I’m a deconstructing American

Over playground picnic tables and group texts. At family gatherings and even business meetings. Everywhere my husband and I went last year, we probed our overwhelmingly red, Bible belt community to figure out: Why are you voting for him again? 

For context, we are the outliers. We exist in an echo chamber in which none of the echoes is our own. We are the token lefties—though even that doesn’t feel quite right. We struggle to own the label “progressive” or “Democrat,” not because we’re more moderate but because the performance of progressivism often feels as dogmatic as the rhetoric of the right. We’ve watched Democratic leaders offer carefully worded condolences while standing idle as wanton destruction unfolds an ocean away. We’ve seen bold values traded for donor approval, systemic injustice papered over with hashtags, and power preserved under the guise of incremental change.

Both major parties bend toward the preservation of empire, and that’s hard for me to stomach. I find myself wanting something more than what either party seems brave enough to offer. I vote for the candidates who most closely align with my convictions, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m still getting played.