The Hopeful Hypocrite

Ever since the election, I’ve felt like a hypocrite.

A few months ago, I wrote an article that argued that people in our country need to build bridges, not put up walls. To be honest, when I wrote the piece, I hadn’t seriously entertained the idea that Trump might actually win. This isn’t because I’m one of those people who has never visited the middle part of the country or who doesn’t know Trump voters. I grew up in Missouri–and most of my extended family ended up voting for Trump. I just honestly didn’t think, when it came down to it, people could bring themselves to vote for a bully. I really thought, when it came down to it, they wouldn’t vote or they would “hold their noses” and quietly do what I saw as the only moral Republican option: Vote for Clinton and then vote Republican down ballot.

I was wrong.

In the bridge article, I discussed how we needed to be able to move beyond divisive fear-mongering and find common ground on the issues that “both sides” believe are important. We need to let go of anger and come to the table to talk and move forward.

That’s what I so generously proposed when Clinton was winning (or I thought she was). Now that Clinton lost, I have discovered something in myself that I really don’t like. Walls.

I went to Missouri for the holidays. In a lot of ways, it was like other years. I had a great time seeing Mee-Maw’s new place, eating Rose Mary’s spaghetti, celebrating my sister’s 23^rd birthday, running with my parents, hanging with my high school buddies, and gorging myself at the Gipson Christmas breakfast. But, for the first time, I skipped Christmas dinner for the other side of my family. I did this because I am so angry with that side of the family that I cannot look at them. They, of course, were nice about it because they are very nice people. I was the one putting up walls. I felt like I had to.

Maybe I’m a sore loser. People back home know that I hate losing. In third grade, I cried after every basketball game that our team lost. (And we lost every basketball game that year.) If I’m honest, I cried after every game that we lost in high school, too. I really hate losing. But I can never remember being mad at the winners. Well, maybe Nixa. But not like this. Generally, I blamed myself for the loss–which, is, I admit, self-centered. But I wouldn’t take my disappointment off the court or express it as anger toward the other team. I’m an after-game hand-shaker. Every time.

But this election wasn’t a game.

Of course, I realize that it wasn’t a game for either side. And I can look at some of the things I said and wrote before the election and understand how condescending they probably sounded. Even this blog post probably sounds condescending.  I also understand, now more than ever, that it’s a lot easier to be generous and call for bridge building when it’s the “other side” that’s going to have to be doing the compromising. Absolutely.

So I understand that I’m a hypocrite. But I still haven’t taken down my walls.

Just get over it, you whiney liberal. That’s what some of you are thinking.

And if that’s your mentality, I simply ask that you extend me a little more generosity than that. Because now that Republicans won the election, they have to figure out how to govern all of us—not just half. And yelling at the whiney losers to shut up and move on isn’t going to work. (I say this with the authority of an ex-high school teacher.) Waiting us out isn’t going to work, either.

The thing is: this election was different. This time, my anger goes beyond political differences. It goes beyond losing. When George W. was elected, I wasn’t happy (to put it mildly), but I wasn’t staging a Christmas protest, either. I like soup too much for that. This year, even for soup, I can’t look at the faces of people I love.

I am angry because I think Donald Trump is a dangerous bully. He has said things to cameras and crowds and on Twitter that are unforgivable in a leader. He repeatedly body-shamed women; he heavily implied that the majority of Mexican immigrants were drug dealers and rapists; he called climate change a hoax perpetrated by the Chinese. (This is a not only a lie, it’s a wild accusation. But people trust him, even though he says things like this without evidence and against the research of the vast majority of the scientific community.) I am angry because Trump-voters gave a man who can’t tolerate a joke at his expense the nuclear codes. I’m angry because white supremacists are happy. I’m really angry.

It feels strange that I should have to explain why these things make me angry. I won’t rehash this painful election. And I actually think that most people I know did not vote for him because of these three stances or character “flaws.” They voted for him in spite of them. Still. Not standing up to a bully is almost as bad as backing him up. And now, thanks to Trump voters, this bully is fully-armed.

