Trump’s presidency has divided my family. The “Trump Effect”, as I called it, infected us shortly after he descended into the atrium of Trump Tower to announce his presidential candidacy. It ended seven years later, around my kitchen table, with three generations of my mother’s offspring eating takeout Italian food. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My mother was a Reagan Republican and had voted along party lines since 1980. Although none of her four children were completely politically aligned with her, the Trump Effect created the greatest distance between my mother and me.
We fought every time we talked. Before Trump secured the nomination, I argued that her morals were in direct conflict with the ones she and my father had drilled into my head for decades. Furthermore, I argued, he did not even embody conservative values. He turned them into grotesque manipulations of what had been a reasonably sound policy.
I begged her not to vote for him. She didn’t move. After her election, her choice took on the weight of betrayal. Her blindness to Trump’s white nationalist tendencies was an affront to my wife, who is a proud Latina, and angered my biracial, school-aged children.
The more flagrant Trump’s violation of social norms was, the more she insisted. In northern Idaho, her political views went largely unchallenged. It was her excursions to Eastern Washington that provided her with the opportunity to proselytize and be heard. Any poker table became her pulpit as she expounded the virtues of the new savior of the Republican Party. Having gained respect with her poker skills, she changed people’s minds.
At one point, after the Mueller investigation, she was so self-confident that she stopped responding to challenges or questions from people on the left. We stopped talking about everything except superficial questions about my life and detailed reports about his current illnesses. I longed for a return to our political discourse. That never happened.
She voted for Trump again in 2020, but did not embrace the “big lie” that he had won the election handily. She defended her chosen candidate’s honor afterward, but her Ultra MAGA armor began to crack when Trump’s attacks were directed at Republican icons like Mitt Romney, Liz Cheney and the Bush dynasty. Then, January 6, 2021 shook the foundations of her political fortitude. The damage was considerable and long-lasting.
I was not with my mother during the explosive violence of the insurrection that day. But our family has always been patriotic. My father served in General MacArthur’s honor guard during the Korean War. We raise the flag, sing the anthem and respect military men and women. My mother and I shed patriotic tears on January 6, 2021, and even though we are from very different places, the tears flowed into the same river. We both knew that the America we loved was significantly diminished by the relentless attacks of a small percentage of Americans determined to define the world by their petty grievances and perceived injustices.
I did not resume political discourse with my mother, despite the obvious opening for a fatal shot. The sadness that surrounded her settled in like a dense fog. Surprisingly, her depressed mood had less to do with Trump’s defeat and more to do with her own foolishness in the certainty that Trump was a hero and savior. As for me, I couldn’t even say “I told you so”.
Sixteen months later, I was having dinner with my mom and some Trump news flashed on the screen. She shook her head in slight disgust. I had not planned what would happen next, although I had fantasized about this “intervention” countless times.
Taking a deep breath, I gathered my courage and began to speak. “Mom, I’m going to ask you a big favor, something that may be shocking at first, but please bear with me.” She started to speak, but I held up a finger, begging her to listen to me.
My voice was shaky and weak when I began, but I gained confidence as the memory of each of Trump’s atrocities replayed in my mind – his near-constant appeal to our worst instincts, his undisguised racism and Islamophobia, and his blame for anyone and everyone. anything other than himself. I was feeling hot when I got to the point of my diatribe, asking what I believe is the most important question I will ever ask my mother: “Would you please apologize to my children for voting for Trump?”
I continued, “My fear is that when Trump is seen through a clear, objective lens, the support you have given him will define you.”
A few days later, my mother, also known as Grandma and Grandma, sat at the head of a round table. At 92 years old, she was still larger than life and an imposing presence. She did not need to attract the attention of those gathered. On her first syllable, heads turned and phones went silent. She would stay in the room until she decided not to.
Before giving our traditional grace, she stood up and the room came to attention. She took a moment to compose herself and, with characteristic confidence, said, “I want to apologize.” Looking around the table, she didn’t waver. “I made a horrible mistake by voting for Trump. If I knew what I know now, I would never have voted for him. I hope you forgive me. And it was done.
There was a collective sigh of relief as she diverted our attention and laughed as she said, “That wasn’t that hard.” We hugged and I whispered my thanks as we hugged. “Let’s eat,” she said. And we begin: “Bless us, our Lord, and these Your gifts…”
In the months that followed, I chose to continue the moratorium on political speech and chose instead to explore our common ground – which, I discovered, is fertile, vast and refreshingly friendly. Trump’s recent conviction on 34 criminal charges affirmed that his divorce from MAGA and Trump was the right choice.
My children’s wounds began to heal. They forgave her, and through them, my grandchildren will too. In the end, the “intervention” we staged was a gift, a kind of project for a divided time. She showed us how to admit you were wrong in a world where it seems like everyone has to be right. That is the true conclusion, the kernel of truth that I hope will grow and prosper.
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CORRECTION: A previous version of this article incorrectly stated that the author’s father served in General Patton’s honor guard. HuffPost.
