Struggling to Love My Two Trump-Voting Dads

wasn’t expecting a bulleted list. I feel the walls come up inside me. I can barely look at it. It’s an alphabetically organized list that goes to the letter “s” and some items have sub-items, so that’s 19-plus good things Trump has done as President. There are only two things on the not-so-good list, so that list only goes to the letter “b.” I close the attachment. I close the email. I need a break and I haven’t even started. I asked for this. I chose to reach out to my two dads to find out why they are still supporting Trump. They aren’t gay, that would be a very different story.

I am a White, queer, left-leaning, fifty-year-old woman in love with and sharing a home in Los Angeles with a non-binary human from the African Diaspora. She is my family. My two dads are straight, married, White men in their seventies living in the Bay Area, where I also lived when Trump was elected. We have all shared meals together, laughed together, spent weekends together, even vacationed together.

The email is from my dad, Steven, who I lived with growing up. He’s been married to my mom since I was two. He turned around his answers to my questions in less than 48 hours, with the note “BTW I’m very happy we can share opinions civilly.” I want to show the world that it’s possible to love someone who votes for Trump, it’s possible to disagree and not divide. But I can’t read a bulleted list — all I hear is bullets. We are going to have to have a conversation, again.

How quickly I can become frustrated and impatient and unable to be kind. I screamed at our dog, Yolii, simply because she didn’t want to walk. The plan was that we were going to go on a walk along the L.A. river. Yes, I’d carry her occasionally but mostly we were both going to be walking. But she didn’t want to walk. And she didn’t really want to be in the bag. She didn’t seem to want to be there at all, but she also doesn’t like to be left alone at home. She was struggling — her legs kept getting in the way as I was trying to put her into the bag. And I screamed. This was early in quarantine. I screamed, left her and the bag on the ground, and walked away, about six feet. She just sat there and looked at me on the path as the L.A. river meandered by. She’s a five-pound chihuahua. I squatted down and looked back at her and thought about how I didn’t want to tell my partner about this incident. It was ridiculous and if I was her, I might consider laying down some new rules, like Eliza can’t take Yolii on walks anymore without supervision. A couple saw and heard me scream at her from probably 30 feet away. They smiled when they walked by, kept their six feet distance. And we all pretended like everything was ok.

Like how I love my two dads and I sometimes pretend everything is ok. It’s become exponentially more difficult to talk about political differences today — in the same way that my impatience and irritation with my five-pound dog grew exponentially and I couldn’t stop myself from screaming. We blind ourselves. And it becomes too painful to see each other clearly. To even try.

In 2018, based upon interviews with my two dads, I wrote and performed a short solo play How to Love a Republican. My Trump-voting dads were in the Berkeley, California audience, which I thought was pretty brave. At that time, I was a little bit proud of the fact that my two dads voted for Trump. A little bit like how my biological dad, Bruce, has been a card-carrying Republican his whole life, and when I was a kid, he loved to pull that Republican card out of his wallet for Democrats to see, right at the dinner table. I enjoyed my special badge, one that told this bastion of liberalism that not everyone is like you. Have any of you ever even had dinner with a Republican? I grew up with two, ha!

In March, just as quarantine had set in, I decided to reach across the political divide again. I, like my two dads, have been fed up with the constant negativity towards our current President. In many ways I had checked out. I wasn’t reading and watching political news every day, not the way my dads do, not the way I do today in the midst of the largest civil rights movement in our history. To disagree effectively, to influence someone to see your side, maybe reconsider theirs, it’s important to know facts. I don’t have all the facts. It’s difficult these days to get facts, to sift through the bias and noise that is our 24/7 news stream. I realized what I really wanted to know is if they think Donald Trump is a decent human being. Because if we can agree that he’s not a decent human being, we may have a place to start. Maybe I can listen, maybe other left-leaning people will listen, too.

The problem was I was very attached to what our afternoon walk along the L.A. river was going to be. I wanted it to go a certain way — the way of both of us walking. And it wasn’t going my way. So, I screamed. It had nothing to do with our dog, Yolii. It had everything to do with my lack of control. She was the collateral damage of my intolerance for being human.

I come from a very ugly divorce, right after I was born. Both of my parents remarried and had more children after me and my older brother. I have two, separate distinct families that for the most part do not interact with each other, but within each unit, we are a supportive and connected group.