And that’s where it gets to me, and, I think a lot of us. It’s not political; it’s moral. The people I’m angriest at are the ones who have preached messages of morality or family values their whole lives and then failed to stop this bully. Some have even defended or praised him. In my mind, this was a basic test of morality and Trump voters failed. I understand that this was not a totally fair test.  I understand that it was harder for those who have different political ideas or dislike Hillary or are single-mindedly focused on banning abortion or feel let down by democrats. But there’s a line of common decency and respect that we have to have in our diverse nation, and it’s hard to believe Trump-voters were willing to cross it. It’s hard to believe people could not distinguish between ordinary political differences and moral atrocities, between errors and sins.

Voters should not have overlooked his harmful words and actions. They should not have joined forces with the man based on the other common ground they shared. And that’s what’s turning me into a hypocrite. Just as I think voters shouldn’t have overlooked his actions and joined him, I can’t overlook Trump-voters’ actions. I can’t bring myself to look for common ground, even though I also think it might be the right thing to do. I hate feeling this way even more than I hate losing. I hate the walls I feel myself building. I love bridges—both literal ones and metaphorical ones—but I’m scared to try to connect to most Missourians again. To my people.

“Brooklyn? You sure?”

That’s what the TSA man said when I handed him my New York ID and boarding pass the day after Christmas. It was the usual Springfield, Missouri, TSA man. I’d seen him at least once a year for the past 14 years. Usually several times.  He’s the type that always has a joke or a comment for passengers. Often of the “Hey, take me with you!” variety.

“Brooklyn? You sure?”

It was clear what he meant. You sure you wanna go to that mecca of kale-eating hipsters?” The motherland of elitist intellectuals?” The breeding ground of millennials who were just a bit too big for their britches. Normally, I would fake a polite laugh. I’d been faking polite laughs at these sorts of comments for 14 years.

But not this Christmas.

“Brooklyn? You sure?”

I met the man’s eyes and two very unexpected but almost automatic words came out of my mouth. As soon as I said them, I felt my eyes well up. (I cry even harder when I’m angry than I do when I lose. It’s terrible.)

“It’s. Home.”

And it was clear what I meant. I no longer feel at home in the place where I grew up. I no longer feel like I know many of the people who helped raise me. I feel disconnected from people who I sang Disney songs on the tennis bus with. I’m a stranger in a place that I could find my way around blind-folded.

Well, you don’t like it, leave.

I know that I’m not the only one feeling this pain—and some people don’t have the luxury or hopping on a plane to Kale Mecca. I wrote this article because I saw a friend post a Donald Trump holiday greeting with the full knowledge that this would bring pain to her sister—and it pissed me off. If there was one pair of sisters that I thought loved and supported each other unconditionally, it was that pair. To some degree, I’ve been an outsider in my extended family for some time, but when I saw this, it made me realize that what’s going on with me and my family is going on with so many others. I’m guessing most families are going through some sort of post-election reconciliation process—at least those families with members who care about politics. Many Trump-majority families have someone who feels as angry as I feel. That person might not put it in the exact same terms—or even talk about it at all. It’s much harder to confront the vocal majority if you have to share a Wal-Mart.

Shut up, you elitist asshole

OK. Maybe I need to tone down the self-righteousness a bit. My beloved basketball coach, Coach Keeling, had an exercise he’d sometimes have us perform:

“E.R.,” he’d say, pronouncing my initials like Eeyore. Those who know how he spoke can probably imagine the muttering accent better than I can communicate it on a page, but I’m going to try nonetheless. “Na-ow. I wantcha ter take yer right hand and grab yer left ear, and I want yer to take yer left hand and grab yer right ear. And then I wantcha ter give a good tug and pull your head outter yer ass.” He had a way with words.

But it’s thinking about people like Coach Keeling, who died a few years ago, that really pulls at my heart strings. I don’t know how Coach would have voted. But I know that life is short and precious. I want to spend it laughing with people, not yelling at them. I want to spread positivity, not anger. I’m an optimist, dammit. But for almost two months, I haven’t been able to get my head out of my ass.

It’s probably no surprise that I’m crying right now, even as I write. I’ll get over it at some point. And when the crying stops, the work will begin. Actually, I’m pretty good at doing both at once. Don’t mistake the tears for weakness. Donald Trump will have to pry my immigrant friends away from my cold dead hands. He’s gonna have a host of angry pussies (that word’s allowed now, right?) marching the day after he’s inaugurated. And I’m going to switch from being passive aggressive toward people who don’t recycle properly to being actually aggressive. I’m not sure if this means that I’m a metaphorical bridge-builder or wall-builder. I’m not sure if this will make you want to be my friend or my foe. I’m not even sure who I’m on speaking terms with. I’m not consistent with it. My emotions will work themselves out as I go forward, I suppose.

