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Four years ago, at the height of the 2020 election, I stayed at a hotel during a short work trip, and late one night, when I took a brief visit to the lobby to take advantage of their snack bar, I unexpectedly wound up in conversation with a friendly married couple at reception who had the same idea.
I forget where they were from or how the conversation got started, but we quickly took a liking to each other.
We stood there at the front desk, the only souls in the lobby save a dedicated staff member, for at least half an hour talking about everything from where we grew up to our favorite sports teams to recent movies we’d seen.
At some point, perhaps inevitably, they asked what I do, and I told them I’m a writer, primarily on politics, and they were intrigued. We had successfully avoided politics up to this point in the conversation, and truthfully, even in telling them I’m a writer, I initially declined to mention on what until they pressed.
You see, I am not in the habit of engaging perfect strangers on political conversations as a trans woman, particularly if there’s a chance there might be some friction.
I feel as though a lot of folks, particularly more conservative folks, take one look at me and fill in all the blanks, and it’s exasperating. It happens all the time. I am quickly reduced, on sight, to a living caricature of ideology, every nuance of who I am scrubbed away to a clean canvas for easy projection.
So, opening the door to a conversation on politics with people I’ve just met, with whom I’m having a pleasant discussion otherwise, was not my ideal direction, but they wanted to know more and asked whom I was supporting.
I told them I would be voting for then-candidate-and-former-VP Biden, but I didn’t offer more than that. They weren’t offended, and without me asking, they said they’d be voting for Trump.
I nodded respectfully, hoping we could get back to lighter topics because I certainly didn’t think this was the time or place for bids of persuasion. I did not sense either of us were going to change our minds, and this felt like an apt moment for picking one’s battles.
But they wanted to talk about it more, and I was quickly drawn into a conversation in which every bit of me was focused on being friendly and unthreatening because any sense of frustration I expressed could be read as The Angry Trans Woman, and I didn’t want them walking away with that bias confirmed.
I mostly nodded politely and said nothing as they told me, unprompted, why they were voting for Trump: taxes and abortion and immigration and I noticed they carefully avoided any reference to LGBTQ folks.
This went for a few minutes, and all was perfectly calm. I didn’t want to interrupt and put them on edge, so I listened respectfully, looking for a savvy pivot point to redirect us back to common ground.
But then, they asked me why I’m voting for Biden, and I could tell they were genuinely curious. It seemed they wanted, at least to me, in that moment, to offer the same consideration I had shown them during their case for Trump.
I really didn’t want to be talking about this because I knew it would cause discomfort that, quite frankly, I didn’t see being particularly useful. There is useful discomfort, and this moment didn’t seem useful. I wasn’t going to change their minds, and I didn’t believe ranting at them would do a damn bit of good.
Yet, there wasn’t an answer I could give that wouldn’t be uncomfortable for them and I’m not particularly adept at lying, so I was left with a sudden resignation to just be honest at a point of common ground.
I calmly told them that I had served in the Army for six years, and it truly broke my heart to watch Trump ban trans people from serving in the military. I told them that there was zero evidence to support his reasoning for doing so. I quickly walked through the arguments for the ban and pointed out why they’re undeniably false.
I then told them, against my better judgment, that what was especially enraging and hurtful was that this came from a man who had received five draft deferments and had a history of making statements demeaning and degrading veterans and service members.
I told them that I could never vote for someone who didn’t serve a single day in uniform and had the arrogance and cruelty to insult and harm those who did, including the thousands of trans people serving honorably in our military.
When I finished, there was silence for several moments. They didn’t look unhappy, but they certainly weren’t thrilled. They had listened respectfully, without interrupting, and I had said my piece. And now, we stood there, looking at each other, not sure of what to do next.
He spoke first, and as he did so, she nodded soberly in agreement.
“I’m sorry for that. I don’t agree with everything he’s done. I do respect your service, and I don’t want you to think I don’t. He shouldn’t have done that, and I’m sorry he did. You seem like a nice person, and we’re thankful for your service.”
And she quickly added: “Thank you.”
I told them I appreciated their kind words, and I was honestly hoping the conversation would end there.
But then she said: “I have to tell you the truth. Biden just scares me. I feel like we’re losing our country.”
Now, that could mean any number of things, all of which would be based on vile propaganda and none of which would lead to productive discussion, so I decided to take a different approach.
“I feel like we’re losing our country, too.”
And they both look surprised.
“You do?” she asked.
“I really do. I think we’re losing thoughtful disagreement and we’re losing our institutions. Whatever we all happen to believe, we still need to be able to disagree respectfully and support each other. And the way we support each other is coming together when it matters. I think Trump is asking the country to despise each other while Biden seems hellbent on asking us to support each other.”
