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Are you having the post-election flare ups? Ready to snap at anyone who voted differently? How about wanting to get back at the Electoral College, the way you used to fantasize about someone who dumped you in high school? That's what I've been grappling with.
Passing a man wearing a “Make America Great Again” hat in the cereal aisle at Ralphs Supermarket, rage welled up in me. “Did you see that?” I railed at my 22-year-old niece, reaching for a box of Cheerios. “A Trump supporter! Right here in blue Venice Beach! How dare he rub salt in Hillary’s loss. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind…”
My niece grabbed my arm to stop me. “Judy, don’t do it. Nothing good will come from this.” So, I didn’t say anything and let the man in the hat turn into the dairy aisle and disappear from sight.
We got into the car. I dropped my niece off at her place, and as I headed home, I felt my unspoken words sloshing around my mouth like bile. I had trouble breathing and had to take a hit of asthma spray, but the heaviness in my chest remained. And, that’s when a wave of depression came over me. Actually, it was less like a wave and more like a tsunami of fear and hopelessness.
I’d been passionate about Hillary Clinton, recently traveling to the swing state Nevada, knocking on over 500 doors and asking Democrats to show up to vote. It was critical that the man who wanted to deport “Mexicans” and register Muslims not be elected. A Hillary win would mean that misogyny, hate and violence had lost. For me, it was necessary for America, and necessary to validate my life-long struggle for equal rights for all Americans.
The man with the cap had triggered childhood feelings of hopelessness and impotence from being bullied. My response was not original. I turned the car around and headed to stave off depression by eating—specifically a Penguin’s Frozen Yogurt. This was a major an act of rebellion as the next day was my Weight Watchers weigh in. I’m usually careful, but this time, I didn’t care. I’ve been stuffing my feeling since I was 16 years old.
I walked into the small yogurt store thinking about toppings—which and how many I would order. There, at the register was the man with the hat, the same one who’d been at the supermarket. I froze. If I lived in a small town, maybe I’d be used to running into people, but in Los Angeles this never happens. Never! I interpreted the synchronicity as a sign from God. I was meant to say something to him, and I did. At full volume, barely recognizing my hateful tone, I bellowed, “I hate your hat!”
The man, who looked as if he were in his 60s, calmly asked, “And why is that?”
An uncontrollable fury of words flew out of my mouth. “It says you don’t respect that I have a choice over what I do with my body. It says it’s OK for women to be assaulted and immigrants to be locked up.” I screamed, “That hat says you are full of hate.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Asian man behind the counter back away with a very worried look on his face and pick up his phone, weighing the prospect of dialing 911. The man with the hat remained shockingly calm as he asked, “Did you notice my hat is blue?” His words derailed my rant. He continued, “Read my hat.”
I studied his hat, not understanding what he was telling me. “It doesn’t say 'Make America GREAT Again.' It says 'Make America THINK Again.'” As I read it correctly, he said, “I was a Bernie supporter. I voted for Hillary.”
I finally saw the word “THINK” and fell into his chest, sobbing. He put his arms around me as I explained, “I’ve just been so upset…”
Patting my back to soothe me, he gently said, “I understand. I truly understand.” We sat together having yogurt. I found out his name was David and his wife had the same name I did: Judy. We exchanged emails, and as I got in my car, I wondered why this man was put in my path. What lesson did I need to learn?
It was just yesterday that I got a friend request on Facebook from a reader of one of my books. This happens frequently, and this time, instead of simply accepting the friend request, I scrutinized his timeline. Seeing that he didn’t support Planned Parenthood, I raged at him, “You could NEVER be my friend. Friendship denied.”
And just like David, the man with the hat, he responded to my anger with kind words that touched me, “In spite of our differences I’m still a fan and wish you well.”
I’m learning that THINGS ARE NOT AS THEY APPEAR TO BE. Trump supporters are not all bullies. We do not yet know where our country is going. The outcome of this election was not pre-determined. I’ve reacted, maybe over-reacted when I’ve perceived something that seemed unjust, and that’s an area I have to work on. I also went nuts when OJ was found not guilty, and he ultimately ended up in prison. Justice may be slow in coming that doesn’t mean it never will.
Letting my personal history color everything is problematic. In order to heal, I have to govern myself and not become the very thing I’ve hated. Perhaps if I respond to a Trump supporter with kindness and ask the questions nobody asked me growing up, bridges can be built.
Returning home, I accepted the Planned Parenthood foe as a Facebook friend. His name is Carl. The question I needed to be asked as a child was, “Tell me what happened to you.” That’s what I asked him.
