An Open Letter to My Trump-Supporting Neighbors on Inauguration Day
From the progressive down the street
To my Neighbors,
You don’t know me. We don’t talk. Perhaps it’s because you spotted my bumper stickers when I moved in, or because I spotted your yard signs. Or perhaps it is because we both work, and no one is as good about knowing their neighbors as they used to be. Maybe we don’t know each other because we did not make time for each other.
I would like to try and make that time now. Because I can see that you’re angry, and I know what fear feels like. And I have been taught to love my neighbor as myself. And I no longer want to be afraid.
When I was a little girl, a bee got tangled in my hair. I tried to tell my mother, but she couldn’t see, couldn’t hear it. The bee crawled down my shirt and stung me. The puncture point on my back swelled up, but it didn’t really hurt. But, now, I run every time a bee is near me. It’s not so much that I’m afraid of the sting as I am afraid that people will not believe me. There was a bee in my hair and I was the only one that could hear its buzzing.
I wonder if you also feel there is something I’m not seeing. Do you think I am also in danger? Is that why you scream?
Fear has a way of making us clam up, of pushing ourselves into uncomfortable defensive postures that say, “I am still strong. You cannot attack me.” But each of us is huddling behind talking points rather than substance. Behind policy without recognizing that behind each policy position, there is a human being that bought in, that said, “This is what will make my life better. And your life too! If only you would stop and listen to me.”
And look, I get it. You fear that one morning, you will wake up, and the world will be very different than the one that you have decided to call home. You will find that the values that you have held your whole life are being questioned. You will find that the way of life that you have come to value, that you had hoped your children would value, will no longer be possible, will have been ripped from you. You fear that the work you put in will have meant nothing. You fear that the path you have dedicated your life to will not have been reverently walked, but trampled…