I grew up mostly with my dad Steven, still married to my mom. Steven smoked pot in graduate school and introduced me to Khalil Gibran. With his big wide-open arms and smile, he’s always one of the first ones to greet me when I come from backstage after a performance. Those same arms that threw me up in the air and caught me when I was very little, both of us laughing. As I got older, we sang seventies music at the top of our lungs driving around in his old pinto. He was against the Vietnam war, and has always been a fan of Barry Goldwater.

I saw my card-carrying Republican dad, Bruce, only six weeks of the year growing up; we grew closer when I was in college. Bruce is also a fan of Barry Goldwater and gives me very good financial advice. He used to tell me and my older brother bedtime stories that he’d make up, literally out of thin air. He would stand next to our bunk beds in the dark, put his hands over his eyes and rock around in circles, conjuring up the story. There was a California condor and a bear named Lollipops. These were adventure stories, and I hung on every word. I loved them. I can’t remember any details other than there was a condor and a bear named Lollipops. Sometimes it’s nice to remember things so utterly vaguely that all I know for sure is they were good stories. And none of us have any way to fact check.

Bruce thinks Trump is an obnoxious jerk. He always has, and that hasn’t changed. In 2018 he said he wouldn’t want Trump anywhere near his grandchildren. In the midst of our telephone conversation in March, he interrupted me and said: “Have you noticed I’ve said ‘tremendous’ about 4 or 5 times? That’s one of Trump’s favorite words. That’s embarrassing.” And we cracked up. He told me that afternoon he hoped another fiscally conservative Republican would have stepped forward, so he didn’t have to vote for Trump again. I had empathy in that moment, but today I don’t. Why does he have to vote for Trump again?

Steven, my dad who smoked pot in graduate school, doesn’t think Trump is a jerk. “Sure, he’s unique, he’s flamboyant, but he’s not a jerk.” And he never thinks about whether or not he’d want his grandchildren around him; that’s not something he considers when thinking about what and who makes a good President. He just wants the President to get things done. During our conversation in March, I push him repeatedly about this idea of the President being a role model, an example of how to behave towards others. How Trump communicates is not a concern for him; he sees other people talking terribly about Trump all the time. Steven says he likes the way Trump “fights back.” He likes that he uses Twitter to talk directly to the people. He wishes people could get beyond Trump’s natural exaggeration of things and look at what he’s accomplished. He eventually says — “Is he the human being in terms of how he behaves I’d want for a role model? Probably not, not in that regard.”

Yolii does sometimes walk. Sometimes, she even hippity-hops and runs free. If the grass is the right height and not wet. Never at the beach, but sometimes in the desert. She and I camped in my van just outside Joshua Tree one night last year. In the morning, I was making my tea and I turned around to see she had climbed out of her sweater and was running in circles around the van, jumping with nudist joy in the morning sunshine.

Steven’s 19-plus list of good things Trump has done included many items I’d expect from a fiscal conservative — tax cuts, decreased regulation, negotiated better trade deals, improved economy. This was before the global pandemic. I also expected to see reference to appointments and approvals of conservative judges. I was taken aback by the number of items related to foreign policy and his combative language: “crushed ISIS,” “killed Soleimani,” “slapped sanctions on Venezuela’s dictatorship.” But what surprised me most on the list was “launched a Space Force.” I didn’t even know there was a Space Force. He says it’s critical for national security that we have a military presence in space. I want to wear a t-shirt that says Disband the Space Force and see how many people know it’s a real thing. The not-so-good list has just the two items: “He hasn’t built the wall enough or as quickly as I would have liked” and “Perhaps a little too much turnover in his staff.” He thinks walls are very effective. I ask for examples and he mentions Israel, Hungary and The Great Wall of China in its day. He thinks the U.S. wall will be “a huge impediment to people sneaking in.” I feel my own walls growing and say nothing. Steven has never had any doubts or second thoughts about supporting Trump for another term.

Same Angry Faces

ame angry faces.” There’s a story Pema Chodron, the Buddhist nun tells about her friend Jarvis Masters who is on death row at San Quinten. I don’t remember all the details of the story, but it’s something about a tv, seeing different images of people on a tv, not being able to hear, not enough volume, maybe the volume was broken, him asking his cellmates what they were watching. What they were watching was images of groups of people on different sides of the same story. What I remember is what he said: “Same angry faces.” Isn’t that where we are today in our country? I mean, I screamed at our five-pound chihuahua because she wouldn’t walk and wouldn’t get into a bag.