They didn’t quite know what to say to that. On the one hand, they probably didn’t believe Biden was The Great Uniter, but they couldn’t deny that Trump’s rhetoric was inflammatory and divisive by default.
I mean, they had just conceded that he was wrong for the trans military ban. They probably had a reel playing in their brains of his many, many, many awful comments at campaign rallies.
Then he said: “I do think Trump cares about all Americans, even if he doesn’t agree with them.”
“Do you really believe that?” I asked quietly.
He looked like he wanted to answer and then hesitated and then hesitated again, and then he did a sort of half-shrug and said: “It’s complicated. I don’t know how to say it. Maybe he says a lot of wrong things, but I want to believe he cares about all of us.”
“I’ll be honest, friend, I’m not sure about that,” I replied. “Someone who cares about us doesn’t ban us from serving in the military for no good reason.”
It was this point they both looked uncomfortable. I had probably pressed a bit too hard there, at least for these folks.
“He’s definitely not perfect,” she said. “He makes mistakes. We all do.”
“Yes, we do,” I said. “All of us make mistakes. But I have to be honest with you folks: I don’t think he says and does these things by accident. It’s on purpose. For me, that’s the problem. He’s intentionally cruel.”
Welp, I figured, that’s a wrap on this convo. No walking that comment back. Time for bed.
And then something odd and unexpected happened. They both looked even more uncomfortable now, but she spoke up quietly.
“Can I give you a hug?”
I could tell she wanted absolution on some level, to feel better about her choice to support Trump. The hug was probably less about comforting me and more about comforting herself. But, I figured, there was definitely a part of her that wanted to comfort me, too. She wanted to make me feel better on some level.
So, I gave her a hug. And then he wanted a hug, so I gave him a hug. The tension in the air quickly dissolved, and they looked substantially more at peace. Did they deserve to feel at peace? No, not really. I thought discomfort could be a beneficial state for them in the long run, but I also knew it had to be focused on the right aspect.
I suspected when they got home, I was going to be one of two versions in their retelling: the trans woman who gave them a hug or the trans woman who refused to hug them. The latter would become an anecdote upon which they would justify their bigotry, but the former would be impossible to dismiss or dislodge or mischaracterize.
I knew that hug would pay many dividends down the road. They wouldn’t forget it.
They had heard some things they weren’t accustomed to hearing and felt some discomfort they weren’t accustomed to feeling, and it all came from the kind of person they were told to fear on a daily basis by rightwing media, the same person who had been kind to them and gave them a hug after some harsh truths.
I have no delusions that they voted for Biden. I’m sure they went home and voted for Trump. They’ll probably vote for him again this time, too.
That wasn’t the point of the hug. I didn’t believe it would convert either of them to a more reasonable outlook on broad politics. The point of the hug was to plant a seed that would remind them, again and again, why what they’re told about trans people may not be true.
I didn’t say anything I didn’t believe or condone views I found awful. I was forthright in my disagreement. And then I tried to turn that tension into a balm and hoped the balm would become a bulwark of empathy.
That’s the kind of thing President Biden has been doing his entire career, and it’s why he was elected that November. Because he’s willing to offer empathy and kindness where it’s scarce. I was trying to follow his example, and I do strongly believe that it worked, even though I have absolutely no proof that it did.
There’s a word for belief in something which has no replicable evidence of existing:
Faith.
President Biden has an unyielding faith in the goodness of others, however deep it’s buried, however seemingly non-existent. He has faith in redemption and personal growth and belonging and community.
At a moment in our history where evidence-based science is taking a beating from unsavory and irresponsible people, I would argue that faith is taking a beating, too.
That’s the ultimate difference between President Biden and Trump: the former has faith in our country to unite and heal and progress, and the latter only has faith in his own personal mythology and preservation.
At the end of the day, that’s why I’m supporting President Biden. It’s why I know he’ll shine in tonight’s presidential debate. It’s why I know he’ll be reelected in November.
He offers the country something Trump would never dare to even consider: the freedom to be broken and imperfect, the liberation in recognizing it, and the right to work toward redemption and all that comes with healing.
I didn’t keep in touch with the couple. We didn’t exchange numbers or emails. They invited me to breakfast the next morning, and I told them I would try to make it. And I did show up. And they weren’t there. Maybe wires got crossed.
Wherever they are, I hope they’ll somehow read this and understand that it’s never too late to have faith in each other. Everything else is noise.
Just have faith in each other.
A Late Night Conversation with MAGA Republicans