The State of The Union

What if our national divides aren't left or right—but the stories we tell ourselves...

She sat across from me at the donut shop, cream-filled maple bars in front of us, our coffee steaming in cardboard cups on the Formica table. Light streamed through the windows. It was the summer of 2004.

“So, if I’m a Christian, do I have to vote for Bush?” she asked, hesitantly, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corner as she watched me.

She was a young woman. Early to motherhood and single, she felt the entire weight of their combined futures on her rounded shoulders.

I met her at a local thrift store and our friendship happened over clearance racks and combined eye rolls at the women who complained about paying $15.99 for a pair of designer jeans. We easily bonded over the unique variety of drama in a world where donated goods turn into a six-figure compensation package for executives. At the same time, minimum wage employees interacted as real-time sounding boards for over-eager resellers and treasure seekers.

My boys were young, and we’d wander our way through the racks of clothes and shelves distracted by things we didn’t need while my husband loaded a cart with the items he would turn into rent money and car payments, groceries, and the electric bill.

To Jennifer we were more than just a family that she saw several times a week, we were a goal. With our kids in squeaky clean clothes and a united front, we were the husband/wife team that worked together, lived together, and worshipped together. Even though I was less than 10 years older than her she looked up to me and the expectation that I would have answers was both flattering and uncomfortable.

How was I supposed to answer her?

The voices at church and the after-church conversations over sandwiches at the deli were often louder than my own. They were the present version of arguments from my past that echoed down through the years.

I remembered my parents’ disdain for the U.S. Government teacher at my small public school. Mr. Roberts was an unabashed 1970s Democrat, and his loud, messy opinions battered our redneck student body. His voice resonated in stark contrast to the story my dad had told us for years. A story about how proud he was to have shaken President George Bush, Sr’s hand at a parade in Billings, Montana.

For me, voting Republican was more than just the obvious choice, it was a reasoned, rational decision. A choice that meant I was aligning myself with the people I shared my life and my history with.

Voting for Bush in 2000 and now again in 2004, after the Clinton debacle and the blue dress, was framed as more than personal preference.

It was a moral obligation.

A spiritual duty.

It was taking back a philosophical and patriotic ideal. We weren’t just voicing support for a President, we were drawing a line in the sand to ensure that this second term was a way to get America back on track.

9/11 remained solidly front and center in our national awareness and the Wars on Terrorism and Iraq were in full swing. We still held a naive belief that it would be over soon. We still believed the men who assured us it would soon be over.

The lines between good and evil seemed thick and dark, drawn sharply between East and West. Social unrest moved uneasily under polite surfaces as we wrestled out loud about things like gay marriage, social equality, and a gnawing fear and growing awareness that we were no longer safe in our beautiful America.

Beneath the flag-waving smiles and red, white, and blue bunting was a swelling, grass-roots reaction to anything that threatened stability and security

Unemployment was a constant talking point and the Republicans were hitching their wagon to Dubya while Democrats experienced a visceral rejection of the Bush administration and the actual person of Bush in a way that mirrored what many conservatives had felt about Clinton.

The pendulum wildly swinging back and forth every 4 years was new to us and the pundits telling us this was “the most important election ever” made it seem that, possibly, it was.

But what if we got it wrong? We were going to be held responsible for the world being built for the children entrusted to our care. The pressure of every single vote still felt heavy. A solemn responsibility that we, as citizens, carried. We trusted the system. We still believed in the integrity of the ballot box.

“You vote for whichever candidate you believe is best. You take the time and read and listen and consider. I can’t tell you how to vote but I don’t think that the people you share your faith with should be the reason you cast your ballot in any particular direction.” I answered quickly, before I could stop myself.

The words rushed out of me as I fumbled my way through a core belief I didn’t even realize I had until just that moment.

A low burn of anger crackled in my heart for this precious woman and the injustice of her sincerity being weaponized against her. Pressuring someone to lockstep politically based on biblical values felt wrong.

A misuse of goodness.

An abuse of influence.

The faces and the methods have changed but, twenty years later, so much remains the same.

We are still embedded in the Middle East. Smoke still rising over recently offloaded munitions. We don’t talk about 9/11 anymore, but Homeland Security has only gotten bolder and stronger. Gay marriage was legalized, yet social equality wavers on a spectrum dizzying in its volatility.

The feeling of being unsafe in America never really went away, except now? Well, now it thrums on nerves pulled tight and stretched thin as things like “internment camps” are no longer the stuff of conspiracy theorists. The riots and rubble come from stones thrown by our own hands.

The rhetoric of old white men echoes through news reports, YouTube channels, and prayer breakfasts: Christians have a moral obligation to install leaders who look like us. Leaders who speak as we do. Men who embody a world no one really remembers, but, as we are told on endless repeat, “It was great back then! Everyone says so!”

The black suits and red-tie brigades try to entice us with a white-washed history of a splendid America where men were men and women and minorities knew their place. Cookie-cutter neighborhoods, all plastic and chrome, showcased a buttoned-up world where cars, houses, and college educations were within reach. They tempt us with a world where a handshake and eye contact could land you a job that pays enough for everything. Enough to support a family and pay cash for vacations along Route 66.

If you were white.

And a man.

We are supposed to forge a world where different variations of Us v. Them have become the most compelling argument for political unity, and the people who don’t come to our conclusions are easily dismissed as simply lacking common sense.

Yet, as loud as those men are, other voices have begged us to remember tales of Valium and abuse, corporate greed, and violence. Poverty and oppression.

Accustomed to accolades for tweets and honorariums for sound bites, billionaires of today circle each other in displays of dominance while funding for Medicare and food stamps hangs in the balance.

Their voices say words but all I hear is, “Let them eat cake.”

Twenty-one years ago, I stayed a while in the donut shop after Jennifer left for work. My maple bar sat, half-eaten, on the table in front of me. I couldn’t silence the voice inside me that had begun to question the status quo and was already starting to reject the hefty weight of responsibility passed from generation to generation.

I sat in silence, the quiet hum of an awakening conscience beginning a decades-long process of shedding expectations.

In 2008, as President Barack Obama gave his State of the Union address, I was fully in the throes of a libertarian free-fall as jaded social and political scepticism overtook clarity and thoughtful engagement. 2012, I didn’t even pay attention, I had lost hope and found myself increasingly out of step with anything that resembled a national sense of purpose or identity. 2016? I ate popcorn, refused to vote, and mocked political debates. I never believed America’s deal would be with a real estate mogul and TV star with a combover.

2020… I watched Seattle burn and chewed my nails to the quick because my son was homeless and addicted, living on those battered streets. I embraced isolation in my home and, rather than cynicism, I grieved the loss of reasoned dialogue and the increase of bombastic posturing playacting as leadership.

2024, 2025… I wonder if we’ll make it to 2028.

In 2016, as the conservative voices got louder and more emboldened, I remember telling my husband that I was more afraid of a hard-right authoritarian regime than a far-left liberal one. There is a rigidity and moral superiority that clouds the judgment of authoritarianism and amplifies a capacity to militarize followers and validate aggression for the sake of the greater good.

I think about Jennifer at times like this and I wonder, with all the chaos since then, did she take my advice, or did she give in? Did she give up?

With so little left in me that believes this patchwork of malcontents is worth fighting for, I feel more than just tired.

I wonder if I’ve already given up.

Some days, I think I have.