Bruce is also happy about the economy, and like Steven, touts Trump’s de-regulation and changes in taxes as a good thing. I won’t lie; I’ve been happy with the economy, too. This is all of course before the global pandemic shut our world down and we’ve slid into a recession. Some may fairly argue that Trump inherited an economy on the up and up. All I know is I made more money on my money in 2019 than I ever have before. That also may be because I hired the Financial Avengers to manage my investments. I decided to outsource. I’m now part of the upper class that can do such things.

I have yet to hear wealthy liberals talk about how happy they’ve been with their portfolios during the Trump years. I brought this up, pre-pandemic, in wealthy liberal gatherings when people were bashing Trump. And I never once got a “yeah, you’re right” response. But people don’t want to talk about money, or class. Even less than people used to want to talk about race. But now, since protests erupted around the world following the murder of George Floyd by a White police officer, it’s impossible to not talk about race. It’s fueled a whole new level of divisiveness in our country.

In March, I asked both of my dads about their worries and hopes. Bruce hopes the country will become less divided, and he hopes the country’s policies will become even more fiscally conservative. He believes capitalism is good: “Here in our country it’s lifted up more people and unleashed more prosperity in human history.” He is worried Joe Biden will become President and the country will move further left towards socialism; he thinks this is the worst thing that could happen to our country. Steven hopes for a thriving economy and society that benefits everyone. He hopes to see “an end to the ad hominem attacks and labeling people for their opinions.” He is worried about radical leftist groups like the Antifa that “violently suppress free speech and thought.” I watch my desire to counterattack, to educate them on their misperceptions. I say nothing.

We all agree that the media is negative, full of bias and that social media accelerates divisiveness. In March, both my dads hoped that the coronavirus would be an opportunity for greater cooperation and Bruce said: “99.9% of the people have good hearts and want to help their fellow citizens.” I have never shared his optimism.

Maybe I’ll take Yolii for a walk today. To walk Yolii, you have to not want to actually walk.

In March, I talked to both my dads about immigration. It’s something I know about. I was a humanitarian aid worker in Croatia during the war in the former Yugoslavia. I worked with Bosnian refugees in San Francisco. My graduate school research was on adaptation and resilience in Bosnian adolescent refugees. I used to do pro bono psychological evaluations for asylum seekers. See, I’ve got credentials.

I say to both of them, separately, some version of: People don’t risk their lives to cross borders unless they are willing to die; that’s how bad it is for them in the place they are fleeing. I find it a little pathetic that I even have to say this. How is it possible to not understand this very basic human fact? I don’t scream, I keep my angry face to myself and continue in a steady and even tone: People don’t come into the U.S. from Mexico and Central America to take advantage of taxpayer dollars. They aren’t eligible for public services. Sure, there are some people who work the system. Take any situation, any population, there are always a few that are going to be working the system. But it’s the exception and it’s not what to build policy on. And what about the corporations that hire illegal immigrants? Why aren’t they held responsible? Why won’t they hire Americans? Is it that Americans won’t take the jobs that pay so little, don’t provide health insurance nor basic worker’s rights? Steven interrupts me — “Corporations should be held responsible! I totally agree!”

On my drive from San Francisco to Los Angeles as quarantine began, I stop for an In-n-Out burger and gas. I call Bruce as I’m filling up the tank. I wanted to make sure he and my step-mom had changed their travel plans. Bruce tells me how sad he was that morning, that he cried, listening to an NPR story about a young boy who had been separated from his parents and sent to a re-education camp in China because he was Muslim, never to see his parents again. Then he talked about how much he hates “that Chinese regime” and “the Syrian bastard, too.” I listen and decide this isn’t the time to bring up the U.S. detention camps.

But I do later, as part of my conversation with him in March about why he’s voting for Trump again. He says he doesn’t think the detention camps are as bad as what’s happening in China or Syria. I tell him the conditions are; they are similar. He tells me he’s so strongly against illegal immigration and so aggravated by how screwed up immigration is that he hasn’t read that much about it. I say: “Dad, we’re separating children from their parents; we’re putting humans who are fleeing for their lives in cages.” He acquiesces, says: “You know much more about this topic than I do, and I admire you for all the work you’ve done with refugees.”

