I received the text on Election Day 2016.
Mom: You voted for Trump, right?
My fingers hesitated over my phone screen. I’d known her message was coming, but reading it made my stomach lurch.
Me: Yes
I hit send, even though it was a lie.
Watching Donald Trump once again become the Republican nominee this year feels like a time-warped fever dream. One minute, I’m cooking dinner in my Brooklyn apartment. The next, I’m 21 years old again, home from college and sitting in the living room of the house where I grew up. Fox News blasts from the TV. My parents are pleased to show me what they call a “different” perspective. Only it’s not 2016. It’s 2024 and, yet, it’s as though nothing has changed. The person I’ve become over the last eight years is gone.
My parents today are under no delusion that I’m a registered Republican. They know I voted for Joe Biden in 2020, and I suspect they no longer believe I voted for Trump over Hillary Clinton in 2016. I lied because it seemed easier than confronting the fault lines shifting beneath us. We were already a fractured family, in part because my younger brother was struggling with what we’d later understand to be addiction. I’d wanted to keep from making things worse. I thought it better to stifle myself than to pour gasoline over an open flame. Politics were not our biggest problem.
In the years since, I’ve debated with my parents countless times about abortion rights, wealth disparity, taxes, police brutality — the list goes on. As a queer, white, cis woman living in New York City, my views have become increasingly liberal, and thus, the differences between myself and my more traditional, Republican parents have broadened. While we typically begin at odds, I find we can often reach a point of commonality when it comes to discussing most political or social issues, even if we don’t agree. The challenge, however, is that, more often than not, we aren’t debating the issues themselves but rather our perceptions of them.
It often feels as though we exist in a parallel universe. My parents’ version of reality and mine are increasingly different, our narratives constantly in opposition. The news and social media conversations that inform our perspectives are riddled with contradicting facts — perhaps varying degrees from the truth — making it impossible to follow a connecting thread from one side to the other. And while I’ve come to accept that I cannot change my parents’ views, I’m troubled by how easily they lead me to doubt my own.
Admittedly, I am not an avid news consumer through traditional means, like newspapers or television. I learn of most current events from social media, where I’m served content that best fits the algorithm already coded into existence. This is not entirely different, I realize, from my parents’ preference for Fox News, though the gap between our sources of truth feels monumental. I used to think I could sway my parents to at least see my side by presenting the “right” information. If I told them about the articles we read in my college sociology class or tried to offer a new perspective, maybe then, I thought, they’d understand. But facts and research proved unsuccessful, and I’ve since given up.
During a recent visit with my parents, my mom asked what I think of Trump being the nominee. “I don’t like it,” I said flatly. “Especially considering the Supreme Court’s ruling on presidential immunity.” I’d hoped, even foolishly expected, that this would be something we could agree on, but instead, my mom let out a high-pitched laugh. “See, the liberal media spins everything!” she shouted.
“Aren’t you concerned that the president can basically do anything they want now without consequence?” I probed.
“It’s always been that way,” she said, her tone expressive.
Words failed to form on my tongue. With each passing second, I felt my selfhood slipping away. I wanted to ask what she meant but feared our conversation would begin to mimic “ Fox & Friends .” Did she not remember watching the news together on Jan. 6, 2021? Her genuine disbelief at the protesters storming the Capitol — the way she kept asking, Why are they doing this? What do they think they’re going to achieve? — both infuriated and saddened me. Whether she and my dad are naive to the violent extremism of their party or choose to ignore it, I’m still not sure.
“The conservative media spins everything too,” I finally said. “We’re all spinning but in different directions.”
It unsettles me to see how easily my narratives can be deconstructed during these conversations. My parents are not the Trump-loving extremists seen at his rallies nor are they part of the “religious right.” It would be easier to wave off their beliefs if they were. Instead, they express their views on economic policy and government regulation from a rational place that makes me question how much I know. Could they be right? I wonder. Maybe I am naive. Maybe I am being duped by the liberal media. Maybe it’s me who is disconnected from reality.
It takes a few days to reorient myself after I return home from visiting my parents. I spend more time second-guessing myself, questioning my individuality and seeking reassurance of my beliefs. Without trying, I take to representing the Republican point of view in discussions with colleagues and friends. Someone suggests that Kamala Harris may appeal to independent voters, possibly even conservatives, and like a reflex, I begin listing all the reasons I can think of to negate this. I’m not sure which thoughts belong to my parents and which, if any, belong to me. Conditioned to be on the defensive, always anticipating the attack from the other side, I struggle to stake a claim for myself.
Despite the mix of frustration and uncertainty I feel, I’m grateful for the many ways my parents have loved and supported me throughout my life. From teaching me to swim by placing their palms beneath my floating back and promising to catch me before I went under, to helping me find my first apartment after college, to telling me they love me no matter what when I came out. I love them both regardless of their beliefs, and I believe them when they say the same of me. When it comes to debating our political views and their attempts to influence my vote, however, our affection is not accounted for equally.
We are not the same family we were in 2016. Come February, my brother will be six years sober. And yet, I feel the same burden of responsibility to maintain harmony among us as I did eight years ago. My fear isn’t that I’ll disappoint my parents, but that by acknowledging our differences, the fractured earth beneath us may split open. I’m tempted to avoid conflict by circumventing their questions, resorting to silence instead of voicing opposition. But at what cost? Where is the line between self-preservation and annihilation? While silence has in the past been a means of protection, I know it isn’t the brave choice, but the easy one — a choice that many others don’t have the privilege to make.
I will not lie to my parents this election. The stakes are too high and I can no longer be silent without a gnawing discomfort aching in my chest. I can’t call myself an advocate if I am complicit. I can’t stand beside my queer community if I’m not willing to fight for us. There is no doubt in my mind that Trump and everything he represents is wrong. Writing this is a step toward breaking my silence. Toward owning my truth even if it is imperfect. Even if there are parts I am still searching to find.
Kate Warrington (she/her) is a queer Brooklyn-based writer whose work seeks to explore the intersections of identity and culture. Her writing has appeared in many journals and outlets, including Pangyrus Lit Mag, Impakter Magazine and She Explores Life, a feminist site where she previously wrote the “Overthinking Everything” column about her experience with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Find her work at katewarrington.medium.com and @warrington_kate .
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