What Will It Take?

Photo by Pete Alexopoulos on Unsplash

The futility I feel in writing this into an algorithmic void is almost enough to keep me from writing it at all. But I’ve come to notice, as I get older, that when difficult truths start rising and I don’t express them, I start feeling raw. It’s visceral. Not at all recommended by cardiologists. Pacifists either. I’m essentially one rude merge away

from flipping off a stranger who won’t let me in. This is antithetical to how I want to conduct myself in the world. Yet here I am, feral on the inside, hoping that by putting words to how I am experiencing the world right now I might not behave fully rabid on the outside.

The daily news of the dismantling of our democracy hangs as an oppressive cloud over all of us. It hovers as we soldier on and honor our obligations for work, care for our children or parents (or both), and do our best to maintain our physical health and, god willing, our mental health too. This cloud cover, for me, feels like dread, like I am being complicit with my own demise by feeling so powerless over the machinations of a regime determined to squelch dissent.

It’s hard enough to carry on with this undercurrent of political doom yet, under every single rooftop of someone I care about, life is life-ing. Parents are in hospice, adult children can’t afford rent, families are feuding, cherished friends require double mastectomies. It’s all too much.

The toll this takes on my psyche makes me very intentional about who and what I allow into my days. Recently, this meant passing on a South Bay Writers event where I would ordinarily be happy to go learn something new and spend time with my friends. On the day of the event, I couldn’t do it. The theme of the evening was “Artificial Intelligence, a Writer’s Tool?” I said to myself, hell no. I simply could not absorb the news of 50% tariffs and the Supreme Court’s backing of deportations without due process alongside my own escalating family tensions after the death of my father. To add on a reminder of how AI is blurring the lines of humanity was too much. I simply could not opt in to more aggravation, so I stayed home.

The trouble is that I don’t always get advance warning of the theme that will present itself in a gathering. I wish last night’s dinner had been billed “Delicious Mexican Feast Inside a Fabulous Remodeled Kitchen with a Side of MaGa.” I for sure would have stayed home.

After supper, our hostess for the evening chuckled as her husband brainstormed through his storytelling how he might tell his sister off for ordering a couple of movies from his Apple account. The wife countered, “No, we just mention to her that we have some charges to our account that we think might be fraud and see if she comes clean.” I chuckled, “I don’t know. I think one of the best things about being our age is not feeling the need to nod along with things we don’t agree with.”

I followed up with a story about my encounter with a man at the grocery store this week. I recognized him from our work interactions from about 20 years ago and greeted him warmly. He bubbled with excitement over having just sold his home and told me he’d be moving to Washington. I said, “Oh wow, I just got back from Seattle yesterday. Such a beautiful place!” He shook his head, “Seattle is where the ultra liberals live. We’re moving to the tri-city area east of the Cascades.” He proceeded to show me photos of his big new home that he purchased for a quarter of what his home here in San Jose sold for. He was excited and was attempting to sell me on the area. In the moment, I evaluated how I tend to handle such situations: with a cheerful white lie that I will consider the propostion at hand. Instead, this current version of me who feels less of a need to please simply said, “I think Seattle would be a better fit for me.”

The hostess’ response to this story was, “Well, I’m a Republican.”

Eyebrows high, I quickly followed up with, “But are you a Trump supporter?”

“Yes,” she declared.

“Even now?” I sputtered.

“Yes.”

I’m pretty sure I gasped. Then, I tried to recover. Shana, you are in her home. She just served you a delicious meal. Don’t. Be. Rude.

She quickly started telling her own story. “I had a friend ghost me after the 2016 election when she found out I voted for him. Can you believe it? We raised our kids together. Our friendship ended just because we have different opinions.”

I was in deep trouble at this point. My mouth had promised me it wouldn’t pop off, so my face decided to speak for me. I truly couldn’t stop it. It felt contorted, like some sort of Bell’s palsy had taken hold so that my truth could come out even though I had vowed to be polite. “I’m sorry for my face,” I said, “but I am still trying to process this.”

Once I realized that my expressions are like Shakira’s hips and do not lie, I decided I might as well put words to what my face had already blurted. “At this point, it’s not really about different opinions. It’s about having different values. I can tell you that I have grandmothered in maybe two friends who I will keep, despite their leanings, but I can’t make any new friends that stand for all of this, because we clearly have different values.”

I wish I had elaborated to say that I strive to be kind and polite to anyone and everyone. But to consider someone a friend, I have to respect their morals and most of their actions, just like I would hope they’d do for me. I know that my friends see my quirks and mistakes, like I do theirs, but we can still vouch for one another as people who add more to the world than we take. It’s unspoken between us that whether it be at the pearly gates or on a witness stand, we can vouch for one another. For me to feel this way, my friends need to be on the right side of history. The side where all humans, regardless of our differing melanin concentrations, identities, and persuasions are entitled to live with the same rights and freedoms.

The host and I stumbled through the rest of the evening, moving to safer topics of conversation. I left their house so deeply disappointed that people who always seemed bright and kind support fascism. I also can’t help but feel that anyone left in that lane is devoid of empathy.

What I want to say to them is:

Will it take your child’s death by gun violence for you to support sensible gun laws?

Will it take your grandchild dying from measles or your parent from Covid for you to support vaccination?

Will it take your daughter being arrested for an abortion or even a perceived abortion after miscarrying?

Will it take a diabetes diagnosis for you to appreciate a government negotiating with Big Pharma for a prescription that costs you $35 a month instead of $1500?

Will it take your house burning down or floating away for you to understand the importance of clean energy?

Will it take your son-in-law being abducted by masked men for you to care about unlawful deportations?

Will it take your son being conscripted because of the barbarism of our new Department of War?

Will it take losing your right to vote?

What will it take for you to see that precisely 1% of our population benefits from this form of government? The rest of us will be poorer, sicker, and a lot less free if we don’t stand up when critics are persecuted, science is denied, voting is suppressed, and every single person isn’t just as equal – in the courts and in the streets – as another.

To the Trump supporters I say, what will it take for you to stand up for democracy?

“Let’s vote like our beloved country depends on it. Because it does.” – James Comey