In the spring of 2019, I had dinner with Bruce, just him and me. At some point in our dinner conversation, he asked “How’s your other dad?” This from a man who used to sit me and my older brother down and talk to us for what felt like hours about what to call him when we were home with my mom. He wanted us to always call him dad, not realizing that my mom only called him Bruce, or maybe he did know and that’s why in one of the few slivers of time he had with us, he couldn’t stop himself from talking to us about calling him dad when we were with our mom. I dreaded the “name lecture” as I came to think of it. I knew the name lecture was coming at every visit and my stomach would ache in anticipation. I was 48 years old the day my dad could finally call my other dad “your other dad” instead of “Steven” or “your step-dad.”

“How’s your other dad?” Such a simple question. I don’t know if I would have ever been asked that question if Trump hadn’t been elected President.

Yolii is a licker. A kisser. A battery-operated licker-kisser. It’s disgusting. Her tongue comes out and is longer than her head, so long it’s like a giraffe tongue. The tenacity of her giraffe tongue is remarkable. If it could just be one or two lick-kisses, it could be quite lovely — a respectful expression of love. But no, she gets started and she can’t stop.

On Saturday, May 30, I woke up with a plan to search for pancakes to-go for breakfast in bed with my partner on a rare morning off together. But then I looked at the news, and I looked at Instagram and I saw there was a protest — In the name of #GEORGEFLOYD & 601 people murdered by the police in LA County since 2012 — at noon and I had to go. It’s not that I hadn’t been watching the news that week and wanting to join the protests, but it wasn’t until Saturday morning when I didn’t have to work that my participation became non-negotiable. I posted on Instagram details about the protest with the caption “#itstime” “#blacklivesmatter.” My sister, also Bruce’s daughter, who lives a mile from one of the neighborhoods hit hardest by protests in Minneapolis commented with a heart and “stay safe, sis.” And then Bruce commented: “Since you are going to attend this protest, please be extra careful; Antifa will probably be participating and they are very nasty and dangerous people.” I nearly screamed, but instead ranted to my partner — “What the hell is my dad doing commenting on my Instagram feed about the Antifa?! Does he really think the Antifa are behind the protests?! What is wrong with him?!” She told me to calm down and not respond. I said: “But he looks like a fool, on MY Instagram feed!” She told me to calm down and not respond. She dropped me off at the protest on her way to work. En route, I texted with my sister, getting an update on what it was like on the ground in Minneapolis. She tells me she’s never understood White privilege until now, until she is scared in her own home. She says no one should ever have to live like this. She’s 39. I’m so happy to hear her newfound awareness I nearly cry.

The rally was flooded with thousands of people wearing masks. We moved slowly, like a very large amoeba, across the park and into the streets chanting “Black Lives Matter,” “Say His Name,” “No Peace, No Justice.” I am newer to Los Angeles and at some points, I had no idea where exactly I was or which direction I was going, but I knew I was in the right place. I got teary at times under my mask and goggles and cheered along with the crowd when the blocked cars honked in solidarity. I wasn’t at the front so did not see the police in riot gear confront what indeed had been a very “peaceful” protest. I walked by myself for several blocks and made my way home in an uber.

I responded to Bruce’s comment on Instagram when I got home: “Was 100% peaceful during my time. I’m open to disagreeing and different opinions but making broad generalizations and using words like ‘very nasty’ to describe people and groups of people will not help us become less divided or build a just and equitable society.” A few minutes later I realize I didn’t want to argue with my dad on social media, so I delete his comment and my comment. I then start to text him to share what I had said but was interrupted by a text from him: “I am not going to get in an argument with you via Instagram, but Antifa are very nasty and dangerous people who use protest tactics, such as property damage, physical violence and harassment. They are just like the stupid white supremacist groups except they are extreme left-wing vs extreme right-wing.” I responded: “I’m happy to discuss further, but on a different day as I’m very emotional today and I’m very glad I protested.” He told me he was also happy I protested and it would be great if all protests were peaceful. He said MLK had the right way to do it. He tells me the police officer who killed George Floyd and the three who stood by and did nothing should be punished to the maximum degree and people like them should be eliminated from law enforcement. And then he sent me an article about police brutality and all I could see was the opening sentence: “Maybe if we had listened to Colin Kaepernick four years ago, we wouldn’t be here.” I agree and take a long, hot bath.

