Thank You, Ohio

I live about 15 miles east of a law firm I founded with my partner in Maryland, just on the D.C. line. This is the bubble that I live in, and the one that I love.  Where I work everyone speaks the language I understand and there is rarely a debate about issues of the day – except on the margins.

The beginning of the horror movie that was Trump’s candidacy made the sensible residents of my bubble scoff.  Like everyone else I could not imagine he would ever come close to the White House.

In September 2015, I stopped scoffing.  I read Evan Osnos’ New Yorker article, “The Fearful and The Frustrated – Donald Trump’s nationalist coalition takes shape – for now” and it took my breath away. As a young lawyer, I was part of a legal team in a civil rights trial against the KKK, the American Nazi Party and several governmental agencies. Many days of that trial I found myself standing in the cafeteria line, asking the defendant Grand Dragon of the KKK or the head of the American Nazi Party to pass me the vanilla pudding.  These guys were real. They ate vanilla pudding, they held the door for me, and they were serious about whatever they were serious about. They looked like anyone’s white relative. And they were lethal.

Hearing the possibility that these groups were coming out of hiding convinced me that I had to do something, but I wasn’t sure what.  As time went on and I ventured beyond my bubble I realized that relatives, clients, and many of my Nebraska-born, 71-year-old Husker Husband’s beloved patients were talking more and more about Trump as a viable candidate. What to do?  To tolerate or not to tolerate? And what does either option really mean? In moments of profound confusion mixed with fury, I considered drawing a line and cutting off contact with the Trump supporters in my life.

In the end, I committed to going to Ohio for three days to help get out the vote, convinced that I would “let my life speak” as the Quaker’s say. My friend Cynthia and I ended up in Lorain, Ohio, a community 30 minutes or so from Cleveland.  At the garage of the wonderful and embracing Democratic GOTV organizer, we were told our beat consisted of Democratic voters, many of whom had voted for President Obama.  As part of our script, we were encouraged to promote Hillary’s candidacy.  But at the very first door we could tell that our best bet was to say we were with the Democratic party and not mention Hillary. Hard to say why it was so immediately clear.  But it was. Few of those we met were excited to vote for who they believed would be the first woman president, but many loudly —and often harshly — stated that they had no intention of voting.  Often, the disgust was palpable.  One elderly man turned instantly when he found out why I was knocking and snarl-screamed “Get out of here. Get out of here.” 

On Election Day, Cynthia and I were assigned to separate polling stations in particularly depressed areas of Lorain. At the training The night before the election, I learned that election laws require outside poll observers to remain 100 feet from the polling center. So, when I arrived that morning I dutifully looked for a perfect spot and immediately saw a welcoming fire-fighter standing approximately 100 feet from the door to the center. He was there to promote Issue Five, an initiative he had been campaigning for that would benefit the Lorain Fire Department.  We got on immediately.  Frankly, we had to.  We were about to spend over 13 hours together.  

For the first few hours, we were very careful not to talk about the politics of that day. We exchanged pictures of kids. I am a divorce lawyer so we talked about some of his marital history. During these first few lovely hours, different fire fighters would come by to joke, jab, support, and otherwise pass the time.  The camaraderie was familiar: I am the daughter of a cop.  I was raised with guys like these. 

By noon, though, it was clear. My new fire-fighter friend was voting for Trump.  He also came from generations of Democrats, but he and his Dad are now registered Independents.  He spoke to me about what had happened to Lorain over the last 30 years.  The U.S. steel plant that had once provided a secure middle-class life for a generation of workers had withered away to nothing, as did the industrial shovel and ship-building factories. The Ford automobile factory was a ghost of its former self. I can’t remember all the details he shared about the exodus of these manufacturing and other blue collar jobs, but I can remember feeling it was time to just listen. I realized in that moment how little I knew and until then cared to know. I had absolutely nothing to say, much less offer. 

