The morning after the election, I awoke to the sound of muffled weeping outside my dorm room. At first, I thought my neighbor had suffered some great personal loss, perhaps their dog had run away, or worse, their oat milk had curdled. But as I stepped into the hallway, I saw the true tragedy: a group of students huddled together in solemn embrace, dressed in all black, as if mourning the death of democracy itself. One had scrawled “Fascism Won” on the whiteboard. Another whispered, “I just… I just can’t believe this is happening.”

I nodded sympathetically and kept walking, concealing my guilty little secret: I was happy about the election results.

But in this great bastion of intellectual freedom—where every opinion is welcomed, provided it aligns perfectly with the prevailing orthodoxy—I could never say that out loud. Brown prides itself on fostering open discourse, yet the moment someone whispers an unapproved thought, the mob sharpens its pitchforks (sustainably sourced, of course).

So I walked across campus in silence, resisting the urge to smile, lest my happiness be detected. I gave myself one small indulgence, whistling ever so softly as I passed by the Main Green protestors, who had assembled in record time to chant slogans that, ironically, sounded suspiciously authoritarian.

In class, the professor took a long, pained breath before beginning the lecture. “I know it’s a difficult day,” she said, placing a hand over her heart. “We’re all processing. If anyone needs to step out, please feel free.” A girl in the front row sniffled and nodded.

I did my best to look somber, though I was primarily mourning the fact that we’d never extended this same grace to conservative students during our moments of political despair. In 2020, no one canceled midterms when my side lost. If I had requested “healing space” for my grief, I would’ve been laughed straight out of Sayles Hall. But today? Today, even the dining hall workers were handing out free hot chocolate, presumably as emotional support beverages.

And so, I remained in hiding, forced to endure the theatrics of a collective meltdown while suppressing my own, far more dangerous reaction: mild satisfaction. I am a political fugitive on my own campus, left to celebrate in the shadows, possibly in a basement where the Wall Street Journal is still delivered in print.

Maybe someday, Brown will embrace true diversity, the kind that includes different ideas. Until then, I will continue my life in exile, nodding solemnly at candlelight vigils while secretly counting down the days until I can safely smirk again.

Bear N. Trup can be reached at [email protected]. Please send responses to this column to [email protected] and other opinions to the exact same email address.

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