misjudged the situation entirely. 

Was he a fuckboy or was he grappling with an existential crisis?

But here’s the thing: I’m a mental health advocate. I was part of a ballot measure that increased mental health access and services for 17,000+ incarcerated Californians. I also speak openly and honestly about my own struggles with the physical side effects of anxiety conditions. Felicia, my therapist, to use a technical term, is the shit. All of that stuff is so okay with me, because I can empathize with misfiring neurons and trauma responses.

Activist credentials aside, I couldn’t figure out why this boy didn’t want to talk to me again and thought he could dismiss me. Even though by ghosting me, he demonstrated the emotional fortitude of a Nature Grain Valley Bar — messy and crumbled at the slightest touch, I wanted clarity because I still had hope. I caught myself doing silly things like checking to see if he saw my Instagram story and asking my friends for advice, as if days of silence wasn’t proof enough that something was off. Anxiety is okay. Struggling is okay. Silence and poor communication skills are not. But how much leeway do you give a man you just met when the world is crumbling around you? It’s apocalypse now, for fuck’s sake.

I still don’t know and probably never will. I hope he’s okay and doing well. And I’m not sure how much it even matters anymore because something much bigger was looming for all of us.

The COVID-19 pandemic hit California’s shores as I was about to embark on a 4-day solo road trip down Highway 101. San Francisco was hit with a shelter in place order by the Mayor the day I left. All of my idealistic plans of seeing the Redwoods, Half Moon Bay, the Santa Monica Pier — all of it got washed away with pleas for social distancing, hand-washing, and staying the fuck inside. This was no longer “just a flu”. My road trip was cut short and I raced home in an epic day-long drive down the California coast. 

I freewheeled across Steinbeck country and empty freeways going 80mph all eight hours. I soared past the rolling hills of Salinas, California and the goldenrod fields of the Central Valley. I pulled over to the side of the road and just stopped, smoked a joint, and watched cows gently graze in a pasture. Anything for a moment of peace before the chaos began. 

Now, I’m home. Right back where I started again. And I’m not allowed to leave for the foreseeable future. When I ruminate on the past few weeks, it feels like my highest hopes are dashed and that I won’t be able to come back to the life I left in the Bay. It’s just not fair. Everything is different now with COVID-19 and I’m mad about it. I’m so fucking mad about it, my rage is burning me up from the inside-out. America is swan-diving into a recession and our federal leadership is lacking. I see my family full of nurses, first responders, and restaurant workers struggling under the weight of this pandemic. 

My stomach aches from stress-induced ulcers (again) and I’ve become my mother’s crisis communications strategist as she weathers the impact of thousands of students without a school to go to and little to no backup plan. My life is once again in flux and I have no control over it. And all I have to offer is my words. Words about how I feel. Words that offer a swift call to action to donate, sign petitions, volunteer, mobilize, and organize. Just words. Because no one saw this coming, least of all me. So now, my work really begins.

I had high hopes for 2020 and they were within my grasp for however short a time. It meant something to me, it really did. 

Now, I’m not so sure. 

But reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope.