This is the Land I’m Fighting For

A political exploration of my hateful side and a collective invitation for goodness

As with so much of what people leave behind, it’s difficult to say what was meant. We can only surmise that they loved, that they were afraid. - Barry Lopez, Field Notes

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If you’ve been following along, you know that many of my recent essays have been about my mom. She’s needed help, I’ve had it to give, and for a while I’ve been fully consumed by the magnitude of her moment. So much so that when I sit down to write an essay, the only creative fodder I can muster up revolves around her ongoing challenges. I struggle to write about much else.

Meanwhile, I join the world in standing witness to the horror show that is America. Its destitute democracy and borderline dictatorship has the entire planet on edge. Many people have already felt the direct effects of Trump’s wrath, and many more will. His barbarous atrocities, his bullying and torments, the entirety of his being—all reprehensible.

America is in the midst of a governmental takeover by narcissistic billionaires. In order to somehow “make America great again,” it is turning itself inside out. Deporting families, scrapping DEI initiatives, religiously justifying blatant racism, sexism, Naziism, and a total disregard for diverse orientations and identities. It’s defunding education, carelessly eschewing public lands, threatening the press and creatives and basically anyone who isn’t of the elite, and terrifyingly so much more. We are a shit show.

This is today’s America. And just days after watching the Ukrainian president endure an undeserved and disrespectful barrage of abuse from a fraternity of bumbling buffoons in cheap suits, I am compelled to address something on my Substack besides my mom’s predicament.

I had planned, in fact, to write an uplifting piece about how well she’s doing—about her new routine in an assisted living community, how she joined the bell choir and has dinner pals and is walking farther than she’s been able to for months. But writing about my mom’s plight, though relevant and necessary, feels somehow myopic.

I’ve been wanting to address politics for a while. But until now I simply haven't had it in me to do so. This piece touches on topics I’d much rather leave alone. Or, better stated—I’d much rather they didn’t warrant any commentary. But I can’t write around our present state of affairs any longer. It feels irresponsible to do so.

In the essay that follows, you may disagree with me. You may not like what I have to say or how I say it. Still, I encourage you to steel yourself and see it through to the end, anyhow. And if, after consuming the entire thing, you still find my words upsetting, or if you think I’m barking up the wrong tree, well, that’s surely your prerogative, and I wish you peace.

One of a series of many thoughtful posters hung anonymously around town

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I’ve never been much interested in America’s political nitty gritty. I prefer governmental narratives to be straightforward and unambiguous, and I have a hard time tracking conniving strategies and backdoors of double-faced people exploiting power. My privilege allows me to passively watch what’s happening in America and merely shake my head without feeling much direct impact. I suppose the system makes me lucky in this regard—but this so-called good fortune comes at the expense of others, and I don’t want to be a spectator to such systemic iniquities any longer.

I am a middle class white male and I did not vote for Trump. Not in 2016, and not in 2024. Last year, however, more than 60% of American voters who look like me gave him their vote. Which means that anywhere I happen to be surrounded by my demographic peers, including my family and friends and professional colleagues, at a sporting event, a concert, or in line at the grocery store, I am statistically outnumbered by individuals who definitively do not share my worldview. I find this is both tragic and disturbing. Or, at the very least, a bit frightening.

My worldview is pretty simple. It has less to do with reds and blues and more to do with simply being a good person. I am not always successful at being one, but I try my best. I live according to basic adages—Be good (think, E.T.), Do the right thing (a la Spike Lee). Be nice (the tattoo on my left arm). And that rule about doing to others as you’d want them to do to you. The so-called golden rule. These cliches help keep me from taking myself too seriously. Because when I do, a less ideal version of me emerges.

There have always been self-serving, power-hungry folks out there, and I’ve lived long enough to know that this will always be true. But it boggles my mind to see scores of otherwise regular people align themselves to such a shifty character and his gaggle of lackeys.

I simply don’t understand how one person can incite such loyalty among the masses. Then again, I don’t know much about crowd psychology or cults. Is it simply genius marketing? Like how a sports team, or PR firm, or Instagram influencer, creates a stalwart fan base? Or is this Trump phenomena something more despairing, something more anguished?

