I am arranging trays of food on a table when the man appears. “You with the Democrat women?” he says. “I’m going to be flat honest. You know who’s going to fix all this? Not you. The man upstairs, that’s who.”
It is 5:30 p.m. on a Monday. I am expecting 40, maybe 50, women for that night’s meeting of the Democratic Woman’s Club of Anderson County, but for now this stranger, this man and me, are alone in the cafeteria of a Senior Citizen’s Center, a space cheerfully decorated for fall with crepe-paper pumpkins.
“You ask me,” the man says, “we got to get rid of all the Mexicans and all the blacks — you know that other thing we call ‘em, the blacks — we got to get every last one of ‘em out of this country, that’s what we got to do.”
I note that warnings about the caravan, the one the president is tweeting about, has been all over the news. “Sadly, it looks like Mexico’s Police and Military are unable to stop the Caravan heading to the Southern Border of the United States. Criminals and unknown Middle Easterners are mixed in. I have alerted Border Patrol and Military that this is a National Emergy. Must change laws!” the president warned.
Sign Up and Save
Get six months of free digital access to the Lexington Herald-Leader
My heart pounds in triple-time. “Sir,” I say, holding my hand up. “I’m going to stop you right there. You were just talking about the man upstairs, but what you’re saying is decidedly not Christian, it is not the way I was raised, and you are wrong.”
He laughs. “Making America great again,” he practically sings, and then, turning to leave, adds, “We’ll be playing cards next door, so you let us know if you girls have leftovers.”
I often see national news stories about Trump country; stories where an east coast news organization sends out a journalist to take the pulse of Trump voters. Do you feel marginalized, they ask with equanimity. What do you like about the president? What do you wish he would do differently? Will you vote for him again?
But what I do not see, in these national reports, is the reality of living in Trump country.
Why do we hold our Democratic Woman’s Club meetings in the Senior Citizen’s Center? Because local establishments are afraid to be associated with Democrats, lest it destroy their business.
Mornings, I drive 20 miles round trip to walk my dogs on the county park trail, because the trail right up the road involves parking my car by houses with Confederate flags out front, and I have an Amy McGrath bumper sticker.
A friend stops to get his morning coffee at the Dairy Queen, and a group of men openly heckle him. “You voting for McGrath?” they say. “I guess we’ll have to start peeing sitting down!”
In our Oct. 24 county newspaper, under a banner that reads “Before pulling the lever, ask if your vote honors God,” the faith columnist writes, in part, “Since I am not a preacher, I hope that I can take some liberty with pointing out some facts.” And then, “Killing an infant in it’s mother’s womb is not choice, it’s called murder.”
A neighbor dis-invites another neighbor from Thanksgiving dinner for fear that having someone who finds Trump’s rallies cult-like and scary at the table will ruin an otherwise Norman Rockwell-esque meal.
A man in town tells me he is afraid to travel to Nevada for a sporting event with his teenaged son because of gangs and MS-13.
This is Trump’s America, which often feels like some twisted version of “The Stepford Wives,” where everyone is seemingly going about their business — church on Sunday, high-school football games, Halloween costume contests, and parades down Main Street — while the president tweets about the caravan, MS-13, #FakeNews, and the left-wing mob: the coming apocalypse.
The president of the United States, with his fear-mongering rallies and rhetoric, is terrorizing — yes, I said terrorizing — the very small-town America he purports to love.
At our meeting, we say the Pledge of Allegiance, and we discuss what we can do to help with the upcoming midterms.
As we adjourn, and as I get ready to deliver our leftovers to the card game going on next door, our vice president, a Mexican immigrant, raises her hand to quiet us.
“Could you all please say a prayer for my family?” she says, voice breaking. “My brother is being deployed to Afghanistan next week to clear bombs. He’s going to clear bombs for a country who hates us.”
Teri Carter is a writer in Lawrenceburg. Reach her at KentuckyTeri@gmail.com.