I grew up in a tiny farm town between Philadelphia and Atlantic City. Whenever I tell people this, they are shocked: crops grow between a major city and the gambling Mecca of the East coast?
My parents first moved to this South Jersey anomaly in the mid-80’s; at that time, the town housed one general store, one diner, and no stop lights. Now, thirty-six years later, the town has one Wawa, one gas station, the same diner, and one blinking light. The population has exploded (hyperbole) from 2,000 to 6,300. With those kind of numbers, you would think there would be at least one supermarket!
I spent five weeks in my hometown this summer. I felt a huge sense of relief for several reasons. First, I escaped my shoe box apartment. Second, I could sit outside and stare at birds (who knew I would become an ornithologist during a pandemic). Lastly, I could spend time with my parents. As I drove my mom around on errands, I saw more and more Trump lawn signs and flags decorate the yards of my small town. And, it made me sick.
Thinking back to my childhood, I know it lacked diversity. My best friend growing up was Korean, but I never questioned her identity – she was the girl who played dress up with me, the girl who served as my partner in the eighth grade science fair. I do wish, though, that I had the empathy and sensitivity to check in with her, for it must have felt isolating to grow up as the only Asian American in an all white neighborhood and predominantly white elementary school.
In high school, I do recall being the one to constantly highlight how there were only five kids of color out of a population of 2,500. That seemed outrageous and unfair to them. My attempt to be inclusive involved asking Malik, one of the five students of color, to my sophomore cotillion. What you should know is that I didn’t know Malik, and he didn’t know me. But, I wanted to be friends with him because five out of 2,500 sucks. (By the way, he said no.)
I also remember that no one came out in high school, at least not mine. My theater friends attended sister high schools in the district, and a few of them bravely came out, which is a big deal in the 90’s. But, my school’s toxic jock culture and insistence on heternormativity kept most people tight-lipped about their sexuality and gender identities.
So, as I drove past acres of corn stalks, soy bean plants, and sunflowers. As I drove by my elementary, middle, and high school. As I drove past the signs praising Trump, I thought about my youth in relation to my political beliefs. How am I proudly on the left while my former neighbors cling to the right?
I don’t have any definitive memories of my parents talking politics at the dinner table, but I do remember going into the voting booth with my mom. After the dusty red curtain would close, she explained how to maneuver the levers to cast her vote, a machine that seems so archaic now. I remember drawing pictures of Debi Thomas in the second grade. Mrs. Connor, impressed with my role model, commended me for recognizing the importance of the first Black female figure skater to hold national and world titles, all while going to medical school! I remember wearing yellow ribbons in the fifth grade as the U.S. sent troops to Kuwait; Mrs. Poole seemed frustrated with this pointless war, and I followed suit. I idolized my teacher. If she hated the Gulf War, then I did too. The women around me subtly encouraged me to be open minded and engaged and to question the status quo.
In college, though, I feel a sense of embarrassment. I questioned the authenticity of affirmative action. But, the universe gave me a dose of truth and reality: on my dorm floor, I was the minority. Most of my neighbors were Black or Asian. I quickly learned how wrong I was about affirmative action. Another point of embarrassment is how I treated one of my roommates. She was an (very) early riser whereas I slept in whenever possible (okay, nothing has really changed in that sense). She was Christian; I was Jewish. I felt like we had nothing in common because I didn’t give her friendship a chance. Now, though, I know my behavior came across as toxic, even racist, and it’s one of those terrible memories that haunt me. Luckily, my roommate and I had a serious heart-to-heart near the end of first semester freshman year, one where we gained tremendous understanding and appreciation for one another. And, yes, there was hugging, much like the final moments of a “Full House” (or even “Fuller House”) episode.
And then, of course, I moved to Northern Virginia in 2005. I have taught students of various religions, cultures, races, genders, and sexuality. I have learned what it truly means to be accepting and to love my kids unconditionally. Living in one of the most liberal cities (88% of the city voted for Hillary Clinton in 2016) on the East coast will bring out the best in you, and, as many of my students claim, I’m a giant hippie as a result.
Every experience and relationship has brought me to this point where I understand the importance of voting. Where I understand the importance of inclusion and representation. Where I understand the futility of war. Where I understand the importance of listening. Where I understand the need for love.
Driving around my small town this summer, I daydreamed of writing letters to all the people (so many) who had Trump flags waving from flag poles in the front yards or duct taped to their mailboxes. I imagined pleading with them not to vote for someone who is a fraud and who has failed us, someone who doesn’t care about the poor, someone who doesn’t care about Covid, someone who doesn’t understand the constitutional right to protest. I also fantasized about buying Black Lives Matter stickers in bulk and covering neighbors’ mailboxes with them; however, I wasn’t ready to serve hard time for messing with the USPS (see what I did here). In the end, I just complained to my mom and questioned how my neighbors could support this imbecile.
As I packed my suitcase (very heavy) and drove down South, I realized I didn’t do anything to change anyone’s mind. Maybe I should have had a conversation with a farmer who supports Trump to hear their perspective. But, I didn’t because I knew they wouldn’t wear a mask, they would judge me for wearing one, and they would only repeat the lies they believe from the man in power.
Our country is divided, and this election feels like life or death. We cannot continue to lose people to Covid. We cannot continue to lose members of the black community to police violence. We can take a moment, though, to reflect on who we are and how we got to our own place of understanding. That’s what I tried to do this summer. I don’t have all the answers about myself yet, but I am willing to put in the work. I know you are, too.
