Democracy Doesn't Die, People Do
On keeping politically divided families together in an election season, my dad's near-death experience, and Trump's almost-assassination
My dad supported Donald Trump in 2016, 2020, and undoubtedly will again in November, although he would have preferred someone like DeSantis.
In 2016, I was 13, and just beginning to find my place in the world, which quickly became opposite him.
I was raised with conservative Catholic values, expected to be a good little Christian girl. I was good. I knew how to follow the rules, blend in, be quiet—I could do all of that. But I couldn’t force myself to believe things I didn’t.
I didn’t believe in Catholicism. As a consequence, I didn’t believe abortion was a moral abomination, I didn’t believe it was wrong to be gay or trans, I believed evolution and climate change were real. I was an atheist, 80% of which lean toward the Democratic party; I was a bisexual woman, 83% of which lean toward the Democratic party; and most of my friends were liberal, so it made sense that I split toward the Democratic party at a young age.
My stubbornness comes from my dad, so when we began to argue about politics at the dinner table we didn’t shout, but we didn’t exactly listen either. As we sharpened our teeth on partisan wisecracks, he smiled, saying he was proud of me for thinking for myself.
I tied myself in knots.
My side of the aisle said he was evil. They said if someone didn’t believe in a woman’s right to choose, didn’t believe in letting hardworking undocumented immigrants stay with their families, didn’t believe in gun control and systemic racism, they were not a good person. But I knew that couldn’t be the case. This man who bought water for construction workers on a hot day, who helped old women reach the top shelf in the grocery store, who always offered my friends a ride home, and who would drop everything if I needed him. He was the furthest person from evil.
When George Floyd was killed in 2020, my dad wanted to go to the protests to “see what was really going on.” He wanted to know if the police were tear gassing non-violent protesters. I stayed quiet—I really didn’t feel like having another argument about police brutality and I didn’t mind the idea of him seeing and deciding for himself, so it wasn’t a battle worth fighting. My mom however, was worried it would be dangerous and asked him not to go. Finally, she turned to me and said, “I know you have an opinion. What do you think?”
My dad and I hashed out the issue for a few hours. Though we both condemned the death of George Floyd, my dad thought it was an isolated incident blown out of proportion. I remember at the time this viral video was going around where a girl was arguing with her parents, educating them on racism. My teachers were reposting her, praising her historical knowledge. I wanted to be that girl. I wanted to give him an education in right versus wrong.
I remember him saying something like, “maybe part of the reason that black people get arrested more often is due to their culture, maybe if they didn’t wear black hoodies and saggy jeans that you could hide a weapon in they would get stopped less.”
I was careful not to call him racist, but I did say, “You know a lot of the things you’re saying are considered pretty racist. I mean being arrested for their culture? Do you hear yourself?” I was proud of standing up for Black Lives Matter, for being a good ally. But the prowess did not last. I received no pat on the back for being a good liberal. I felt miserable.
The man I knew was not a morally depraved racist that I needed to cut ties with. Still, I couldn’t square his abhorrent views with the man who had been there all my life. I hit a crossroads and it felt like if changing his views was hopeless, the only other option was to not talk about it. I cared about politics though. I cared about what was going on in the world, and I wanted to discuss it with the people I loved. I needed a third option.
I found a third option in the bridge-building movement: organizations like Braver Angels and BridgeUSA that prioritized disagreeing better, with the aim of understanding one another instead of changing them. I began to really seek out the best perspectives on both sides of every issue and change my mindset around our conversations. In the process, I inadvertently became more moderate. I won’t pretend that changing my goals and gaining new listening tools alone fixed everything—becoming more moderate and moving out were also contributors to healing our relationship. I also won’t pretend I don’t get annoyed every now and then when he states his conservative opinion as if it’s objective reality, but over time, our conversations have become much easier.
I’ve told a version of this story about my relationship with my dad many times now, even dragging my dad to podcast interviews with me about it, both because I work formally in the bridge-building space and because I don’t want others in my position to feel alone, as I did during that time.
Years later, I found out I hadn’t been alone—I was actually in good company. There’s a history of liberal daughters arguing with their conservative fathers and then dragging them to stages in the bridge-building space, among them Braver Angels Senior Fellow for Public Practice Monica Guzman and Braver Angels Director of Communications and Marketing Gabbi Timmis.
I was at the Braver Angels Convention in Kenosha, Wisconsin last month, where Gabbi and her father spoke about their relationship—well mostly Gabbi—who said during 2020 she stopped talking to her dad because the politics were taking too much of a toll. When asked, her dad simply said, “I did what I had to do to keep my family together.”
Tears pricked my eyes, threatening to spill over my waterline, because I finally understood my dad's perspective at the deepest level.
This might sound alien, but when I was a kid I genuinely didn't understand why everyone seemed to love their family. My parents are good people, they took care of me, they're genetically related to me, yet I didn't understand what it meant to love them. I understood why parents would love their child, something that they made and birthed, but as a child I felt like loving family was an obligation that I didn't choose, an expectation I didn't know how to fulfill.