“Stay angry” is the advice from the left. But I sure hope I don’t stay angry. Strong, yes. But I want to be positive, not angry. I want reasons to hope. And there are some. Donations to charities have greatly increased. People are organizing around causes, rallying to protect the vulnerable, marching to show support and resistance to ideas that are intolerable. We will have plenty of opportunity in the upcoming few years to flex our collective muscle and show love and support.

And I still have hope that some of what we will see from Trump voters will be positive and loving. I still have hope that some folks care for their neighbors, even if they’re Mexican. I still have hope that some folks will stand up against “locker-room talk.” I still have hope that some will take the time to figure out what sources of information are reliable or unreliable. But I’m sure not taking any of that for granted anymore. And I intend to make a stink about it when I see any examples of misogyny, racism, xenophobia, homophobia, or the spread of misinformation.

For me, and for a lot of us, the world turned upside down last month. But it also woke some of us up. To some degree, being wrong about the election knocked me off my high horse, which may not be a bad thing. (Don’t you worry. I’ve already climbed right back on. Always do.) It’s also going to force us to have some conversations that we desperately need to have—if we can summon the strength it takes to sit down together. And to talk frankly.

It’s daunting to think about how great the divide seems right now. But we don’t have to talk to all of Trump nation at once. There are some we will never communicate with, and we have to be OK with that. I’m sure not planning to start with the dude with all the Confederate flags on the back of his pickup.  But I am going to force myself to think of each Trump voter as an individual. I’m going to stop asking the question: “What’s going on with Trump-voters?” Because that’s not a question we can answer. Any effort to address the entire group at once will ring false and perpetuate this divide. For instance, calling my aunt a xenophobe doesn’t sit right with me. I understand the justification—to tolerate xenophobia is to be a xenophobe. And I agree. But to slap that label on her and then say, “And that’s all there is to Trump voters” isn’t going to work. By voting for Trump, she did a xenophobic thing. I’ll say that to her face (and have). But that’s not what her vote was about. And if we label her and dismiss her, then how do we change things? In the meantime, if I could get over my anger, I could probably talk her into supporting immigration policies like DACA. She loves kids. She doesn’t want innocent people to suffer. She may not even realize the damage her vote did to those hard-working, 800,000+ immigrants. A lot of people don’t. If we’re going to communicate, we are going to have to get specific. Both people are going to have to treat each other as humans. It will be tedious and frustrating, but it’s necessary. And I want to think it’s doable. If one person looks up DACA as a result of reading this blog post and takes the time to really consider it—or even ask my why I care so much about that particular program–I’ll count that as a positive.

I want to convince myself that there may be a time when I can talk to my family again. I want to think that I can say what I believe and still be welcome in my hometown next Christmas. I’m trying hard to believe that we can live respectfully and lovingly in the same country—that we can enjoy one another again. I don’t see the path yet, but I won’t stop looking. I’m going to work my butt off to make next year a better one than this past year. I expect that will mean that I will sometimes have to fight my former people–and sometimes work with them. And they will sometimes fight me—and sometimes work with me. In reality, I suppose we have both bridges and walls for a reason.

The last thing said to me in Missouri was, “Sir, you’re going to need a green tag for that roller bag.”

“Sir.”

I’ve had short hair most of my life, but it’d been a good little while since someone called me “Sir.” It brought me back to my childhood. “There’s a boy in the girls’ bathroom.” How many times had I heard someone whisper that as I entered the girls’ room at Leonard Elementary? I guess my interest in “identity politics” should not come as a surprise.

“Sir…oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she said when we made eye contact. I just laughed…through my tears of anger, which were still flowing from the security guy. I’m sure I seemed a little crazy as I took me seat. I felt a little crazy. It was time to leave.

But I’ll be back.

Missouri may not feel like home anymore, and we’re gonna spend some time apart now, but you fuckers haven’t quite gotten rid of me.

Happy Holidays, Missouri. Holding out hope for a better year in 2017!