When Just Becomes Injustice

How Do We Show Up in Tough Times Ahead?

The other day, when I was talking, as I frequently do these days, about the millions of voters supporting Trump, I made a comment that annoyed a colleague of mine. I said, “I don’t understand. I really don’t understand.”

“This isn’t about you or your ability to understand. Just call it out for what it is. Say, ‘That’s just stupid.’”

He’s a funny guy, Jewish and queer, like me. And I took his point. I work hard not to judge. I work hard to look at myself first. Sometimes, owning my own perspective is beside the point. 

But I ended up disagreeing with him. 

I started listening for that word, “just.” I’m reading it a lot on my Facebook feed. “They’re just haters.” “They’re all just crazy.” “There’s no point in trying; they’re just mentally ill.” I started thinking about that word, “just.” Maybe some things warrant that word. Some things are simple. “That’s just a lie.” But “just” has a powerful impact. “Just” simplifies and reduces. It dismisses. Ultimately, I believe, it dehumanizes. And it ends up backfiring. “Just” feels good in the moment, but it shuts out part of reality. It places ourselves outside of relationship, where all change happens.

When my partner Erin and I got together in 2021, we knew a second Trump presidency was possible, and we vaguely considered what it would mean for our life in Vermont. Although I have Canadian citizenship, and moving was an option, neither of us truly believed in our heart of hearts that Trump would win the presidency. With its progressive politics, thriving cultural scene, and stunning mountain vistas, Vermont was our heartthrob, the place we imagined living out the rest of our days. Seriously entertaining a threat to that delicious life didn’t make sense… at least, at the time.

Fast forward three years. Shockingly, it became clearer and clearer that Trump’s support remained strong, so last spring, we buried ourselves in reliable political analysis. A newbie on Substack, I subscribed to Heather Cox Richardson, Robert Hubbell, Joyce Vance, Thom Hartmann, the Bulwark, Jessica Craven. I subscribed to the podcasts Ultra and Autocracy in America, and I watched Rachel Maddow and Tim Miller and Joy Reid. I saw the worsening of Russia’s war in Ukraine and read about Hungary and Venezuela. Suddenly, I felt awake to the rising tide of fascism around the globe. What was happening in the U.S. with Trump and MAGA had a context.

After several months of research, we came to the conclusion that the US was headed towards autocracy. While this included the presidency, it was part of a much larger and more insidious phenomenon; our research told us that while it was possible to fight it, the powers of dark money were not going to let go easily. Our system, we realized, was structurally broken and highly susceptible to this terrifying change. 

At first, I thought this was something obvious; if I could see it, everyone else must be able to. But when I mentioned it to a few friends, they raised their eyebrows. They gave me a look I recognized: the look I gave people who talked about MAGA conspiracies. Soon, I realized that this shift in our perspective set us apart from other Americans. Most other Americans we knew. Sometimes, we would be preparing supper, corn on the barbeque or a big salad with sliced sausages, and one of us would turn to the other and say, “We sound like them.” At that point, we were too shaky with this new perspective, so, to avoid judgment and ostracization, we kept our beliefs to ourselves.

The conclusion we arrived at made it clear that we would be heading to Canada. We didn’t want to be around for violence or for a second Trump term, let alone a country where civil rights continued to be stripped away by the Supreme Court, regardless of the election results. We weren’t sure when we would know it was time to go; we talked a lot about the boiled frog. We had a sense that a moment would come, and we’d understand in our bones that it was time. 

That moment was the immunity decision.

I remember my teenage son, Alexi, was with me when the decision came down. We were at Planet Fitness. I was watching the news, and when I heard the ruling, I got off the elliptical trainer and stood, sweat dripping beneath my bandana, hand over mouth. Alexi came up to me and asked what was wrong. When I told him, he immediately asked, “That doesn’t apply to crimes, though, does it?”

I told him that yes, it does. Explicitly.

With the immunity decision, presidents are now exempt from having to obey the law. Presidents, according to the lawyers who argued the case before SCOTUS, could order SEAL Team 6 to assassinate a political rival and be immune. They can organize a coup to remain in power. They can take a bribe in exchange for a pardon. This decision removed crucial checks and balances on the highest office in the nation. It was the codification of autocracy.

It also, we realized, made incredibly real the possibility that even if Harris won the election, Trump could challenge it in court and win. If SCOTUS could invent presidential immunity, they could easily make a decision invalidating the election and throwing the vote to the House.

This happened right before July 4th, and I remember walking around Montpelier, the celebration of Independence Day in full force. I was in a daze; why did everyone look so happy and so normal? Why weren’t we all protesting? One man carried a sign about the SCOTUS decision, and when he walked by, Erin and I clapped. We were the only ones.

We were in a different reality. They didn’t understand.

Suddenly, I was plagued with more questions and self doubt. Was I crazy? Was our analysis wrong? Should we stay and simply dismiss our worries as paranoia? How could all of my trusted friends believe something that was so different from me? I wanted more than anything to think everything was okay, that I was just overreacting. God, I just didn’t want it to be true.

Perhaps my saving grace was my own familiarity with how perspective can be distorted and variable in ways that aren’t always healthy. I grew up in a toxic family system, and I understand denial and how prevalent it is, how intrinsic to human nature. I understand the ways we see what confirms our own biases, the ways we brush off information that would demand uncomfortable action, the ways we can’t see aspects of ourselves that conflict with our need to see ourselves as good people. History is also full of examples, if my family isn’t enough.

