It is a presidential election year in the USA. To say that this particular election fills me with great dread is a gross understatement. There’s almost no way that this doesn’t become a total shit show and will likely spell the end of democracy as we know it. Does that sound dramatic? Probably. I don’t think it’s unrealistic, though. And that’s fucking frightening.
As the calendar page turned into 2024 I made a deal with myself to minimize my media engagement with specific regards to this election. 2016 and 2020 were phenomenally rough years for my mental health. Arguments over social media were had, some people I considered friends showed their asses, and those periods felt like a long spiral of anger, depression and misanthropy. I don’t want to be apathetic, but I do want to protect myself. So I’m doing my best to engage, lightly. I’ve already done a fair amount of hiding/deleting on the social media platforms I still am a part of (for the record—anyone who’s posting about sitting this election out or doing the “they’re both the same” dance with regards to Biden and Trump is immediately getting blocked or deleted. ).
A meme has found its way across the internet in recent ways, and I’d quote it, but I’m lazy. The general thrust of the meme is that marginalized people should not have to engage or be friends with people on the other side of the political divide from them. I posted it in my IG stories, and I received a message from someone I consider a friend, and who I think is mostly well-meaning (but is also cisgendered, able bodied, white, male and straight—so take that all with a grain of salt). I won’t look up their message (again, I’m lazy), but the thrust of his comment was “I’m so tired of people on both sides digging their heels in” when it comes to not engaging in conversations with folks who don’t share their values. This past weekend, I also had a conversation with a lovely transman who welcomes and sometimes entertains conversations with people of differing political opinions.
Here’s the thing, though. “Both sides” aren’t equal.
As most if not all of you know, I’m a double minority. Black and queer. Maybe a triple or quadruple minority if you count that I’m the child of immigrants and that I have a disability. I would like to think that all I want (and all most people who are ethnically, racially, sexually, religiously, and in relation to gender and ability want) is equality. We want a seat at the same table as those who are cisgendered, white, straight, male and (in this country) Christian and, for the most part, to be left in peace to live our lives. That’s one “side”.
The other “side” thinks trans people don’t exist. That gay people don’t deserve basic human rights. That black and brown folks, Muslims and Jews and people with disabilities don’t deserve equality or in some cases, basic human decency. What a false equivalence it is to think that those are opposite viewpoints as opposed to an infuriating and egregious denial of the rights of others to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
I live in a world where, from an institutional perspective, I have to engage with people who deny my humanity or at least live with the idea that someone will deny my humanity on account of the color of my skin or my sexual orientation daily. I deal with institutional racism in the workplace on a regular basis. I literally had someone at my local diner make homophobic remarks to me barely a month ago. Lord only knows how much the frequency of incidents like that would increase if I lived somewhere other than New York City. Why in the hell would I deliberately engage with people who deny my humanity in situations when it’s not necessary for my survival? Why would I compromise my mental health in the hopes that befriending a bigot who should know better will make someone less bigoted? It’s a noble concept, and I love that there are people who take that responsibility and reach out to others with grace and tolerance. I certainly have been educated out of levels of misogyny, homophobia, xenophobia and transphobia over the course of my life. And I’m grateful to the people who were willing to do the teaching, mostly by existing (and I’ll qualify my own feelings by saying I’ve certainly held prejudices over the course of my life but those prejudices have never spilled over into hate). I’m certainly not mad about the fact that a lot of people aren’t willing to go there, especially during a time when people seem to be doubling and tripling down on their hate. When people see your very existence as a threat to theirs, you have to do whatever you have to do to protect your peace.
As a postscript to this IG conversation, I mentioned that one important element to “reaching across the table” is allyship. You know who has the most spoons to take on things like transphobia, anti-Muslim sentiment or racism? People who those things don’t affect. Privileged people peaking passionately in defense of unprivileged people to other privileged people moves the needle with only a fraction of the trauma involved when you’re defending your literal right to exist as a human being. And while I think cisgendered straight white folks need to be the point of the spear here, this advocacy is not exclusive to them. It burns me up when I see (and I’ll pull examples that I’ve seen IRL over the years) Jews who are racist against Black people, racist queer people, Black folks who are anti-Asian or homophobic. Oppression is not an Olympic sport. We all have to stand up for one another. I’ve spent a lot of mental energy trying to get some of the more ignorant factions of my blood family to understand why standing up for Asian folks, for Jewish folks, for trans folks, for bisexuals is important even though I’m none of these things. I don’t write that to virtue signal, I write it to make the point that even though I’m a minority within a minority, I stand up for people not like me because it’s the right thing to do (and because people from all those communities have stood up for me in the past).
And truthfully, those conversations have driven a deeper wedge between me and my family. I’m okay with that. It’s hard for me to interact regularly with closed-minded (and proud closed-minded) people. You can only reach across the table so many times before your arm gets fucking tired.
What a beautiful, nuanced piece, Mike. I think in some ways, sharing your experience like this is “reaching across the table.” There’s great love in your vulnerability and that creates change. I know how much I’ve grown because of your work.
For the first time since the 2008 election, I'm not on Facebook. I've also reduced my Twitter engagement. I'm not sure if not seeing the stupid shit is for the better good, but it will be for my better good.