My Husband And His Family Voted For Trump — So I'm Canceling Thanksgiving And Christmas
I knew he voted red. He knew I voted blue. I had hoped the most capable and most inclusive candidate would win. He hoped his idea of a better America would win. He won, and, from where I stand, America lost.
In the aftermath of Tuesday night’s results, still under the bed covers Wednesday morning, I scrolled social media looking for hope. I unfriended a few short-sighted FB friends— no need to continue our digital relationships and witness their selfishness and hate. Then I saw my husband’s post.
“God Bless America. God bless #45, 47.”
It had a few likes, and a few commenters joined him in his celebration. He was downstairs in the kitchen making coffee, and I was upstairs avoiding him. I couldn’t talk to him — or even look at him.
I immediately texted, “I love you, but out of respect for me and all my liberal writer friends, can you please take down that post? Also, tell your family I love them, but I will not be coming for Thanksgiving, and I won’t be hosting Christmas. I need space.”
Shortly after I sent the text, he brought me a cup of coffee in bed.
“I am sorry,” he said, “I understand.”
Did he? Did he really understand what he and so many others in this country had done? I could not forgive him. Not right now.
I spent most of the morning doom-scrolling next to the cold cup of coffee I ignored partially because I was distracted, primarily out of spite. I finally got up, made the bed, went outside into the beautiful sunny day, took a few deep breaths, and then went back upstairs to unmake the bed and spend the remainder of the day in it.
He went to work — I assumed energized by Trump’s victory.
The next day, I finally emerged and listened to Kamala’s concession speech. She reminded us, “Only when it’s dark enough can you see the stars.”
I wrote to my artist friends and told them to keep shining their lights. I wrote to my musician son in college and his songwriter girlfriend. I told them to keep creating. I wrote to my young nieces, who were terrified, and told them I was there for them. I wrote to my beautiful gay cousin and said I loved him and was thinking of him and his partner.
I kept writing.
I received a message from a family member who told me her Ukrainian friend was petrified. Another message came in from an actor friend who said she was afraid that the damage that will be done in the next four years could never be undone. One of my sisters wrote and said she had a panic attack and had to leave work. One of my students rescheduled our afternoon appointment saying she just couldn’t function.
Later that night, I briefly glanced at my husband and found myself not wanting to look into the eyes I love. I hated this divide. I wanted to touch his forearms and feel our connection, but I also felt an urge to punish him and deny him my touch.
“I am sorry about the holidays, but I cannot bite my tongue like I did with Hillary,” I told him. “I don’t want to disrespect your parents or your brother and his family in their home, or our home, so it’s best this way. No scenes. You can go see them. Seriously — I will not be in a room of 15 people who voted for Trump.”
He mentioned our son and his girlfriend, who are coming home for Christmas.
“Will they feel bad?” he asked.
Bad? I think they already feel bad. Really bad, I thought. Instead, I said, “We will have our own small holiday, and it will be fine.”
Will it be fine? I have wondered that since 2016, when I saw my husband’s stubbornness. How could a Latino vote for Trump? How can any of his family members vote for him? Haven’t they believed any of Trump’s comments about immigration? Aren’t they worried about the reproductive safety of the young women and girls in our family? Aren’t they worried about all of the other nightmares that could be headed our way?
I was surprised he didn’t argue about the change in holiday plans. Normally, it would be a bone of contention because of how close he is to his family. Somewhere inside, he must understand what this election outcome means to me. I know he has empathy for me, for which I am thankful. I will hold onto this like a life raft as I try to figure out how we move forward with our marriage.
I know he is a good man and he would do anything for a family member or friend, which makes what he has done even more infuriating and even more painful.
But I will not give thanks and hold hands in a circle with people who voted for a party that wants to take rights away from LGBTQ people. I will not pass the turkey to someone who supports people who have signaled they will cause harm to people with disabilities and the elderly. I will not sit by a Christmas tree celebrating the birth of Jesus and sipping eggnog when I know how many people may now find themselves in grave — even deadly — danger because they cannot get the reproductive care they need. I will not unwrap gifts given to me by people who voted for a party that has talked about building internment camps and mass deportation.
I will keep encouraging my friends and family to continue to hope and fight for this country. I don’t know how or when I can greet my husband in the morning with my usual hug when I wrap my arms around his strong shoulders, smell the intoxicating scent of his spicy cologne and smile, knowing we are one. We are now two, and it is agonizing. Still, I know he is a good man and he would do anything for a family member or friend, which makes what he has done even more infuriating and even more painful.
There is simply too much history and love between us to let this election tear us apart. But it will not be easy to repair the damage that has been done. It will take time, patience, and tough, radically truthful conversations. And I know that I am not the only person in this position. Too many of us have found ourselves here and are unsure of how to move forward.
On Nov. 7, I saw my husband’s post was still up. It had more comments from Americans I believe had made a huge mistake two days earlier. I wanted to tell them all that they were wrong and they had no idea of the harm they caused by making that choice — or if they did know, then they should be ashamed of themselves. I don’t know how they can live with themselves.
Instead, I got up and made my own coffee. I put our clothes in the dryer. I let the dog out. I went back upstairs and got dressed for the gym. I did more of the little everyday human things that we’re forced to keep doing, even though many of us just want to curl up in a ball and cry. But we can’t. We won’t.
When I came back downstairs, my husband was sitting in the living room with his coffee.
I stood briefly at our blue front door — the one I painted last year when I changed all the red in our house to blue. At the time, I thought it was just my obsessive need to redecorate. I didn’t know it would one day read as a protest — or a subliminal message to all who crossed the threshold.
He blew me a kiss goodbye from the living room as he sat drinking from his favorite mug, seemingly oblivious to how upset I was.
I stood at the door thinking about how I could express my hurt. I wanted to say something that would motivate him to erase his error, but I knew if my words were too demanding, or my voice was too filled with anger, it would get me nowhere.
This is a woman’s challenge. This was Kamala’s challenge. I also knew I couldn’t change what had happened — only what happens now. Only what I do now. What I refuse to accept and what I promise to keep fighting for. And to do it all with honesty and love and, yes, anger, too.
I turned to my husband and told him, “I saw that you didn’t take your post down, and that breaks my heart.”
Then I walked out the door — devastated but determined — into the blue of a new day.
Andrea Tate is an essayist currently working on her memoir, “I’ll Show You,” about her acting career in New York City and Hollywood. Some of her essays can be found in Hippocampus Literary Magazine, Entropy, Role/Reboot, Angels Flight West and more. She is a university writing professor pursuing her Ph.D. in leadership and change. For more from Andrea, visit AndreaTate.net.
Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at [email protected].