Trickle Down Politics

And how January Sixth has affected my relationship with my sister

Five years ago, I was talking to my sister on the phone while people were attacking the U.S. Capitol on January sixth.

I was concerned about who was trying to overturn the election. The only answer that made sense was the MAGA crowd declaring the election unfair.

My sister insisted it was “antifa.”

It was the first time I’d even heard the term. At the time, I had no idea who antifa was or why they were supposedly messing with our Capitol.

Sadly, this was the beginning of a very long five years and the breakdown of the relationship I was closest to in my entire family.

She was once my baby sister—the one I fed and changed diapers for. The one who shared her babies with me when I had no kids of my own. The one who came to me with her problems with men and the one I told first when I was getting a divorce. Perhaps it was the fact that I was five when she was born that protected us from sibling rivalry. No matter what others said or did, and even when we disagreed (as all sisters do) we always had each other’s backs.

It’s been a long five years.

During this time, she and her husband moved farther away from her children, our parents, and me. All because they disliked the governors in Oregon and Washington and felt Idaho was better.

When our mom was dying of cancer and our father had a stroke, she told me she wanted to see them before they were gone, but her car had bald tires. I had $500 in savings, so I gave it to her so she could drive safely. I didn’t give it as a loan. It was a gift. I simply wanted to see my sister, and I wanted her to be able to see our parents. Her visit was short, but I’ve never regretted doing that.

Our conversations became more and more limited because of politics. She might say it was politics, but I was concerned about losing access to healthcare and she didn’t think that was an issue. I was concerned about women being erased from history and she said that her few months in college had brainwashed her about social justice. I was upset by attacks on LGBTQ people, then people of color, and most recently in my own town, ICE kidnapping innocent people who speak Spanish or look Mexican American.

I never told her how to vote, but I did try to present my arguments for human rights. Unfortunately, we came from a family where disagreement leads to being shut out. None of us were taught how to resolve conflict.

Our other sister was recently in the emergency department with a sick husband, and she was furious about an “illegal” being in line ahead of them. She was angry that the receptionist spoke more than one language. This is the same sister who laughed when her son was fired as a supervisor because he refused to use someone’s pronouns. She still calls Governor Walz “Tampon Tim.” And of course, my sisters are both anti-vaxxers.

My father, who is in a nursing home with mild frontal lobe dementia, told me he doesn’t believe the felon is in the Epstein files. I gave up discussing politics with him decades ago, but when he insisted that Portland—a city where he was born, spent most of his life, and showed me all the beautiful places as a child—was burning and full of broken windows, I couldn’t stay silent.

I told him I live with two roommates who go into the city every day and there are no fires. He said he couldn’t believe my lies because I listen to college professors and they are all corrupt. Then he hung up on me. I called him back several times. Each time, he hung up again.

I realize now that my father’s distrust of me and my sisters’ mindsets are all rooted in their trust of the felon over the lived experiences of myself and others.

For them, gay people are the worst of sinners and cannot be Christians. I vehemently disagree. I’m straight, but thirty years of marriage to a gay man convinced me this is about biology, not salvation.

And so here we are, five years later.

We have evidence. There are multiple witnesses connected to the Epstein files, and we’ve all read enough to know the truth that the convicted felon who on tape bragged about groping women, is very likely a pedophile. Most intelligent people cannot be gaslighted into believing that the Trump named in those files is another man who is a plumber.

We also have Jack Smith’s testimony that Trump acted as the leader of the January sixth insurrection. Not only that, but the felon pardoned those convicted of violent crimes that day.

And now, five years later, we are a country floundering under a leader who does not care about the rule of law and cares only for himself.

Forget trickle down economics. Many of us are dealing with trickle down abuse and hate, because the same people who love the felon hate everyone the felon hates, then turn that hatred on us and call us haters.

That is what hurts the most.

I am not a hater. I have always been a lover of people. My faith in Jesus requires that I leave no one out.

And yet one sister said to me, “I can’t understand your insatiable need to kill babies.”

I have never killed a baby. I love babies. I also love their mothers. I believe no one should decide for a woman what she can do with her own body.

The other sister, who had four children with a man who once had no papers, stopped responding to my texts when I showed her an American citizen abducted by ICE simply because she was Mexican American. I wanted her to see that the felon’s policies could possibly harm her own children. Her response was silence.

Five years can be measured in time, but the breaking of hearts cannot be measured. Neither can love.

There is now a wide gulf between my sisters and me.

I am standing with my Mexican American nephews. I am standing with my gay ex husband and his friends. I am standing with my cousin who had an abortion but helped her sister block me because I post too much about politics and they just want to enjoy their live of white privilege. (Except the same cousin who blocked me has grandchildren who are not white—WTF is wrong with these mothers who cannot stand with their offspring?)

I am still standing here five years later—a little more sad and confused, but I am the same loving daughter, sister, aunt, ex wife, and cousin I have always been.

Those who swallowed the felon’s lies have changed.

I hope it is not forever.

Love always hopes.

PS If you read my memoir, you will know that I have been an Amy Grant fan since 1982. Amy just dropped this new song and I love it. I hope you do too.