Outside of America, trying to make sense of Trump voters

BOOM! The cannon fired. The man next to me and I both jumped.

My husband Brent and I are American expats who have lived outside of our home country for seven years. I was recently standing on the deck of a cruise ship, about to leave Portland, England, our latest port of call. On the dock below us, men in old-fashioned costumes were firing a ceremonial gun, sending our boat off with a bang.

We’d both been taking pictures of the cannon, but the man next to me held up his camera, which showed a blurry image. “That scared me so bad I messed up my photo.”

I looked down at the image on my phone. “Me too!”

We both laughed.

The man was in his sixties — white, tall, and slender. He wore jeans, a navy-blue fleece, and black, horn-rimmed glasses.

He looked a bit dorky, but that was a good thing. I figured he and I might have a lot in common.

Jacketless and shivering, I turned toward the cabin where Brent waited.

But the man stopped me. “Did you see the sail in this morning?”

“No, was it interesting?” I said.

“We went right past this pretty little lighthouse. It would make a great photo. I was hoping to get one on the way out.”

Should I try to get a photo too? I thought, torn. I was freezing, and Brent was waiting for me.

Okay, I wasn’t that torn. I never miss a chance to get a good photo.

As we settled in with our respective cameras to wait for the lighthouse, the man said, “Enjoying the cruise?”

I laughed. “Well, the weather could be better. All that rain. And not getting into Edinburgh because of the fog was disappointing.”

“So true.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bob.”

“Michael,” I said, shaking his hand. “How about you? What do you think of the cruise?”

“We brought my grandsons — eleven and thirteen. I wanted to spend time together before I lose them to their teenage years.”

“And how has that gone?”

“Surprisingly well!”

I smiled. Bob seemed like a decent guy.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Seattle,” I said. “You?”

“Pittsburgh, but we recently moved to Arizona.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Pennsylvania and Arizona — both swing states in the election. Things must be crazy.”

“So crazy.”

I usually try to avoid discussing politics with strangers — especially with older, white men. I always worry they’ll say something to upset me.

But before I could change the subject, Bob shook his head. “I can’t believe I voted for that man. Twice.”

I tried to keep the look of surprise off of my face. Bob had voted for Trump twice? After the horror of his first term, Bob thought, Yes! I want more of this insanity and chaos!

Brent and I are liberals, but we have a few Republican and right-leaning friends and acquaintances. But they’re all educated, and they’d been as disgusted by Donald Trump as we were. None had ever voted for him — not that I know of anyway.

Brent and I had often wondered about these “Trump voters.” How could almost half of the country support this racist, misogynistic man? Who were these people?

Just the night before, I’d overheard the conversation at the table next to us. “All these immigrants come in, and the government gives them everything for free!” a red-faced, older white man had thundered. “That Harris woman wants more to come. Trump will keep America for Americans.”

That man had looked and sounded precisely like a Trump supporter was supposed to.

But Bob didn’t look like a Trump voter, not at all.

“Did you watch the debate?” I asked. This was the day after Harris had destroyed Trump, and memes of him ranting about pets being eaten by immigrants had flooded the internet.

“I watched clips,” he said. “What a clown.”

A loose cannon, I thought, looking back toward the dock behind us.

“I never got his appeal,” I said.

“I really hate the way things are in D.C.,” Bob explained. “I thought he might change that, but now things are worse than ever. And the way he disrespects women…”

You’re just noticing this now? I thought. Twenty-eight women have accused him of sexual assault!

But another part of me thought: This fellow lives in an important swing state. Maybe I can convince him to vote for Kamala.

“It was January sixth that finally did it for me,” Bob said. “I mean, attacking the Capitol?”

“Right?” I said. “The MAGA folks wanted to hang Mike Pence. And for hours, Trump didn’t even try to stop them. Now he calls the people who were arrested ‘hostages’ and wants to pardon them all.”

Bob nodded. “And that policeman who died.”

“Do you think you might vote for Harris?” I asked. “Whatever her flaws, she’d never do anything like that.”

“Maybe. I haven’t decided.”

I nodded, but the truth was, I couldn’t believe Bob was ambivalent. Couldn’t he see the damage Trump had caused with his despicable lies about the “stolen” 2020 election? The former president now seemed more unhinged than ever — and more racist. Even many members of his former administration were saying he was unfit to lead. Was America really going to collapse into quasi-fascism because the entire world briefly experienced high inflation in the years after COVID?

I was so unbelievably tired of Donald Trump! His crudeness and cruelty, his barely veiled appeals to violence. And when a deranged lunatic tries to assassinate him, he doesn’t tone down his rhetoric in the slightest but instead cynically tries to use the terror as a way to try to silence any criticism of him?

I didn’t understand how Kamala Harris could rise above it all, staying so dignified — a light to Trump’s darkness. She was like, well, the lighthouse that had finally appeared in the distance at the end of the harbor.

“We need more people like Liz Cheney,” I said. “She and I disagree on a lot of issues. But we agree on the most important things, which are the Constitution and the importance of our democracy. I genuinely admire her.”

Bob brightened. “I do too.”

I smiled. Was I convincing him to vote for Harris?

Then, he seemed to deflate a bit. “I’ve got family in Pennsylvania, and they’re all still such total Trumpsters.”

This made me deflate too. Even after all the lies and nonsense, Bob’s family in Pennsylvania wasn’t doubting Trump at all?

It also made me angry. This wasn’t normal politics — policy differences, the kind of things you could agree to disagree on. Make America great again? Trump and his supporters seemed determined to destroy almost everything that did make America great.

I remembered 2016 and the online fights I’d gotten into with some old high school classmates who had turned into full-on MAGA-types. Things had gotten incredibly ugly, and fighting with them, I’d quickly turned into a version of myself I didn’t like.

After Trump won, I’d mostly tuned out politics, if only to preserve my sanity. When Biden won, I assumed that craziness was finally all behind us.

But now here we were again, the country split almost in half, the two sides literally hating each other. And after nearly a decade of this horror show, the threat of violence was worse than ever.

So where did that leave us? How did a country survive with a divide like that?

“There it is,” said Bob, meaning the lighthouse. “Didn’t I say it was fantastic?”

But I barely glanced at the lighthouse.

Instead, I looked at Bob.

Yes, he’d voted for Trump twice and wouldn’t yet commit to voting for Kamala. That was hard for me to accept — and even harder to understand.

On the other hand, it didn’t sound like he’d vote for Trump again.

More than that, Bob was clearly a good person. If I fell overboard then and there, I suspected he’d grab a life ring and leap into the water right after me.

What about the guy in the dining room the night before? Would he have jumped into the ocean to save me? If I knew who he was, would I have done the same for him?

At some point, the hatred had to end. Didn’t it? And at some point, we all needed to learn to coexist and get on with our lives.

Bob lifted his camera. The lighthouse was approaching fast. “Get ready! Here comes the lighthouse!”

I finally looked at it, and it was as pretty as Bob had said. It was standing there, guiding us to safety. All we had to do was follow its light.

Michael Jensen is an author, editor, and one-half of Brent and Michael Are Going Places, a couple of traveling gay digital nomads. Subscribe to their free travel newsletter here.

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Originally published here.