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.