I knew you voted red. He knew I voted blue. I was hoping that the most talented and inclusive candidate would win. He hoped his idea of ​​a better America would win. He won, and from where I stand, America lost.

After Tuesday night’s results, still under the covers on Wednesday morning, I scrolled through social media looking for hope. I unfriended a few close-minded FB friends — we don’t need to maintain our digital relationships and witness their selfishness and hatred. Then I saw my wife’s post.

“God Bless America. God bless number 45 and number 47.”

It received several likes and a few commenters joined in its celebration. He was downstairs in the kitchen making coffee and I was avoiding him upstairs. I couldn’t talk to him or even look at his face

I immediately texted: “I love you, but out of respect for me and all my liberal writer friends, can you please remove that post? Also tell your family I love them but I won’t be coming for Thanksgiving and I won’t be hosting Christmas. I need space.

Shortly after sending the message, he brought a cup of coffee to my bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I understand.”

Really? Did he really understand what he and so many others in this country were doing? I couldn’t forgive him. Not right now.

I spent most of the morning doomscrolling over cold coffee, which I ignored in part because I was distracted, mainly out of spite. I finally got up, made the bed, walked outside into the beautiful sunny day, took a few deep breaths, and then went upstairs to make the bed and spend the rest of the day there.

He went to work; I assumed he was energized by Trump’s victory.

The next day I finally showed up and listened to Kamala’s concession speech. He reminded us: “You can only see the stars when it’s dark enough.”

I wrote to my artist friends and told them to keep their lights on. I wrote to my musician son and his songwriter girlfriend in college. I told them to keep creating. I wrote to my terrified young nephews and told them I was with them. I wrote a letter to my beautiful gay cousin and told her that I loved her and was thinking of her and her partner.

I got a text from a family member saying her Ukrainian friend was horrified. A message came from a fellow actor stating that he was afraid that the damage that would be done over the next four years could never be undone. One of my sisters wrote that she had a panic attack and had to leave work. One of my students rescheduled our afternoon appointment because she said she couldn’t work.

Later that night, I glanced briefly at my husband and realized I didn’t want to look into the eyes I loved. I hated this division. I wanted to touch his forearms and feel our connection, but I also felt the urge to punish him and reject my touch.

I told him, “I’m sorry about the holidays, but I can’t bite my tongue like I did with Hillary.” “I don’t want to disrespect your parents, your brother and his family in their home or our home, so it’s best this way. There is no scene. You can go see them. “Seriously, I’m not going to be in a room with 15 people who voted for Trump.”

He talked about our son and his girlfriend who were coming home for Christmas.

“Will they feel bad?” he asked.

Bad? I think they already feel bad. really badI thought. Instead, I said, “We’ll take our own little vacation and it’ll be okay.”

Will it be okay? I’ve been wondering this since 2016 when I saw my husband’s stubbornness. How can a Latino vote for Trump? How could any of his family members vote for him? Didn’t they believe any of Trump’s comments on immigration? Aren’t they concerned about the reproductive safety of the young women and girls in our family? Aren’t they worried about other nightmares that may come our way?

I’m surprised he didn’t argue about the change in holiday plans. Normally this would be a point of contention due to how close he is to his family. Somewhere inside he must have understood what this election result meant to me. I know you empathize with me and I’m grateful for that. I will hold on to this like a life raft as we try to figure out how to move forward in our marriage.

But I will not thank and hold hands in the same environment as people who voted for a party that wants to take away the rights of LGBTQ people. I will not hand over Turkey to someone who supports people who signal that they will harm the disabled and the elderly. I will no longer sit by a Christmas tree sipping eggnog celebrating the birth of Jesus when I know how many people find themselves in serious, even fatal, 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 talks about building concentration camps and mass deportation.

I will continue to encourage my friends and family to continue to hope and fight for this country. I don’t know how and when I will be able to greet my husband with my usual embrace in the morning when I wrap my arms around his strong shoulders, smell the intoxicating scent of his spicy cologne and smile knowing that we are one. There are two of us now and it’s painful. Yet I know he is a good man and would do anything for a family member or friend, which makes what he does even more infuriating and painful.

There is too much history and love between us to let this choice tear us apart. However, repairing the damage will not be easy. It will take time, patience, and difficult, completely realistic conversations. And I know I’m not the only one in this situation. Many of us find ourselves here and unsure of how to move forward.

On November 7, I saw that my wife’s post was still live. I think there are more comments from Americans big You made a mistake two days ago. I wanted to tell them all that they were wrong and had no idea about the harm they were causing by making that choice – or if they did, 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 took the dog out. I went upstairs and got dressed for the gym. Even though most of us wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, I did more of the little everyday human things we were forced to do. But we can’t. We won’t.

When I came downstairs, my husband was sitting in the living room with his coffee in his hand.

I stood briefly in front of our blue front door, which 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. Little did I know that this would one day be read as a protest or as a subliminal message to anyone who crossed the threshold.

He didn’t seem to realize how upset I was as he drank from his favorite mug, blowing me a goodbye kiss from the living room.

I stood at the door wondering how I could express my pain. I wanted to say something that would motivate him to erase his mistake, but I knew it wouldn’t get me anywhere if my words were too demanding or my voice was too full of anger.

This is a woman’s challenge. This was Kamala’s challenge. I also knew that I couldn’t change what happened; I could only change what was happening now. Just what am I doing now? What I refuse to accept and promise to continue fighting for. And to do it all with honesty, love, and yes, anger.

I turned to my wife and said, “I saw that you didn’t remove your post, and that breaks my heart.”

Then, devastated but determined, I walked out the door and into the blue of a new day.

Andrea Tate is an essayist currently working on her memoirs.“I’ll Show You” About her acting career in New York City and Hollywood. You can find some of his articles here: Hippocampus Literature Magazine, Entropy, Role/Reboot, Angels Flight West and more. He is a university writing professor pursuing a Ph.D. about leadership and change. For more from Andrea, visit: AndreaTate.net.

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