Based on a true story, as they like to say
Julie was twenty-four and about to graduate with a degree in education when Barack Obama ran for president in 2008. She’d never really been political before—she voted for Kerry in ’04 but mostly because Bush felt like a bad rerun. But something about Obama caught her. Maybe it was how young he was, how confident, how he made things feel possible. She surprised herself by volunteering a little, attending a few campus events and making some calls. It felt good. She was tired of seeing her gay friends scapegoated and all the health care horror stories that her older sister, a nurse, had told her. Everyone in her immediate circle seemed to be on board, except maybe some high school friends and extended family. They rarely said anything outright, but their comments about Obama always had a weird edge, even when they didn’t veer into crazy talk about him being a “secret Muslim.” Like they were afraid of what he represented.
But then came graduation, and nothing fell into place. Julie patched together subbing gigs and part-time jobs that barely covered her bills and student loans. Full-time teaching positions were rare and fiercely competitive. In 2011, she finally got a paraprofessional position in an afterschool program. The pay was barely livable, but at least there were benefits. She still liked Obama, even if things hadn’t gone how she imagined. Some of her more progressive friends were mad at him—said he’d sold out. She didn’t feel that strongly. He was still much better than Bush. But she stopped talking politics with certain family members. They weren’t subtle about Obama anymore.
In 2012, just before school let out, she went to a job fair and met someone from Central City Schools. The HR lady seemed interested and told her to apply. She landed the job—her first real teaching position—just before summer ended. That fall was a whirlwind. She voted for Obama again, though she realized that she had skipped the midterms two years earlier. This time she made sure to mail in her ballot. Romney seemed oily and out of touch. The job itself was demanding but initially rewarding. She taught fifth and sixth grade social studies, and though classroom management was overwhelming at first, she found moments that reminded her why she’d gone into education. But there were cracks. The kids were tough. A lot going on at home. Still, she tried to remind herself not to judge. But where were the parents? Calls went unanswered. Conferences no-showed. The second year was actually worse. More pressure, fewer wins. The administration seemed less patient. Some days she came home and cried in her car.
She didn’t hate the kids or even the job, not really. She just couldn’t see herself doing this for thirty more years. A college friend listened sympathetically over lunch and then said, “Westfield’s hiring.” The affluent suburban districts always had a glut of applicants, but it was a smaller district just far enough out of town to fly under the radar. They basically paid the same, and it was a bit of a drive, but it was a calmer environment. Julie applied and was hired that summer. The difference was noticeable. The students were more focused, the parents more involved, and her colleagues were actually friendly. For the first time, teaching felt sustainable. Maybe even enjoyable.
Right before school started that year, she met Brad. He was four years older, worked as a project manager at a manufacturing company. Divorced from an early marriage. Had a house on a couple acres not far from where the metro area faded out. And a boat, which was a little funny, since he said he couldn’t really swim. He was stable, though. Nice. Educated. Eight months in, he asked her to move in. She was already there most nights anyway, and it cut down on her commute. “You can start paying down those student loans,” he joked. He didn’t have any. He said he “wasn’t very political,” but Julie suspected he leaned more conservative. His dad certainly did, always muttering about Obama. Julie pushed back a little early on. Brad never made a big deal about it.
They got engaged in 2016. Just in time for another presidential election. Her younger brother was full-on Bernie, alternating between being inspired and mad that he was being treated unfairly. Julie liked Bernie too, especially how he talked about corporate greed and how the system screws workers. But he also felt… impractical. Hillary Clinton felt like the safer choice, even if she’d never warmed to her, as Julie never quite got past the 2008 primary. And Clinton seemed calculated, distant—part of the machine. Trump, on the other hand, was a clown. Offensive, chaotic, a walking headline. Even Brad shook his head at the things Trump said. Still, he added once, “Maybe we need someone like that.” Julie didn’t take it seriously. She voted for Clinton, mostly out of professional loyalty. As a working woman, it felt like the right thing to do.
Then Trump won. Somehow. But Julie had bigger things to focus on: marriage, a baby, the job. Politics started to fade into the background. She noticed things changing—people putting pronouns in their email signatures, talk of drag queen story hours—but she didn’t really have the energy to invest. She wanted everyone to feel included, but she also knew her school parents would lose their minds over some of it. Brad, meanwhile, grew more irritated by the news. Her father-in-law loved Trump, said he “tells it like it is.” Julie thought that was nonsense, but after one particularly nasty argument, she decided to just ignore him. It just wasn’t worth the argument. Her job was stable and mostly enjoyable. But the union at her school was no help—vague answers about tenure and a rep who only seemed to care about the schmoozing with the veteran teachers. Brad wanted another baby. So did she. But she knew she’d be doing most of the work.
Then COVID hit. Everything stopped. Julie had finally hit her stride in the classroom, and now she was thrown into remote learning. The output of half her students fell off pretty much immediately. Assignments didn’t come in. Parents were unreachable. “They’re home all day, collecting unemployment,” Julie fumed. “The least they could do is make sure their kids are logged on.” Everyone pulled together for a few months, then a rush to reopen. Julie worried about her aging parents and got into a few Facebook arguments before giving up. Brad was working hybrid, growing more irritable by the week. One day he snapped at the news and Julie told him to log off and go play with their kids. Even small things became stressors—someone chiding her for wearing a mask in the grocery store, her father-in-law refusing to visit if he had to wear one. Going to distance lunch with a few friends and being the only one still wearing a mask. Everyone got COVID eventually. They were fine. Back to in-person school. “Masks optional,” the district emailed. Julie sighed. Whatever. She just wanted normal again.
2020 was Biden. It had to be. Not out of excitement, but because what else was there? Trump was Trump. The bleach comments, the late-night rage tweets. Brad thought it was nutty, too, but said stuff like “The economy was good before COVID.” He complained more now. “I don’t care if someone’s gay or Black,” he said once, “but people have a right to opinions without getting canceled.” Julie didn’t say much. She didn’t want to get into it. Biden took office. It felt like a break. But the years that followed didn’t bring much relief. Inflation hit. Gas passed five bucks after Russia invaded Ukraine. Neighbors griped they couldn’t afford to drive to work. Roe was overturned. Julie was shocked at first, but told herself she was likely done with kids. If she really needed an abortion, she figured she could get one. The liberal teachers at school barely defended Biden anymore. Brad said, “Yeah, Trump’s a jerk. But sometimes you need someone like that to get things done.” Julie didn’t disagree out loud.
2024. Julie finds herself more uncertain than ever. She doesn’t like Trump—never has—but she’s also not sure exactly what, if anything, Biden has done to make things better. She and Brad are managing; the bills get paid, the kids are fine, and they even took a short vacation last summer. But everywhere she looks, people seem stretched thin or angry about something—groceries, gas, rent, politics. Brad complains about taxes and "woke stuff" on TV, and while Julie usually rolls her eyes, sometimes it’s hard not to feel like things are just… off. Trump still feels exhausting and crude, but at least he sounded confident. Biden just sounds old. Julie tells herself she’ll look into the candidates more this time, but life gets busy, as it always does. On Election Day, she drops off her ballot after picking up the kids. She doesn’t mention it to Brad.