I had a dream this morning that Yolii was stuck in a very tight sleeve of one of my jackets. She couldn’t turn around and could barely move forward. It was funny, I laughed. And then not so funny. She was scared and stuck and I was trying but couldn’t really figure out how in the world to help her. She was very close to the wrist opening which was even tighter and so I started trying to gently maneuver her body in a way that didn’t hurt her but moved her closer to the opening. Then one of her eyeballs popped out of her eye socket and shot across the floor. I woke up and was relieved to see that she had two eyeballs inside her head. I checked more than once.

Am I Blinded or Seeing Too Clearly?

June 1, I didn’t see it live, but I read about it and watched the video that evening — Trump’s declaration of war on protestors. If cities and states couldn’t get things under control, he would send the U.S. military. I can’t move, I can’t focus. I’m back in Croatia in 1994, in the middle of a state-sanctioned genocide where neighbors are killing neighbors because of religious and cultural identity; it was then that I realized a race war on U.S. soil could occur in my lifetime. This could be the beginning. The national guard was already in Los Angeles, in several cities. But Trump said he would send the U.S. military to bring “law and order,” to stop the protests. And then the scene — tear gassing to move protestors out of Lafayette Park so he could stroll through and stand next to the boarded-up church for a photo. I don’t care about the photo. I care about his declaration of war on protestors, I care about my country becoming a military state. It’s personal now and I don’t know how to reconcile this new reality. Do my two dads, supporters of Trump, realize he’s declared war on their daughter? I’m fifty years old and I still want them to choose to protect me over all else. It’s an infantile desire and yet.

I want to ask if they still intend to vote for him, but I’m afraid to ask because I cannot bear to hear anything other than “no.” I wish I would receive a message saying something like — “I’m having a really hard time with the state of unrest in our country and I don’t think Trump is the right leader for us.”

I’m not sure if I’m blinded or I am seeing things far too clearly. We each decide where the line is and when that line has been crossed. It’s a very personal decision that may not make sense to anyone other than ourselves. For me, the declaration of war on protestors was that line. The explicit military rhetoric and action against Americans by the President shocked and disgusted me to the core. Some long-standing anti-Trumpers have said: “Welcome.”

In the mornings as Yolii is awakening, she will let you rub her belly. She stretches out, her feet dangle upside down, she lets her tongue hang out just a bit and doesn’t want you to stop. But at no other time. If it’s not first thing in her morning, don’t go near her belly — she will growl and snap at you.

I’ve been afraid to talk to Steven. I’ve been afraid he may send me an article by the Black pro-Trump commentator Candace Owens and I’ll be catapulted into another solar system with rage. In 2016, on a family vacation during the Republican national convention, Steven sent me an article by Heather Mac Donald criticizing the Black Lives Matter movement and I lost my ability to speak — all I could do was scream like an injured, trapped animal. I scared the shit out of my niece and nephew. Steven admitted when he found me sobbing on the floor in frustration and outrage, that he had no idea what it’s like to be gay in this country, or black. But I’m no longer sure if caring about me and my chosen family impacts his thinking.

I walked along the L.A. river, without Yolii. I needed to stride with purpose, pace and intent. I enjoyed seeing the geese, the herons. I stopped in awe as I watched someone on horseback with a smaller, younger horse alongside walk down to the water. I walked across a rusty, narrow pedestrian bridge and looked below at a bright blue, slightly deflated, blow up shark floating in the river. I didn’t wonder how the shark got there. I wondered if the way I’m feeling like I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to talk to my dads again if they vote for Trump is how parents feel when they disown their children for being gay. This is about an assault on my fundamental belief system. And guilt by association. Maybe there isn’t a bridge.

As protests against police brutality continued, Bruce started to email topical op-eds by conservative writers to me, my siblings, their spouses and my step-mom. The titles alone offend me, and I struggled to respond. I tried to redirect the conversation away from what I consider misguided policy rhetoric, to the personal, to looking at ourselves and our Whiteness, to engaging in inquiry about our role in systemic racism. I shared an article about an approach to reckoning with our White privilege that Bruce finds offensive. Both my brothers respond at different points in the family thread, reinforcing more gently what I am saying. But we are emailing, not talking.

Out of a child-of-divorce habit, programmed to be equitable at all costs, I send the same article about White privilege to Steven and my mom. My mom, who did not vote for Trump, thanked me and said it resonated with her. Bruce mentioned black columnists he’s read with opposing points of view and reiterated his belief in judging and treating people by the content of their character, per MLK’s I Have A Dream speech. He said by that standard, me and my partner “are the tops!”

