I knew he voted red. He knew I voted blue. I had hoped the most capable and most inclusive candidate would win. He hoped his idea of a better America would win. He won, and, from where I stand, America lost.
In the aftermath of Tuesday night’s results, still under the bed covers Wednesday morning, I scrolled social media looking for hope. I unfriended a few short-sighted FB friends— no need to continue our digital relationships and witness their selfishness and hate. Then I saw my husband’s post.
“God Bless America. God bless #45, 47.”
It had a few likes, and a few commenters joined him in his celebration. He was downstairs in the kitchen making coffee, and I was upstairs avoiding him. I couldn’t talk to him — or even look at him.
I immediately texted, “I love you, but out of respect for me and all my liberal writer friends, can you please take down that post? Also, tell your family I love them, but I will not be coming for Thanksgiving, and I won’t be hosting Christmas. I need space.”
Shortly after I sent the text, he brought me a cup of coffee in bed.
“I am sorry,” he said, “I understand.”
Did he? Did he really understand what he and so many others in this country had done? I could not forgive him. Not right now.
I spent most of the morning doom-scrolling next to the cold cup of coffee I ignored partially because I was distracted, primarily out of spite. I finally got up, made the bed, went outside into the beautiful sunny day, took a few deep breaths, and then went back upstairs to unmake the bed and spend the remainder of the day in it.
He went to work — I assumed energized by Trump’s victory.
The next day, I finally emerged and listened to Kamala’s concession speech. She reminded us, “Only when it’s dark enough can you see the stars.”
I wrote to my artist friends and told them to keep shining their lights. I wrote to my musician son in college and his songwriter girlfriend. I told them to keep creating. I wrote to my young nieces, who were terrified, and told them I was there for them. I wrote to my beautiful gay cousin and said I loved him and was thinking of him and his partner.
I kept writing.
I received a message from a family member who told me her Ukrainian friend was petrified. Another message came in from an actor friend who said she was afraid that the damage that will be done in the next four years could never be undone. One of my sisters wrote and said she had a panic attack and had to leave work. One of my students rescheduled our afternoon appointment saying she just couldn’t function.
Later that night, I briefly glanced at my husband and found myself not wanting to look into the eyes I love. I hated this divide. I wanted to touch his forearms and feel our connection, but I also felt an urge to punish him and deny him my touch.
“I am sorry about the holidays, but I cannot bite my tongue like I did with Hillary,” I told him. “I don’t want to disrespect your parents or your brother and his family in their home, or our home, so it’s best this way. No scenes. You can go see them. Seriously — I will not be in a room of 15 people who voted for Trump.”
He mentioned our son and his girlfriend, who are coming home for Christmas.
“Will they feel bad?” he asked.
Bad? I think they already feel bad. Really bad, I thought. Instead, I said, “We will have our own small holiday, and it will be fine.”
Will it be fine? I have wondered that since 2016, when I saw my husband’s stubbornness. How could a Latino vote for Trump? How can any of his family members vote for him? Haven’t they believed any of Trump’s comments about immigration? Aren’t they worried about the reproductive safety of the young women and girls in our family? Aren’t they worried about all of the other nightmares that could be headed our way?
