Five days after last week’s presidential election, I officiated a wedding in Puerto Rico. 

Like many people, I was gutted by the election outcome last Tuesday and what it will mean for the future of our country. I barely slept on election night as my brain spiraled into darker and darker thoughts about what the next few years might have in store. And as I got out of bed Wednesday morning — anxiety burning a hole in my insides — I couldn't see how I could possibly stand in front of a hundred people and talk about love and trust and fate while pretending like the world wasn’t burning all around us. 

Half-empty

I have always been a pessimist — a trait I inherited from my dad. My dad is the type of person that doesn’t just see a glass half-empty — he'll see a glass half-empty and go, “How long has that half-empty glass been sitting out? You’re not still drinking out of that glass, are you? Someone might have slipped something into it. Dateline did a whole episode on that — it’s way more common than you think. In fact, you know what? Just give me the glass. I’ll go pour you a new one.” And he’ll go to the kitchen and pour you a new glass, because the two of you have been sitting at home by yourselves this entire time. That’s how pessimistic my dad is. Ninja assassins could be sneaking into your house and slipping things into your drinks. You never know.

Like my dad, I have a tendency to catastrophize — to envision the worst possible outcome of any given situation. And the worst thing that can happen to a catastrophizer is for any of their deepest, most irrational fears to come true. So you can imagine that the last eight years — a reality TV star becoming president, and a global pandemic that felt straight out of a disaster movie — have not been good for my mental health. 

These last eight improbable years have made it feel like any apocalyptic scenario, no matter how far-fetched, is now entirely possible. Aliens could land tomorrow, and I’d be like, “Well, it was just a matter of time, I guess. Oh, what’s that? The aliens made a deal with Ted Cruz whereby he showed them how to defeat our armies in exchange for being appointed Viceroy of Earth Colony? That’s precisely how I imagined it would go down.”

So the moment the election was called for Trump, my mind began picturing every potential bleak future: total economic meltdown, domestic terrorists running amok, World War III, you name it. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the sense of impending doom. 

Hello, anxiety, my old friend

When I agreed to officiate my friends’ wedding over a year ago, it had not dawned on me that the wedding would be taking place the weekend after the election. I was anxious enough about presiding over one of the most important days in my friends’ lives (and doing it in two languages, no less), but the acute anxiety of officiating a wedding for the first time, coupled with the long-term anxiety about the aftermath of the election, put me over the edge. I was an emotional wreck.

We arrived in Puerto Rico on election day, and from that night until Saturday night, I was mentally spiraling more or less constantly. Whatever I was doing, whether it was spending time with my wife’s family on the island, hanging out with my friends in the wedding party, or rehearsing my ceremony speech, every waking moment was spent with a pit of dread at the bottom of my stomach and visions of America’s demise in the back of my mind.

That’s the thing that sucks the most about anxiety. On what should have been a relaxing trip to Puerto Rico, visiting family and celebrating a beautiful occasion with my friends, I was instead consumed with fear. Fear of an unknowable and distant future, the worst of which wouldn’t begin for months, maybe even years. But when you’re riddled with anxiety, it’s impossible to live in the moment.

On Saturday night, the night before the wedding, as I was lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, I finally reached a breaking point. My anxiety spilled over into anger at myself. I’m going to screw up this wedding, because I couldn’t get any sleep, because I was too busy worrying about things that may or may not happen, but definitely won’t happen until January 20th at the earliest. This is so stupid! Why am I like this??? 

Eventually, my anger gave way to a deep sadness as I realized how the anxiety I was experiencing was robbing me of enjoying precious time with family and friends. I’m in Puerto Rico! I should be sipping piña coladas and dancing to Bad Bunny! Why am I letting a bunch of assholes, who aren’t even in power yet, ruin this trip for me?

And then I remembered the dumb, racist joke that one of those assholes told a few weeks ago.

Punching Down

At a Trump rally at Madison Square Garden a week before the election, a comedian named Toby Heathcliff (Teddy Heathbar? Tommy Hillfigure? Honestly, who cares?) called Puerto Rico a “floating island of garbage.” He later defended the joke, explaining that he “love[s] Puerto Rico and vacation[s] there.” And after Tim Walz criticized the joke, Tobias (Tanner? Tristan?) responded, “I'm a comedian Tim...might be time to change your tampon." 

But I’m a comedian, too. I understand joke setups and punchlines. Every joke contains two things: a subversion of expectations and a perceived truth. Toto (Tatum? Tagg?) could have just as easily subverted the audience’s expectations by saying, “Apparently there’s a floating island of garbage in the middle of the ocean. I think it’s called Hawaii.”

But he didn’t. And we all know why. Because that version of the joke would lack a perceived truth — that he and his audience believe that Puerto Rico is poor, that its people are inferior, and that they therefore deserve to be the punchline of a joke.