Steven then sent me an op-ed with the note: “Ignore if this upsets you.” His note upset me so much I couldn’t respond for a week. I also couldn’t pick up the phone. I tell him by email that I love him but I’m struggling, that Trump’s declaration of war on protestors crossed a line for me. I tell him it would meaningful to me to hear about any struggle he may be having regarding his support of Trump, or deeper contemplation about systemic racism and how we as White people need to contribute to change in economic and social disparities. He responded the next day, said he didn’t want to upset me the way he did with the Heather Mac Donald article. He reiterated his complete support of Trump and said he doesn’t like the term “systemic” racism. It was a very long email, sent in three separate emails because the email kept getting sent too soon. It was too much for me. I didn’t respond.

Standing Still

Since the dream with Yolii’s eyeball popping out, I’ve been more gentle with her. I hold her close a little bit each day, and when we walk, I mostly wait. Sometimes I let her lead. Which is more like standing still. Not a bad thing to practice.

Bruce told me early on in Trump’s Presidency that he understood how I felt. He told me there wasn’t one day under Obama that he agreed with his decisions. I asked him if he ever felt that a decision that Obama made was fundamentally violating human rights. He paused a long time and said: “no.”

The truth is, until Trump’s declaration of war on protestors, I didn’t really want to talk about any of this. I would have liked to stay in my little apartment in Los Angeles, not really participating in the anti-Trump outrage. I had become yet another White upper class liberal — complacent and safe, privileged enough to check out at my personal convenience. I thought about how Trump’s policies could, any day, impact my chosen family and inner sanctum, but they hadn’t yet. By the nature of my gender and who I love, I am part of the minority, and yet because of my class and race I am part of the dominant culture. I pass. Because I am a protestor, I could be arrested, teargassed, driven over, killed. As a wealthy, White protestor I’m far more likely to avoid arrest, and if needed, easily obtain legal resources. With Trump as President, we are all more at risk than my dads want to believe.

Bruce called me and apologizes for the emails, says that wasn’t how he should be communicating about any of this. I thanked him. I told him I’ve been struggling, that I’m not sure I can have a relationship with him if he votes for Trump. He said: “I hear you.” He said: “I wish we weren’t so different.” I told him I understood if he didn’t want to vote for Biden, but how about not voting at all — a vote for Trump in California is irrelevant. He said he’d think about it. A couple weeks later, he sent me another op-ed with a title I found offensive. I waited a week and while volunteering as a legal observer at a BLM Trans Pride Rally and March in Long Beach, I read the article. There were no police present so I had time on my hands. I emailed my dad and said I needed a break from articles. I suggested he watch 13th for a different version of history, and similar to what I said to Steven, told him I’d be interested in hearing any shifts in his thinking about White privilege, systemic racism or a decision to not vote for Trump. He responded right away. He found my request offensive and said he needed a break, too.

“Same angry faces.”

The day I screamed at Yolii, I apologized when we got home. I went to her in her bed, kneeled down and said “I’m sorry.” And then I went again, later, and apologized, again. “I’m sorry.” When not in her bed, Yolii is my 8-inch shadow following me around, nearly getting stepped on multiple times a day. And yet, she sees her harness in my hands and she immediately does a 180 and walks away. And then she cowers as the harness is put on her. So really, this no walking thing shouldn’t be a problem. She’s told me her position very clearly — she wants nothing to do with it. I just need to listen.

I recently read an article by Heather Mac Donald: Breakdown. The unwinding of law and order in our country has happened with stunning speed. I’m struck by how convincing she is. Both my dads may agree with her. She is a good writer. She uses a few anecdotes, her chosen data points, and makes convincing arguments that support her world view. The comments section is particularly striking — everyone agrees with her. We are all living in our own bubble, unable to see each other clearly, finding the data points we like that fit what we want to see. Dialogue across difference has become untenable.

Life is hopefully long, and me and my dads may find our way back to a bridge, one I can’t imagine at the moment. Maybe they will let go of their support of Trump. I don’t know and I can no longer try to understand nor convince them to do so. For now, I’m practicing standing still.

photo by Michael Light

queer artist | writer | solo performer | social worker | health tech | black lives matter

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