I knew he voted red. He knew I voted blue. I had hoped that the most knowledgeable and inclusive candidate would win. He hoped his idea of ​​a better America would prevail. He won and, from my point of view, America lost.

The day after Tuesday night’s results, still under the covers Wednesday morning, I scoured social media for hope. I deleted some short-sighted FB friends – no point continuing our digital relationships and witnessing their selfishness and hatred. Then I saw my husband’s message.

“God bless America. God bless numbers 45, 47.”

There were a few likes and a few commenters joined him in his celebration. He was downstairs in the kitchen making coffee and I was upstairs avoiding him. I couldn’t talk to him – or even look at him.

I immediately texted, “I love you, but out of respect for me and all my liberal writer friends, can you please delete this message?” Also tell your family that I love them, but I won’t come for Thanksgiving and I won’t host Christmas. I need space.

Shortly after I sent the text, he brought me a cup of coffee in bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I understand.”

Did he do it? Did he really understand what he and so many others in this country had done? I couldn’t forgive him. Not now.

I spent most of the morning scrolling through the disaster next to the cold cup of coffee that I ignored partly because I was distracted, mostly out of malice. I finally got up, made the bed, walked out into the beautiful sunny day, took a few deep breaths, then went back upstairs to unmake the bed and spend the rest of the day there .

He got to work – I thought it was spurred by Trump’s victory.

The next day, I finally emerged and listened to Kamala’s concession speech. She reminded us: “Only when it is dark enough can you see the stars. »

I wrote to my artist friends and told them to keep their lights shining. I wrote to my musician son in college and his songwriter girlfriend. I told them to keep creating. I wrote to my young nieces, who were terrified, and told them I was there for them. I wrote to my handsome gay cousin and told him I loved him and was thinking of him and his partner.

I received a message from a family member who told me that her Ukrainian friend was petrified. Another message came from an actor friend who said she fears the damage that will be done over the next four years can never be undone. One of my sisters wrote to me and said she had a panic attack and had to quit her job. One of my students rescheduled our afternoon meeting saying she just couldn’t function.

Later that night, I briefly glanced at my husband and found myself not wanting to look into the eyes I love. I hated this division. I wanted to touch his forearms and feel our connection, but I also felt the need to punish him and deny him my touch.

“I’m sorry about the holiday, but I can’t bite my tongue like I did with Hillary,” I told him. “I don’t want to disrespect your parents or your brother and his family in their house, or in our house, so it’s better that way. No scene. You can go see them. Seriously, I won’t be in a room with 15 people who voted for Trump. »

He talked about our son and his girlfriend coming home for Christmas.

“Are they going to feel bad? he asked.

Bad? I think they already feel bad. Really badI thought. Instead, I said, “We’ll have our own little vacation and everything will be fine.” »

Will it be okay? I’ve been asking myself this question since 2016, when I saw my husband’s stubbornness. How could a Latino vote for Trump? How can his family members vote for him? Did they not believe any of Trump’s comments on immigration? Aren’t they concerned about the reproductive safety of the young women and girls in our family? Don’t they worry about all the other nightmares that might happen to us?

I was surprised he didn’t discuss the change in his vacation plans. Normally this would be a bone of contention due to how close he is to his family. Somewhere inside him he must understand what this election result means to me. I know he has empathy for me, for which I am grateful. I’m going to hold on to this like a life raft while I try to figure out how we move forward with our marriage.

But I won’t thank or hold hands in a circle with people who voted for a party that wants to take away rights from LGBTQ people. I won’t give the turkey to someone who supports people who have reported causing harm to disabled people and the elderly. I’m not going to sit by a Christmas tree and celebrate the birth of Jesus and sip eggnog when I know how many people are now at risk of serious, even fatal, danger because they don’t cannot get the reproductive care they need. I will not unwrap the gifts given to me by people who voted for a party that talked about building internment camps and mass deportations.

I will continue to encourage my friends and family to continue to hope and fight for this country. I don’t know how or when I’ll be able to greet my husband in the morning with my usual hug as I wrap my arms around his strong shoulders, smell the intoxicating scent of his spicy cologne, and smile, knowing that we let’s be one. There are now two of us, and it’s scary. Yet I know he is a good man and would do anything for a family member or friend, which makes what he did even more infuriating and even more painful.

There is simply too much history and love between us to let this election tear us apart. But it won’t be easy to repair the damage done. It will take time, patience, and difficult, radically truthful conversations. And I know I’m not the only person in this situation. Too many of us have found ourselves here and don’t know how to move forward.

On November 7, I saw that my husband’s message was still active. There were more comments from Americans who I believe had made a huge error two days ago. I wanted to tell them all that they were wrong and that they had no idea of ​​the harm they had caused by making that choice – or if they did, then they should be ashamed of themselves. I don’t know how they can live with themselves.

Instead, I got up and made my own coffee. I put our clothes in the dryer. I let the dog out. I went back upstairs and got dressed for the gym. I did more of the small, everyday human things that we are forced to continue doing, even though many of us just want to curl up in a ball and cry. But we can’t. We won’t do it.

When I came back downstairs, my husband was sitting in the living room with his coffee.

I stood briefly in front of our blue front door – the one I painted last year when I changed all the red in our house to blue. At the time, I thought it was just my obsessive need to redecorate. Little did I know it would one day read as a protest – or as a subliminal message to everyone who crossed the threshold.

He blew me a goodbye kiss from the living room as he drank from his favorite mug, seemingly oblivious to my upset.

I stood at the door thinking about how I could express my pain. I wanted to say something that would motivate him to clean up his mistake, but I knew that if my words were too demanding or my voice too filled with anger, it wouldn’t get me anywhere.

It’s a woman’s challenge. This was Kamala’s challenge. I also knew that I couldn’t change what had happened, only what was happening now. Only what I do now. What I refuse to accept and what I promise to continue fighting for. And all this with honesty, love and, yes, anger too.

I turned to my husband and said, “I saw you didn’t delete your post, and it breaks my heart. »

Then I walked out the door – devastated but determined – into the blue of a new day.

Andrea Tate is an essayist currently working on her memoir“I’ll show you”, about her acting career in New York and Hollywood. Some of his essays can be found in Hippocampus literary review, Entropy, role/reboot, Angels Flight West and more. She is a professor of writing at the university and is pursuing her doctorate. in leadership and change. To learn more about Andrea, visit AndreaTate.net.

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