Dumped for Trump?

A FEW MONTHS AGO, I LEARNED THAT A VERY DEAR FRIEND OF MINE, WHO I’LL CALL S., IS A TRUMP SUPPORTER.

S. and I go way back. We met more than 25 years ago at a snowboarding magazine in Southern California. She was a recent college grad, fresh out of journalism school with fringe bangs, a thick curtain of long, jet black hair and a smattering of freckles across her button nose. She was whip smart with this infectious laugh. I liked her immediately.

a friendship so old, we used to make photo albums, like before social media was even a thing. A page out of our book—encinitas, california, 1996.

Over the years, our paths crisscrossed after we abandoned the beaches of So Cal for one ski resort town after the next, subscribing to a carefree, mountain lifestyle where adventure came first and everything else followed. We shared beers over breakups, whooped during powder days, squealed on mountain bike rides, competed for waves during surf sessions, and shared many belly laughs. There are few people in life who can make you laugh like that, with tears in your eyes and a cramp in your gut, as desperate for a gulp of air as if you were being held under a set wave. It comes from somewhere deep in your soul, on the brink of an emotion that can’t really be quantified—maybe something like abandon. 

That’s why I was shocked when we got into a sudden and frantic argument over Facebook, the social media wasteland where toxic emotions are triggered, misinformation is dangerously disseminated, and friendships go to die.

“I might as well tell you I’m a Trump supporter and I believe American began again four years ago,” S. wrote.

“Whaaaaaaaaat?” I responded, typing furiously. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

I asked S. to prove to me it was really her and not some random QAnon hacker or Russian infiltrator, not that I’m paranoid or anything. I asked her a security question, like the infuriating ones they use for online banking that you never get right because you forget to include a capital letter. I was suspicious and reactive. I was not very nice.

She got the answer right. It was really her.

I was floored. Jaw on the floor. Head blown. Bloody stump of a neck. These were the sentiments I typed next, in quick succession.

It’s as if we picked teams, or worse, joined different armies that are now at war with each other.

In my mind, Trump supporters are rich old socialites from Florida or men who work on oil rigs in Oklahoma and come home with a film of grease on their faces; they are gun-loving, pickup truck-driving men with swollen guts and unkempt beards who rev their engines at stoplights; they are biker gangs and people from rural America, places where things like nut milk and yoga are not part of everyday life.

I also believed, quite falsely it turns out, that Trump supporters are a fanatical sect of new Republican, people on the fringes who are coming out from the shadows to tout archaic values that had long ago been deemed politically incorrect at best and dangerous to the very fabric of our society at worst. These are people whose belief in Trump is similar to a religion or cult, fueled by faith instead of fact, people who unflinchingly believe everything their leader says (including his shouty capital Twitter feed) and trust him as the only reliable source for information.

Never in a million years did I imagine a friend of mine, a contemporary, a daughter of immigrants, a mother to a little girl, a mixed-racial woman who teaches English as a second language in a small college town could ever, in a million years, be a Trump supporter.

To her credit, S. remained calm. “Why can’t we have a discussion about this?” she wrote. “It’s more important now than ever that we talk about it.”

##

“Friendship over,” said another friend after I recounted the conversation.

“I could never end a friendship over politics,” I said.

“It’s not about politics,” my friend replied. “It’s about values.”

Outside of voting in presidential elections, I’ve been politically apathetic most of my adult life. I’m much more informed in celebrity gossip than current events, keeping up more with the Kardashians than Wolf Blitzer. I’ve always considered myself a humanist, not a Democrat or Republican. I was also raised to understand healthy debate is part of the democratic process. You can’t grow up in a Jewish family and not love a good argument, everyone yelling at the same time over Chinese food because someone burned the Thanksgiving turkey again.

But this feels frighteningly different. I told S. I feel unsafe in America for the first time in my life. I’m terrified of Trump, for the future of our country, our planet, and for our democracy.

She said she feels the exact same way about Biden.  

The Facebook exchange with S. haunted me for days. Still shocked by her words, I also thought about how nasty I’d turned on this friend whom I truly adore.

I decided if I was totally unwilling to have a conversation with my friend, I was part of the problem. I didn’t want to be part of the “us versus them” mentality that has divided our country. I would reach out to my friend, apologize for being such a dick, and agree to talk.

I only wanted to understand why, or how, she could support Trump. I would simply listen.

She begrudgingly agreed, because I had upset her. She came prepared with a long list of reasons, citing them in a clear, concise way in a business-like tone I’m not accustomed to hearing from her, much like a lawyer who comes to a deposition armed with a fat dossier. She talked about specific legislation regarding immigration, prison reform, and schools. She expressed concern about second amendment rights, democratic socialism, medical freedom, corrupt politicians, corporate media, and hack journalists spinning stories to instill fear, and yes, pedophilia. She considers herself an independent but believes in Trump’s ability to lead, believes what he says is accurate and truthful, and feels he’s doing a great job.

Later, I would think of 1,000 ways to refute her argument. I’d draft emails I’d never send, copy links to articles I knew she’d never give credit to, and argue with her in my head. Worse, every headline, breaking news story, and even the unfolding of the election itself I now viewed through her lens.

What I took away from our conversation is we now live in a dualistic universe with two completely different concepts of reality, two separate institutions of information to support our own viewpoints, and little to no common ground to facilitate a shared language. How can we possibly have an open dialogue if facts, medicine, and science are debatable?

It’s as if we picked teams, or worse, joined different armies that are now at war with each other. It’s as if she has a star on her belly and I do not, and for that, we are now on opposing sides, like Dr. Seuss brilliantly wrote about so many years ago in his children’s book “The Sneeches.”

Well, I simply refuse to accept that.

I told her I love her, respect her opinion, and that maybe she missed her calling as a lawyer. Then we talked about our children and our lives. When we put politics aside, I truly believe we do have a similar world view, the same common ground in our souls that connected us in the first place.

I thought about S. a lot during the election as it became shockingly clear that half the people in this country share her views. I reminded myself the democratic process means sometimes you lose, though it’s abundantly clear Trump and his supporters definitely don’t see it that way.

Knowing now that our divide is as broad as it is deep, it’s more important than ever that we all—Democrats and Republicans both—begin to mend the fissure through opening our minds and more importantly, our hearts, to each other. On our death beds, we won’t be thinking about Donald Trump, but of the people we loved, and the people who loved us.

With a fresh dusting of snow, eggs from Sarah’s chickens, and a home full of family,