I recently wrote a deeply personal story, entitled “Why Trump Voters are not welcome in my house this holiday.” It was the first time I ever posted to the Daily Kos, and I was not prepared for the response. Within the first week, the article has received more than 650 recommendations, 950+ comments directly on this site, and more than 65,000 “likes” on Facebook — and apparently thousands of FB comments on multiple pages.
The opinions ran about 80% positive — many strongly so — although I received my share of criticism, primarily from those who felt that engagement, not withdrawal, was the proper course of action. And of course a small handful of hate-filled screeds — which served beautifully to reinforce the theme of my story.
The reaction was so intense that I wanted to write more about the personal impact Trump’s election has had on me. So I thought about the heartbreaking reflection which gripped me over Thanksgiving while I was visiting Washington, DC with my family. This realization shook me to the core, to paraphrase Michelle Obama. To put it bluntly – this time taking a Michelle-ism and turning it upside down – FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY ADULT LIFE, I AM ASHAMED OF MY COUNTRY.
As some background: I am a native of the Washington, DC. area. My 91 year old mother has lived in the same house for more than 60 years. I haven’t resided in DC since 1974. But my mother’s house has always been home base for my large family. Despite being spread far and wide (California, Canada, Alaska, Texas, Pennsylvania), every year at Thanksgiving, several of my siblings make a pilgrimage back “home” – with various aged kids in tow – to sit at my mother’s beautiful holiday table.
Despite living in elsewhere the past 42 years, Washington, DC has always evoked intense pride in me. Washington’s beauty, elegance and – most importantly – the ideals that it stands for, allow me to relish it when I bring visitors to the city. The view, when I ride the escalator up from the Smithsonian Metro Station and set foot on the National Mall – Capitol in one direction, Washington Monument in the other – all flanked by the various Smithsonian buildings, never fails to awe me.
And then there are the values, honor and virtue that the monuments and stately buildings reflect. I don’t see how any patriot can stand inside the Lincoln Memorial, stunning and powerful in its simplicity, and read the words of that great American without tears coming to one’s eyes.
This year, though, things were different. It was already shocking to realize that my 18 year old son’s Naval Officer Commission (he is attending college in a Navy ROTC program) will be signed by Donald Trump. But it got worse as we walked along Pennsylvania Avenue headed to the National Archives, which my 14 year old son had asked to visit.
On that stroll, nothing felt like the Washington I loved anymore. In front of the White House, the Inaugural Parade viewing stand being constructed seemed a parody. I gazed at the building itself, which has been occupied the past eight years by a man of unbelievable intelligence and grace — and felt nearly sick at the thought of who would be inside in a few months.
We walked past the Executive Office Building and I thought about Steve Bannon (the Breitbart vulgarian) and Michael Flynn (purveyor of fake news) and other vile cretins who will have offices there. We passed the Treasury Department — Alexander Hamilton’s legacy — and pictured it being run by Steve Mnuchin, who profited from the housing meltdown at Goldman Sachs. Past the National Press Building — where I worked as a high schooler — and the fears or Trump’s assault on a free press swept over me. Past the Federal Triangle, home of the EPA, which will be headed by Scott Pruitt, a climate change denier. Then past the Trump Hotel, with his name in block letters staring out on Pennsylvania Avenue, defiling the beautiful exterior of the Old Post Office building.
Finally we arrived at the Archives Building and Museum. For those who have never visited – this impressive hall holds far more than fading copies of our Founding Fathers’ vision. There are many fascinating exhibits focused on how physical documents and artifacts define our nation and our persona as a people.
While walking through a section highlighting the rich immigrant history of America, I was overcome by the irony it brought to mind. I recalled the comment Michelle Obama made during the 2008 campaign which brought her so much vitriol. After one primary victory for her husband, she commented: “For the first time in my adult life, I’m proud of my country. . .”
There was much more to Michelle’s statement to give it context, but the reaction from the Republican Party was outrage. Personally, I realized that the African-American experience was profoundly different than my privileged upbringing, and that there likely had been a persistent sense for Michelle of not being part of the larger national body. However, I never fully embraced or understood her remark. Until now, that is.
Fast forward to November 2016. There, in the bowels of the National Archives, taking in what it means to be an American, the reverse of Michelle Obama’s comment hit home. As I reviewed images from Ellis Island — each a ray of hope for what those immigrants probably thought was the greatest country on earth — it finally struck me: I am no longer someone who feels pride in being American. I feel disenfranchised, abandoned by the 46% of voters who chose ignorance and hate. My countrymen and women have turned their backs on what I thought being an American always meant: as represented by the welcoming words of the Statue of Liberty – and the inclusion, diversity, democratic principles and freedoms of speech and the press that she represents.
Now, for the first time, I truly understand what Michelle Obama meant in 2008 — that before her husband’s campaign she never really felt accepted by a large portion of the nation. I’m sorry Michelle; I wish I could still join you in saying I am proud of my country today. But I would be a liar if I did. Instead, for the first time, I am ashamed.