As I was lying in bed thinking about that joke by Toby Hillbilly (Topher Hellhole? Thad Humperdink?) I thought to myself, These people really think this place is garbage. They think my wife and her family, and my friend’s fiancée and her family, are all garbage.

Suddenly, I no longer felt anger, or despair. All I felt was pity. Really, Trent? You think Puerto Rico is garbage? That’s actually, like, so embarrassing for you. You do realize that, right? Seriously, ew.

Because anyone who can visit Puerto Rico and see nothing but trash has to live a sad, myopic, and thoroughly unexamined life. Yes, there are tremendous problems — the lack of economic opportunity, the political dysfunction, the apagones — but there’s a reason Puerto Ricans clap when the plane lands here. There’s a reason the pilot says, bienvenidos a la isla más bella del mundo. Welcome to the most beautiful island on Earth.

As I thought about that, my anxiety vanished, and all I could feel was happiness. Happiness that I get to be married to an amazing Puerto Rican woman. Happiness that I was in Puerto Rico and not on the mainland. And happiness that I was going to get the chance to pronounce two of my good friends casados, and there was nothing Trump or any of his goons could do to stop it.

I was about to enjoy the fuck out of this wedding.

Congo Square

Last month, during a trip to New Orleans, I got to visit Congo Square, the birthplace of jazz. For hundreds of years, slaves in New Orleans would gather in Congo Square on Sundays (their one day off) to play music and dance. As oppressive and inhumane as their situation was, they were able to find moments of joy through community and shared experience.

I am the descendant, on my dad’s side, of African slaves brought to Barbados to work on the sugar cane plantations. I’ve often thought about how my ancestors managed to stay alive given the horrific conditions they were subjected to. I can only imagine that, like the slaves in New Orleans, they must have also found ways to experience joy when they could, not knowing if or when they would get the next opportunity.

As a Black man living in America, it’s not a surprise that my dad is pessimistic. In fact, given the country’s history, pessimism is probably the rational choice. But, as pessimistic as my dad is, he is also full of joy. Ask him about America, and he’ll excitedly tell you that the thing he loves most about this country is that anyone can make it here if they work hard enough. It’s why he moved here from Panama. And he has three kids that he loves like crazy. Most dads are emotionally distant. My dad is emotionally a little too close. He seriously needs to chill sometimes. So I guess you could say that I come from a line of joyful pessimists. People who expect the worst, but cling doggedly to the best.  

Dancing in the rain

The next day, I officiated the wedding, on the lawn of a bed and breakfast atop a hill overlooking El Yunque, Puerto Rico’s mountainous tropical rainforest. The ceremony went perfectly. I straight-up killed it. There was laughter, there were tears, people came up to me at the reception saying what a great job I did. I pitched a no-hitter. Got a perfect QB rating. Put up Simone Biles kinds of numbers. I basically Yurchenko Double Piked that wedding. 

What can I say? If you know me, you know that whenever I’m tasked with something, I’m gonna do two things: get anxiety about it, and then handle that shit. One silver lining about having anxiety is a tendency to over-prepare. I probably ran the ceremony out loud at least thirty times from start to finish. Preparation meets perspiration. Literally. So much nervous sweating.

That night, the reception was held on the hotel’s patio — the dining tables arranged under a U-shaped covering with an open courtyard in the middle that served as the dance floor. There had been torrential rain the entire week, but the rain had held throughout the ceremony and cocktail hour.

Finally, with about an hour left in the reception, as we were all dancing in the courtyard, the sky gave way, and it began pouring. But, rather than seek shelter, we stayed on the dance floor, letting our drenched clothes cling to our bodies as we swayed even harder to the music. 

That night, nobody was thinking about the election, or about the next four years. To some, we might’ve been garbage people on a garbage island. But we didn’t see it that way. All we could hear was the music. All we could feel was the rain on our faces. And all we could see was the lush rainforest surrounding us. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that we had all gathered there to celebrate a beautiful life two people were building together.

Finding Joy

The great thing about joy is that, once you’ve experienced it, it can never be taken away. You get to keep it forever. It will always have happened.

The other great thing about joy is that it is limitless — it requires no resources to produce. You can derive joy from something as simple as filling your lungs with air and remembering that you are alive. You can lose everything and still have joy.

I don’t know what the next few years have in store. I am still terrified about what it will mean for women, for trans people, for immigrants, and for people who look like me.

But I also know that I am going to take every opportunity I can to seize joy. To drink from it liberally, and share it indiscriminately.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m just going to sit back and accept whatever else happens. I believe it’s possible to fight the power joyfully. In fact, it’s probably the only way to fight the power.

But however bad the coming storm gets, I am going to remember the moment I spent with my friends in the rainforest in Puerto Rico.

And in those dark moments when it is pouring the hardest, I’ll be dancing in the rain.

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