Trump’s presidency divided my family. The “Trump Effect,” as I called it, infected us shortly after he entered the lobby of Trump Tower to announce his presidential candidacy. It ended seven years later, at my kitchen table, with three generations of my mother’s descendants munching their way through Italian takeout. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My mother was a Reagan Republican and had voted along party lines since 1980. Although none of her four children fully agreed with her politically, the Trump Effect created the greatest distance between my mother and me.
We fought every time we spoke. Before Trump secured the nomination, I argued that his morals were in direct conflict with those she and my father had drilled into my head for decades. Moreover, I argued, he didn’t even embody conservative values. He twisted them into grotesque manipulations of what had been reasonably sound policy.
I begged her not to vote for him. She didn’t budge. After his election, her choice became a betrayal. Her blindness to Trump’s white nationalist tendencies insulted my wife, a proud Latina, and angered my biracial, high school-aged children.
The worse Trump’s violation of social norms, the harder she dug in her heels. In northern Idaho, her political views were rarely challenged. It was her forays into Eastern Washington that gave her the chance to proselytize and be heard. Every poker table became her pulpit, where she extolled the virtues of the GOP’s new savior. She had earned respect with her poker skills and changed people’s minds.
At some point, after the Mueller investigation, she became so confident that she stopped answering challenges or questions from people on the left. We stopped talking about anything but superficial questions about my life and detailed reports about her current ailments. I longed for a return to our political discourse. It never came.
She voted for Trump again in 2020, but didn’t embrace the “big lie” that he had won the election with any enthusiasm. She defended her chosen candidate’s honor afterward, but her Ultra MAGA armor began to crack as Trump targeted Republican icons like Mitt Romney, Liz Cheney, and the Bush dynasty. Then, January 6, 2021, shook the foundations of her political fortress. The damage was significant and lasting.
I was not with my mother during the explosive violence of the uprising that day. But our family has always been patriotic. My father served in General MacArthur’s honor guard during the Korean War. We flew the flag, sang the national anthem, and paid our respects to military personnel. My mother and I shed patriotic tears on January 6, 2021, and though we admittedly came from very different places, the tears flowed into the same river. We both knew that the America we loved had been greatly diminished by the relentless attacks of a small percentage of Americans determined to define the world by their petty grievances and perceived injustices.
I didn’t re-engage in political conversation with my mother, despite a clear window for a lethal shot. The sadness that surrounded her settled like a thick fog. Surprisingly, her depressed mood was less about Trump’s defeat and more about her own foolishness in the certainty that Trump was a hero and a savior. As for me, I couldn’t even muster an “I told you so.”
Sixteen months later, I was having dinner with my mother and some Trump news flashed on the screen. She shook her head in mild disgust. I hadn’t planned what would happen next, even though I had fantasized about this “intervention” countless times.
I took a deep breath, gathered my courage, and began to speak. “Mom, I’m going to ask you for a big favor, something that may be shocking at first, but please sit with it.” She began to speak, but I raised a finger and begged her to listen to me.
My voice was shaky and weak as I began, but I grew more confident as the memory of every Trump atrocity played out in my mind ― his near-constant appeals to our worst instincts, his blatant racism and Islamophobia, and his accusations of everyone and everything but himself. I was excited by the time I reached the point of my tirade, and asked what I believe is the single most important question I will ever ask my mother: “Will you please apologize to my children for voting for Trump?”
I continued, “I fear that when Trump is viewed through a clear and objective lens, the support you gave him will define you.”
A few days later, my mother, also known as G-Ma and Grams, sat at the head of a round table. At 92, she was still larger than life and a commanding presence. She didn’t need to command the attention of anyone in the room. With her first syllable, heads turned and phones silenced. She would hold the room until she decided not to anymore.
Before she gave our traditional grace, she stood up and the room stood to attention. She took a moment to compose herself and said with her trademark confidence, “I want to apologize.” She looked around the table and didn’t hesitate. “I made a terrible mistake by voting for Trump. If I had known then what I know now, I would never have voted for him. I hope you will forgive me.” And it was done.
There was a collective sigh of relief as she released our attention and laughed as she said, “That wasn’t so hard.” We hugged and I whispered my thank you as we embraced. “Let’s eat,” she said. And we began, “Bless us our Lord and these Your gifts…”
In the months that followed, I chose to continue the moratorium on political discourse and instead explore our common ground — which, I have found, is fertile, expansive, and refreshingly friendly. Trump’s recent conviction on 34 felony counts confirmed that her separation from MAGA and Trump was the right choice.
My children’s wounds have begun to heal. They have forgiven her, and through them, my grandchildren will too. Ultimately, the “intervention” we staged was a gift, a kind of blueprint for a divided time. It showed us how to admit when we were wrong in a world where it seems like everyone has to be right. That is the real lesson, the kernel of truth that will hopefully grow and blossom.
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CORRECTION: An earlier version of this article incorrectly stated that the author's father served in General Patton's honor guard. This article originally appeared on HuffPost.