I won’t survive in a country where freedom isn’t even aspirational, where truth is optional. Book bans led to one of my publishers going out of business, and as a queer author, my career will be finished, to say nothing of my safety. I’ve already experienced soft book bans, where my son’s school district wouldn’t consider my LGBTQ-themed kids books, The Loudest Bark and My Sister’s Girlfriend, because they didn’t have the “right” reviews (stamps of approval from Kirkus, the CBC, the Canadian Librarians Association, and other prestigious reviewers didn’t suffice). My adult novel, Falling Through the Night, has a lesbian main character, and promotion is all over the internet. How could I feel safe and functional in a white Christian Nationalist country with a dictator? The reversal of Roe and the immunity decision were only the first of many more structural changes that are coming. We weren’t making this up. It was happening, and I couldn’t deny it, even if others could.

Friends and people we told were flabbergasted, amused, shocked. One of my clients said with a tiny smile, “So if this is true, who’s the dictator now?” An older friend, who’s a Holocaust survivor, told me via email that this moment was “nothing like” pre-WWII Germany, and that she was confident we would defeat Trumpism at the ballot box. A Facebook friend disengaged from the online conversation when I said I didn’t think it would be possible to have a fair election. I sensed judgment, or certainly a lack of understanding of the higher-level perspective our research yielded. “Don’t you want to see if Kamala wins?” It was hard to explain that our decision was less about the presidency and more about where we are collectively as a nation. It was hard to explain about the Supreme Court and how we’re in a structurally broken place. It was hard to explain that if Americans can’t agree on basic reality, let alone our fundamental values, then conditions aren’t safe for those of us on the margins. 

I was suddenly in the position of being in the “just” category. “Just” paranoid. “Just” fear-mongering. “Just” overreacting.

I felt so isolated at one point that Erin and I talked about changing our elevator speech. Instead of saying we were leaving because of the political situation, we started saying we were running from the Nazis. Somehow, and strangely enough, this statement elicited very different and more positive reactions. More people giggled, nervously, instead of raising eyebrows quizzically. Other queer folks and BIPOC friends were more likely to relate and at least be empathetic. One queer neighbor looked me straight in the eye and said, “I don’t have that option,” which was true, and chilling. But overall, reactions left us still feeling very separate.

The judgment from my progressive friends was the hardest to take. I know they didn’t want to judge. Yet I heard my friend’s voice as I saw their eyebrows go up. “That’s just stupid.” Defense mechanisms are human. Erin and I were two sane people making a decision calling into question the democratic nature of their country. We were offering a dramatically different reality from the one they inhabit. How could that not be triggering? Either we’re wrong, or they might be in danger. The two competing realities were difficult for everyone. Sad. Alienating. I kept wishing someone would say, “You know, I feel like recommending a therapist or running away from this conversation because it’s so uncomfortable. But I won’t do either of those things because I want to stay connected.” None of us is that self-aware, at least not yet. I didn’t want the disconnect. But the disconnect continued happening.

Every night and every morning, I would read my newsletters and scan the internet. At first, I was searching for information that both affirmed and countered our understanding of reality. I wanted someone to look at the structural problems and say, “Well, here’s how we’re going to handle that. Don’t worry! Our democracy will be fine.” I’m still doing that, post-move. I keep hoping I’m wrong. I keep looking for that reassurance. 

I keep failing.

It’s been a month since we’ve moved to Ottawa, and I’m still immersed in American political analysis. Last night, I watched Robert Hubbell and Jay Kuo. I read about polls, watch The Bulwark, and listen to Kamal’s speeches. I’m finished writing postcards and letters for my get-out-the-vote work. I love Ottawa, but I’m also heartbroken to be once again living outside my home. I miss my friends, I miss Capital Grounds, I miss the statehouse. I’m watching the political situation like an accident in slow motion, moving towards the inevitable brick wall. I try not to think about SCOTUS; I try not to imagine them ruling on one of the GOP’s hundreds of election lawsuits and what their decision will mean to our country. But still, even today, most Americans don’t share my concerns and my point of view.

What I know is that the people who responded with judgment towards us missed the opportunity to gain some insight that could have broadened their perspectives, even if they ultimately disagreed. In the same way, I’ve missed the opportunity to broaden my own perspective when I used the “just” word to talk about Trump supporters. If I try to stay open (which is hard), I have a chance of staying connected and understanding what is at the bottom of their seemingly incomprehensible behavior. I have a chance ot meeting them in that field that the poet Rumi talks about that is “...beyond right and wrong,” the place where transformation and healing takes place. Unless we connect with the basic human needs that underpin behavior we don’t understand, we will be stuck outside of connection forever.

What I know is that Americans are on the brink, in the next few days and beyond, of unprecedented instability in our country. Each of us will be faced with moments where we can write our neighbors off, labeling them “just” this or “just” that. It’s far more difficult to keep our humanity in mind when faced with incomprehensible behavior. But doing that is the only way to keep the possibility of peaceful engagement alive. “That’s just stupid” is a recipe for violence. This doesn’t mean we can’t defend ourselves, but it does mean doing our best to keep everyone’s humanity in the forefront of our consciousness.

We are so much more than “just” anything. If we truly hunger for justice, we’ll expand the lens through which we view our neighbors. We’ll learn how to become curious, to ask truly open questions, to meet hostility with compassion.

I still don’t understand supporting Trump. But I’m going to continue trying.