In the three and a half months since Trump supporters stormed the U.S. Capitol, it’s been covered from about every angle. Despite the volumes written, there is still one topic on which I have seen almost nothing. For some, I assume a small yet significant number, the events of January 6 had a deep and lasting effect on our mental health and sense of well-being. For me, the insurrection and the days that followed were a landmark event that led to a diametrical shift in many long-held beliefs, putting them in direct contrast to values I’ve held my entire life. I’ve struggled to understand and reconcile the impact that day had on my life. In a country with 330M people, I doubt I’m the only one. Nobody talks about it. So here is my story.
I’ve always been the type of guy that understands conversations, arguments and debates happen in black and white, while the world unfolds in glorious shades of gray. Accountability is important, but revenge is a need for the weak. Justice is best served when tempered first with a bit of forgiveness and like my (maternal) Grandpa taught me, “when in doubt, son, lean towards the latter”. I believe that being right is less important than doing right. And doing right always matters.
I’m a bit on the quiet side, at least until I get to know you. I don’t shy away from a challenge. I’m equal parts emotion and logic. I value all my relationships; each person played a part in shaping the person I’ve become. I believe most people are good. But the ones I’m most drawn to are those who can make me laugh as often as they make me think. And I don’t care what awful thing your Mother may have done; you never speak ill of your Mama.
I come from a line of bad husbands/fathers several generations deep on my Dad’s side. Breaking that cycle is my purpose in life. I’ve been married to the same man for 25 years, but traditional is not a word I would use to describe our “two Dads with two kids” family. I’m not a religious person. I’m not an atheist. On the religious scale, I’m somewhere between secular humanist and Zen Buddhist, depending on how close I am to the weekend. I believe in an afterlife, yet have no expectations of what that may be. But if my dogs aren’t there, I don’t want to go.
That’s me in 300 words or less. I’m just as unique as each of the other 330M people in this country. I an average, all-American, middle-class, white boy. Or at least, I was…
Twice in my lifetime, America has been attacked at home, on live television, with the whole world watching. September 11, 2001, and January 6, 2021.
Following 9/11, there was an instant, gut reaction that swept this country. When the second plane flew through the south tower, it removed any doubt that America was under attack. At that moment, the people in this country set aside our disagreements, we forgot about our differences. We came together as one - Americans first, individuals second.
Following the attack on the US Capital – well, life went on as normal. Except for one thing. There was nothing normal about what happened the day prior.
There were two distinctly different events that unfolded on January 6. First, there was the failed coup – a small group that hunted Mike Pence, Nancy Pelosi, and other members of Congress. They were quick, organized, armed, and equipped with tactical gear and restraints. We may never know the specific details of their intent, but “armed, organized group equipped with tactical gear and restraints storming the capitol” – that’s about as close to the universal definition of a coup as you can get.
Obviously, a failed coup is disturbing. The shock and pain this country would have faced had they accomplished their purpose is immeasurable. But small, extremist militias plotting to overthrow the government have been part of this country for as long as it’s been a country. Yes, we need to take that threat seriously, but we also need to keep it in perspective. For me, the failed coup was not the most disturbing event of that day. The disturbing part of the day, the part that keeps me awake at night, was the insurrection.
A mob of angry Trump supporters, who bought into the Big Lie and swallowed the propaganda pills whole, put their white privilege on full display and attacked their own country. They didn’t get their way in the election, so they did the unthinkable, and worse. They not only attacked America, they dared to do what even Confederate soldiers knew better of: They raised the Confederate flag inside the United States Capitol. They used the American flag as a weapon. They vandalized the Capitol. They rubbed feces on the walls.
Let that sink in for a moment.
They called themselves “Patriots” as they rubbed shit into the walls of the most sacred building in America. That is what happened on January 6.
Several of my friends say they were embarrassed by America that day. I wasn’t. I was angry. Incensed. Enraged. Not embarrassed. I knew by morning America would respond with a united voice condemning the insurrection and violence. An involuntary, gut reaction to someone crossing a line so sacred, so far off-limits, you never even imagined it could happen, would sweep this country.
But it didn’t.
The next morning there was a rather subdued outcry that condemned the insurrection. And with it, an equally loud silence from far too many. Was their silence pain? Was it shame? Was it fear? No. That silence was their compliance. I wasn’t embarrassed by America on January 6th. January 7th was the day I was embarrassed by America.
Robert Pape and Kevin Ruby published a profile of the insurrectionists in The Atlantic. It confirmed what many of us already knew. These were not your standard radicals. The vast majority were not affiliated with any extreme political or militia groups. Most were over 35 career professionals: CEOs, business owners, doctors, lawyers, IT specialists, and accountants.
The insurrectionists were Middle America. The people who desecrated our nation’s capital were our friends, our neighbors, our co-workers. And for every voice from Middle America that joined the outcry against what happened, there was an equally loud silence from Middle America that matched it.
I live in a small, rural town in central Missouri. My family, friends, co-workers, and neighbors; the people I interact with every day are very Christian, incredibly conservative, and overwhelmingly Republican. Trump carried this state with 56% of the vote, he carried this county with 89% of the vote.
I work for the local newspaper and my husband and I are the only interracial, same-sex couple in the area. We live right downtown. You would be hard-pressed to find anybody in this small town who doesn’t know “the nice interracial, gay couple on the square”.
Typically, a walk through our downtown includes a three-conversation, dozen “good morning” minimum. On the morning of January 7, not one person spoke to me. They didn’t speak to me. They didn’t look at me. They didn’t even acknowledge my presence. As the day progressed, the few people I did interact with wouldn’t look me in the eye. I noticed the sideways glances in my direction. I caught the hushed whispers. I overheard the comments. Friends, co-workers, neighbors, and relatives blamed ‘ANTIFA’ in the morning, ‘the left’ by lunch, ‘the blacks and gays’ by mid-afternoon, and by dinner ‘niggers and fags’ were their preferred labels. They were vocal in their condemnation of what “we” did. And they made sure we heard of their need for revenge. But as it became clear who actually was responsible, those voices fell silent.
That was the day I learned what hate looks like. It looks like my friends, my co-workers, my neighbors. It looks like almost every person in this small, rural town in central Missouri. That was the day my world changed.
In the response to the insurrection, from this small town and from across America, I saw what I’ve never been willing to let myself see before. I saw hate. Pure. Unadulterated. Widespread. Hate. Once seen, that can’t be unseen. Beliefs I’ve held my entire life – the values that shaped who I am as a person – my universal truth that people are good – all of it was shattered by silence.
The realization that so many across this nation supported the insurrectionists, and continue to, disgusts me. Yes, the insurrection was traumatic, but it was America’s response to it that left me shell-shocked. It created a shift in many long-held beliefs that I didn’t expect; placing them in direct conflict with values I’ve held my entire life. In a post tomorrow I’ll talk about those beliefs and conclude my story with the toll that conflict took at it played out.