When I moved out, the distance filled me with increased gratitude for the way my parents raised me and every time I saw them again I swelled with a sense of joy and security, something closer to love.
Then, my dad almost died.
In September 2023, while on a walk, my dad felt a searing pain shoot up his jaw and forehead. His chest hurt too. By the time he got home the pain had subsided, but he decided to go to the hospital just in case.
They said he had described the symptoms of a heart attack, but didn't actively have a heart attack. They put him through a stress test. After being on the treadmill for over ten minutes, they said he did fine and could go home, but he told them he felt stabbing pains in his chest, worse than before.
They took him to surgery, assuming they might have to put a stent in. They told him if he is in and out of surgery in thirty minutes, then he's fine, they probably just put a stent in. When my dad woke up and saw less than thirty minutes had passed, he assumed the best. Instead his doctor said, “You have four blocked arteries and we can't do that surgery here. We need to take you to the main hospital immediately.”
“Someone better tell my wife,” my dad said.
I was only gleaning information from my mom’s brief texts every few hours.
Here is an excerpt of a journal I wrote during that time:
The sun strips me down to pure focus. I sit on the bench typing on my laptop. Data entry is simple, repetitive categorization. Click on the headline. Lean Left, Left, Center, Lean Right, or Right based on the news outlet the headline is from. A rhythm starts. 264 headlines in less than 2 hours. Fox News—Right. Associated Press—Lean Left. click back to the other tab to check the last outlet. The Hill—Center. I’ve gone through the August headlines, then the September.
My dad is being cut open. Chords being attached to him, scalpels being cleaned. He’s knocked out and hooked up to three beeping machines.
It’s Monday and for once I’m starting the week ahead, but I shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t be focused. I should be worried about my dad. I shouldn’t be at school. But I know I would berate myself for not being here, for not working. In a purported family crisis, every move is the wrong one.
Missed call: Mom 2:46pm
Missed call: Nate 2:50pm
Missed call: Nate 2:52pm
Nate: Please call, dads out of surgery 2:52pm
They cut open the tubes connecting his heart one at a time, slowly, and scrape out the years of childhood refrigerator stew, hot dogs, and daily Mountain Dew. I imagine their tiny glasses with magnifying attachments and blue smocks leaning over his heart.
Remarkably calm, I make myself a latte and sit back in the sun, sipping it through a stainless metal straw watching workers on the roof across from mine.
They sew him up and shove a thick plastic ventilator tube down his throat as deep as it will go. A gushing force of oxygen artificially inflates his lungs, but not enough. They make a nurse fresh out of residency adjust the oxygen levels. Then it’s too much. He never was an easy man. They take down his oxygen slowly over several hours.
Dad: Love you, babygirl 11:40pm
The night before surgery he sent me that, and I was sure he might die. I thought of everything I hadn’t told him yet. About the graduation he wouldn’t be at, the future wedding. About how I wouldn’t possibly survive that. But on this Monday, I’m certain he’s fine.
3:15pm
I just got out of class. What's the news?
Mom: I don’t know if anyone told you yet, but after your uncle came to visit your dad yesterday, he had a heart attack. So, he’s right down the hall from dad. Same arteries and everything. So… keep eating healthy because you and Nate have a family history now.
Jesus, you’re kidding, right?
All the nurses know there are two Ashcrafts. Never seen anything like it, they said. His bypass surgery is on Friday I think. Anyway, I’m going to go see him while I’m waiting to get in to see dad. They say they won’t take him off the ventilator until early tomorrow now.
Okay.
Are you okay?
Are you?
I’m getting better, I think.
My latte is gone. I’m caught up on work and classwork. I open YouTube, close it, open my laptop again. Open a comic book. Skim every scene I already know by heart, go through all four books in the series, look at my phone.
Missed call: Nate 5:34pm
Mom: still waiting to see dad 5:30pm
7:10pm
Do you still need me?
Nate: No, I was just trying to show mom how to facetime you. You should call her tonight.
Okay.
I love you.
Bye, love you.
8:00pm
Hi, mom, how are you doing?
They finally let me stay in the room. Did you talk to Nate?
Yeah, a little bit.
Glad you got to talk. You know, I don’t know how much work you have to do, but you could come home. This weekend, if you want, or anytime. Kathy offered to come pick you up.
That was nice of her.
You don’t have to make a decision now. Listen, as much as I love being on the phone with you, there’s a nurse in here and it’s kind of awkward.
Yeah, yeah, of course, bye. I love you.
I love you, too.
I text a friend back about a thought experiment on the pro-life argument for bodily autonomy against abortion. I finish the discussion post comparing the Armenian genocide to the Herero genocide that isn’t due until next week. I flick on a podcast about the biography of Elon Musk while I fold my laundry.
My ceiling starts leaking for the third time this week and no one has shown up to fix it. I put a freshly washed container down to catch the water. By all accounts I should be crumbling. The guilt comes in waves. I should definitely be there, but in some ways it’s great not being there. I carefully procure tomorrow's outfit. I charge my laptop, my phone, my watch. I’ve never been so prepared.