Are Trump’s legions so hopeless—so without hope—that they grab onto whatever resonates with their cultural and personal deficits? So downcast that they accept echoes of their ancestors’ unhinged voices? So woebegone that they say yes to anything (as in, anything) they think might calm or elevate their fearful and downtrodden lives?

I don’t get how one can ignore goodness and trade it, instead, for the extreme opposite—hate. And hate is precisely Trump’s business plan.

The fact that the world has experienced this sort of mass brainwash before is of no consolation. If anything, this history makes our moment in time even more unintelligible. More unacceptable. Have we, as a species, learned nothing about where hate brings us? Apparently not.

The compassionate side of me wants to pull folks from the throes of the toxic tractor beam and scream, “You’re being duped! It’s all a sham! He doesn’t give one doggone care about you or your family or anything you hold dear!” I want to tell them that in winning they actually lost. The part of me that gives everyone the benefit of the doubt wants to believe that many Trump voters are kicking themselves for having made a shameful decision.

My less forgiving aspect, however, hopes they are forced to withstand intense pain. The sort they enlivened by casting their fatal vote. The hateful part of me embraces the ensuing line in the sand and hopes everyone over there suffers tremendously.

And though my yearning for their suffering is real, I also regret this revilement. This directed vitriol represents the worst of me, the most fearful and desperate and violent aspects of my darkest side that I’ve tried so hard to temper as I’ve matured. It’s true that hate breeds hate, even when there are good intentions. I am proof.

Hate guides precisely the part of me that says things like, “I do not believe that Trump, or any of his ignorant followers, whether driven by fear or enthusiasm or whatever, are good people.” It’s this hateful part of me who believes each vote of Trump devotees illustrates their appallingly low collective character. And without exception.

It’s my hate that makes me chide any voters who justify their support of Trump by citing their attempt to help lower the cost of eggs. They are missing the damn point. Because if they cared at all about people, if they thought about anyone besides themselves, they would realize that in the grand scheme of things, eggs don’t fucking matter.

Hate is what makes me believe that folks who vindicate their support are only proving that they know they chose poorly. Same goes for those who similarly absolve themselves for continuing to zip around in the Tesla they bought, “before [they] realized Elon was a Nazi.” Nope. What’s obvious to me is their belief that breakfast items and stupid cars are more important issues to them than basic human rights.

This hateful side of me is really slow to take the high road. Really, really slow to forgive Trump voters’ destructive slights on their fellow humans. This side of me would be happy to see these folks simply *POOF* into thin air. Just like in a cartoon when suddenly someone disappears inexplicably. A little accompanying whoosh sound and a quickly fading outline of their bodies. My cartoon metaphor is apropos considering the absurdity of it all.

But dang it, I don’t want to hate. I don’t want hostility to be my loudest voice. Because if I’m blaming others for the world’s problems, I probably haven’t held myself accountable for doing what I can do to help fix things. My growth as a short-lived lifeforce on this planet is completely dependent upon the realization that the only way to find peace and contentment is to stop thinking about myself.

Life is not about me. It’s about us. And if there are problems, I am surely a culprit in one way or another. I imagine a world where we all accept our individual culpability. But I’ve always been a dreamer, too, so there’s that.

I know, without a doubt, that goodness is out there. It’s maybe harder to find than it has been, and perhaps altogether absent in Washington or wherever those oligarchs live these days, but it definitely exists. Goodness, as an entity among us, seems to need a reminder. Or maybe a proper invitation.

I’d like to invite goodness back.

Emptiness is often fullness (Isla Magdalena, Baja Mexico)

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I walked across America in 2018. Barely two years into the national divide that has since become a violent differentiator between US citizens. I can’t claim that the political rift itself was a catalyst for my eastward haul afoot from California to New York, but it did influence the route I chose.

No matter what trajectory I took, I knew I’d encounter a 50/50 split in political stances. In 2016 Hillary Clinton had won the majority vote by nearly 3 million ballots, but the electoral college favored Trump. It seems to me that a democracy is best served by prioritizing the popular majority over the votes of a mysterious few who can override it. The United States’ democracy, however, does not follow my logic. But I digress.

Still, a few million votes difference out of more than 125 million cast isn’t really that close anyhow. Any course I cast on my long walk, whether northern, southern, or right through the belly of the heartland, was sure to be met by a mixed bag of party affiliations.

