I voted against George W. Bush twice. But when he was elected, I went to work for him as a White House intern. I worked hard, I took my responsibilities seriously, and I looked for common ground with people whose viewpoints differed from my own. I love my country. I respect the office of the presidency. And I’m not afraid to learn from people who don’t think exactly like me.
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Growing up as a Utahn, Western Pennsylvania was a magical place. There were lightning bugs at dusk and deer in misty hills and when my grandfather cut the grass it smelled sweeter than anything we had in the arid Rockies. And, of course, my grandparents’ house always meant games and cookies and fun with cousins. Later, when I moved to DC for grad school, it was even more of a refuge. I probably made that 8-hour round trip five times in one semester. To see my grandma. To see the brilliant fall oranges and reds on Route 30. To feel at home.
Latrobe, Pennsylvania is literally Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood—or rather, it was.
Fred Rogers is dead. So are my grandparents. And all I can I think about is how glad I am that my grandmother didn't have to see this.
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The political correctness police are out in full force. Appreciate the irony. Donald Trump ran on an unprecedented campaign of open misogyny, racism, and anti-Muslim, anti-Jewish, anti-immigrant, and anti-disability bigotry. But I’m not supposed to call his supporters what they are. That would hurt their feelings. I’m supposed to sympathize with their “economic anxiety.”
I’m now told “Trump is our president. We have to come together no matter whom you voted for.”
No.
And not because I remember that Republicans spent the last eight years sharing racist memes about the First Family or calling Pres. Obama a Muslim terrorist or cheering when their party leaders chose blocking him over saving the country from a second Great Depression.
Trump is not my president. I won't pretend he is just another candidate in order to make his supporters more comfortable with the monstrousness of their vote.
I didn’t vote for George W. Bush, but he was my president.
John McCain would have been my president.
Mitt Romney would have been.
But Donald Trump, the hand-picked candidate of Vladimir Putin... Donald Trump, who uses his wealth and power to cheat small business owners too small to take him to court and to sexually assault women who can’t stand up for themselves (then calls them too ugly to rape)... Donald Trump, who openly courts white supremacists and cheers on violence against reporters and protesters... Donald Trump, who praises dictators, promises to use state force to exact revenge on his critics, and threatens every pillar of our democracy... Donald Trump is not my president.
But I have learned one thing from him: I am done with political correctness.
Donald Trump never hid who he was. And that means there are only two kinds of Donald Trump voters: those who voted for him because of his bigotry and those who voted for him because they didn’t care enough about it to vote against him.
Yes, it really is as simple as that. There were alternatives to Clinton on the ballot. And millions of Americans across the ideological spectrum picked from among them. But Trump voters, they liked what they saw. They liked kicking the wheelchair of a disabled kid. They liked sending rape and death threats to reporters and their families. They liked screaming "go back to Mexico" to brown schoolchildren and making them afraid. It made them feel powerful. It made them feel liberated.
Or. They didn't care enough about any of those things to vote against him. They weighed the parts of Trump's platform that they liked against his Hitler-esque scapegoating of minority groups and decided that actually they could live with the bigotry.
It's not politically correct. But it's true.
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The "Trump House" is 7 minutes from the house my grandfather built.
My skin crawls at the prospect of having to go back to Western Pennsylvania now. It's visceral. I don’t want my kids anywhere near those people.
And what makes it worse: they’ll be nice to us. Just like they always were. Because my kids have blond hair and blue eyes. Because I don’t wear a hijab. Because my spouse doesn’t wear a yarmulke. Because we're straight, and we look the part. We can 'pass' in Trump's America. And that makes me feel complicit now. Dirty.
At what point does blending in and being polite and not talking politics become indistinguishable from excusing the unexcusable?
All those years, I didn't know who those people really were when we were sitting next to each other in Eat n Park or playing on the trolley at Legion Keener playground. And now that I do, will it ever be the same? Should it?
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