I did eventually take Kathy up on her offer and get to see my dad. He was on a ventilator, not responsive, and when they took him off the ventilator he still couldn’t speak or move. He managed to communicate with his hands that he wanted to type something out. My mom and I tried to dissuade him, but he was persistent, so we pulled out a phone, but he couldn’t see the keyboard, so we switched to an ipad. Slowly he motioned toward the letters until we made out what he was attempting to say: “Mountain Dew.”
Nevertheless, his oxygen levels didn’t get up to where the nurses wanted them to be, so 24 hours later, he was back on the ventilator. With all of the swelling from being on the ventilator the first time, it’s hard to put one back in and in doing so, the doctors permanently paralyzed his left vocal cord (he is okay now, but when he talks too much he starts to sound like RFK Jr.).
He was originally only supposed to be on the ventilator for 4-6 hours after the surgery, but he ended up being on it on and off for days. I saw him finally get taken off the ventilator, get the tubes taken out of his chest, and take his first steps with the help of a walker (while cursing at the nurse). But, truthfully, I wasn’t there as much as I should have been. My brother was there to help my mom everyday, so I went back to school to finish up my senior thesis. More so, so I didn’t have to watch my dad in the preceding months where he couldn’t go to the bathroom or shower on his own. All he could manage for weeks was to hold his chest as he was wracked with coughing fits.
If you look closely, today, you can still see the chunk taken out of his nose where they strapped the oxygen mask on and it rubbed his face too hard in the hospital.
Both my dad and my uncle, thankfully, made more or less full recoveries from their triple bypasses.
A year after my dad and I were arguing about BLM, I found it hard to put myself back in my own shoes. My mindset had changed so much that the type of person that was in genuine distress over whether my dad was a good person seemed foreign. But only once my dad almost died, did I truly understand how he felt about me, how he was so quick to turn back to dinner together after a raucous argument.
When my dad was first going through his surgery and after, I think I went into survival mode. I didn't really feel any of it as it happened, but months later I started to notice how that brush with mortality shaped my feelings toward him. When I thought, for a split second, my dad might not be around to see me graduate college, his position on gun control or abortion or trans issues didn't matter. I knew my dad was not an immortal, untouchable hero, but now I felt it—just how frail everything between us could be and just how much I love him.
Democracy is like that too—frail—much of it depends on our trust in our neighbors and our social institutions, which are both rapidly declining. I don't know how to remind everyone, without a brush with death, how much they love one another.
As a country, we have now had a brush with death, in the form of the attempted assassination of Donald Trump. If there is a silver lining, I hope it shocked people into remembering that Trump is a human, a husband, a father.
He may not be a human I'll vote for in November, but I also condemn those saying Trump (or Project 2025) will be the end of democracy. That type of rhetoric is radicalizing (especially considering we already made it through 4 years of Trump in tact), though I'll be the first to say that the shooter’s actions are his own, not the media's or the people's. The shooter does not represent the American people. But we can, in turning our attention to his horrific actions, also turn toward how we can mitigate such violence, in rhetoric, security, and policy.
People die and I can't stop it. I could die, My dad could die, Donald Trump could die, but democracy only dies when we collectively give up on it.
When my dad almost died, I realized how much I love him. Donald Trump almost died and I didn't suddenly love him, but I didn't need to, to imagine how his children felt watching him literally dodge a bullet. That empathy and compassion is how we hold democracy together. And though it is frail, as someone working on fixing democracy everyday, I can say we have some of the most dedicated people working on its preservation and innovation.
If you are struggling with election anxiety or with talking across political differences this election season, here is my recommendation: talk to the people you love about the things that matter. If politics matter to you (they do to me too!), talk about them, but remember if your aim is to help democracy, to paraphrase Gabbi's dad, you must do what it takes to keep your family (biological and otherwise) together. Because democracy is a bottom-up system, not a top-down one, and if we cannot keep divided families functioning, individuals with strong bonds, then how can we expect institutions with loose bonds, like the government, to function.
People's politics are a result of their life experiences, and so long as we show up in our communities with love and trust for different lives and experiences, democracy endures. It's clichéd advice but a piece of fixing toxic polarization is to talk to everyone as if they are going to die. Even Trump will die one day and we will either have to answer for every rule we twisted in the name of “protecting democracy” from him or we can learn to ask questions to one another and, through building love and trust, begin to accept whatever democratic outcome happens.
I came across this now and it's beautiful.
Thank you for this. It is a wonderfully human account.
I'm on your side when it comes to building bridges and lowering tensions. I love your emphasis on keeping a family together in the middle of it all. But I don't think I agree with the claim that "democracy only dies when we collectively give up on it". I don't think that's what happened when Hitler or Mussolini or Salazar ended their democracies. Many people hadn't given up, but their voices weren't counted.
Given many of Trump's own public pronouncements and actions, I think it is a reasonable fear that he might try to end or at least severely curtail American electoral democracy (though I think he would be likely to fail in the attempt). I also think political violence is abhorrent, and harmful to democracy in its own way - but in this case at least, with the shooter a registered Republican, it does not seem likely that alarmed rhetoric about Trump is to blame.