None of my reading throughout the election cycle prepared me for this man and his friends and the stories of their families. The authenticity was plainly apparent.  To be sure, I had to ignore statements that offended me to my core. I got impatient with his faith in what I believe to be Trump’s false promises.  I endured what I believed were false equivalencies.  But I didn’t leave and I didn’t shut down. I couldn’t. I had an election to protect.

What dawned on me as the day wore on was that these guys seemed to like and accept me, no matter what I—a middle-aged woman swooping in from Washington D.C. watching the polls for Hillary—said. We were all sharing the same experience, sometimes quite literally shoulder to shoulder. We had to get through the cold rainy afternoon together for our own personal reasons.  That was what mattered.

 By the end of the day, they’d invited me to their watch party at the VFW that night.

Over at her own polling center, Cynthia too befriended the local fire fighters.  Standing with Cynthia for 12 hours was the first woman fire-fighter hired at the Lorain City Fire Department, a lesbian who had served with the department for 28 years, a woman the guys called Mom.  A lifelong resident of Lorain, she was all too familiar with the economic pain that racked her city, including her own paycheck which was less now than it was 10 years ago. Cynthia got the invite too. 

There was no question that we’d join them. After the polls closed, tired and not thinking much of anything, we went to the VFW where we everyone was welcoming. From my seat though, I could see Fox News reporting on the early returns.  Someone said, “Virginia looked like it was going to be close.”  I shot up.  I couldn’t talk anymore.  Within a few minutes I realized that my worst fear might unfold right there with those guys.  The prospect of America electing Donald Trump was too personally devastating for me to experience in that room.  Cynthia and I looked at each other. We knew it was time to take our leave.  We took pictures with everyone and all made promises to stay in touch, all aware of how unlikely it was that we would keep those promises. 

Because of our day, I think I knew sooner than the residents of my bubble that we were losing. But my brief stay in Lorain also reminded me of the multidimensional quality of human nature, and did so just in time.

I went there to make a statement against the bad guys. But my new companions humbled me to the point of defenselessness. In the flesh, at least to a white woman who grew up in a blue-collar world in upstate New York, these men were very familiar.  Some had not pursued their education very far and many did not venture far from home. They relayed a strong sense of community and duty. They were funny–really funny, sometimes—easygoing and present in the moment. There is no question that they would come running if I needed them in a crisis and that I would fail them miserably if the tables were turned.  They have learned to put their lives second to those in need.

Listening to and learning from the micro-experience of that day, I realized that my definition of respect and courage was far too narrow. I did not fully comprehend the complexity and hard work that comes with the notion of inclusivity and I have not been courageous enough in my efforts to understand the complex reasons giving rise to fervently held opinions that differ from mine.

Now, do not get me wrong. I am still stunned at how so many, including these men and women, have overlooked or are willing to risk Trump’s dangerous, hateful call to action.   In trying to figure it out, I have wondered if what allows folks to overlook the president-elect’s words comes from the fact that the very definition of family, across nations and cultures, includes the beloved cranky, crazy elder who disparages the “other” before he thinks. Who relies on readily available stereotypes and prejudice for his material but nonetheless is forever tolerated, even embraced by family because 1) he is their cranky, crazy elder and 2) their mostly untested belief that he “means no harm.” 

Or when balancing the harms that could come from the risk to “the other” or the seemingly abstract notion that is democracy against the concrete economic benefits our president-elect promised to individuals who believed they have been lied to—by everyone—and then forgotten, the choice may have been obvious and easy.   Clearly, I do not know.  But, in any event, here we are and it is high time to press on.

But, that is okay.  I am almost enthusiastic about the prospect of moving forward.  Since Election Day, I have found I have a different kind of energy: a quieter, steady resolve that has allowed me to step back so I can get smarter and figure out how to communicate and listen again.  And that resolve has brought me a bullish sort of freedom that gives me confidence that we can work to identify and find ways to break down those cultural and political “walls” we all built that allowed us to ignore, and yes, silence the fearful and the frustrated everywhere.  

Thank you, Ohio.