Given the history of America’s south, I figured taking that route would likely give me the most opportunities to stand face-to-face with people whose vote was contrary to mine—which is to say, our worldviews were likely to be in opposition. I wanted this. I sought this out. I wanted to talk with folks to better grasp where they were coming from.

I wanted to listen. To understand. I believe we are most likely to be afraid of the things we don’t understand.

For six months I pushed a flashy baby jogger across the country on a mid-life walkabout. As a non-religious liberal I ambled for thousands of miles far from my comfort zone. Every day I met people with whom I had very little in common. (You can read all about this melting pot in my book, With a Good Heart.) But for everything that made us different, one thing consistently landed us on common ground—love.

Every single human being I met while I walked across America, regardless of their religious views or age or background or color or political affiliation, expressed, in their own way, how much they cared about their community and family. They simply wanted to be connected, to be healthy, to be safe. They expressed, so many times, how badly the world needs more goodness, more love. Many wept as we gave voice to such things.

Additionally, every single person who took the time to chat with me, even if they first looked at me funny (which most did), eventually offered a caring handshake or warm hug, or in many cases some material tenderness like a plate of hot barbecue, a piece of gas station apple pie in a styrofoam box, a crumpled couple of hard-earned bucks, or a spot on their lawn riddled with Trump signs for me to pitch my tent for the night.

I believe all of these people were, at root, good people. Shoot, I want to also believe this about everyone, including the likes of Trump and Musk and all the nut job clowns in the entire political circus.

We are all born good, and these people, I imagine, were somehow broken along the way. This prospect makes my heart hurt. Because maybe they just needed someone, way back when, to see them. Maybe they missed out on being loved. Maybe nobody paid them any good attention. Maybe they never had a chance to tell their story to someone who gave a shit? These little things resulted in a snowballing fear of life. Which eventually turned otherwise good kids into challenging adults who act out in ways they were neglected. Their resulting madness, I believe, could be this simple. Their gaping need for love so obvious and rudimentary.

I wonder, too, about all the similar particulars, the misses and losses and small and sad details, that needed to occur in my countrypeoples’ lives in order for a majority of them to cast a ballot for a man with the worst sort of character. I wonder about the breadcrumbs of brokenness that led so many to align themselves with a hateful loudmouth whose fury will likely be the demise of our nation. I send them love.

But I also know this—neither Trump nor his followers are not to blame for the mess we are in. Not entirely, anyhow. The United States was built on a foundation of discriminatory violence where humans have consistently been othered, manipulated, and squashed. This moment in time has plenty related precedents.

And yeah, maybe we’re reaching our nation’s unavoidable apex—one that will have terrifying consequences. But also maybe this is exactly what needs to happen to birth a better version of us.

Just this week my mom called me on the phone. She’d just watched the news, and asked if “they” were taking away her social security. I didn't know the answer, but I do know things aren’t looking too promising. “I don’t know, mom,” I said. To which she sighed, then responded, as optimistic as ever, “Well, I guess we’ll make it work somehow. It’ll all going to be just fine.”

This response is so my mom. To her, a smile, a little water, and a nap has always been enough to solve the world’s problems. Which, I suppose, is an enlightened way of trusting that goodness will eventually win. As a kid I believed her, but as I’ve gotten older I often find her perspective maddening. I want a plan. I want action. And sometimes I want to battle and fight and cuss and hurl my anger at anyone who’ll hurl it back (this quality I surely inherited from my father). Smiles, water, and naps won’t keep her much-needed fixed income from evaporating. But still I believe she’s right. Somehow, and in some way, goodness will prevail.

Of course I can't know what the answer is. But perhaps the right direction is exactly this effort to share. To write, in my case. To be honest. To express. To create. To keep making art. To walk, metaphorically and not, on the dangerous roadside expecting to meet people of all sorts—and rather than defaulting to hardness, staying soft and open to make more space for good. None, or at least very few of us, want to be led by anything related to hate. We want to love. And love, most likely, is what will see us through this torment.

It’s messy out there, and I fear it’s only going to get messier. But I’m pretty sure that siding with love is the only way to be on the right side of history. And as hard as it is to stand in this scary space right now, this, right here, is where I am planting my flag.

Love is the land I’m fighting for.

My mom and my dad. My heart and spirit.