On Being the Strained Bridge Between Red and Blue America

Anger, alienation, and aloneness

Note: This essay was originally published in Tangle. They’re doing great work over there, please check them out.

“Our personal and profoundest suffering is incomprehensible and inaccessible to almost everyone” - Nietzche

“We have art in order not to die of the truth” - Nietzsche

My job is to seek first to understand, then to be understood. As a Bridging Coordinator and Media Analyst at AllSides, I am steeped daily in the best arguments on the political left and right, and I fervently believe understanding the other side is necessary to address the polarization in this country. Listening to those I disagree with is the right thing to do.

But this piece isn't about doing the right thing. It's about the frustration with having to do the right thing. It’s about alienation — an emotion we have all experienced — but the particular brand of alienation that comes with not finding security on either side of the aisle. That’s not to say that this brand of alienation is worse, only that it is real, and it is lonely, though I am not alone in feeling that way.

Politically, I’m in the center, whatever that means in the midst of a political realignment. For me, it means I’m on the fringes of every group. Conservative spaces, in my experience, are more open to my heterodox ideas; but we don’t find much common ground on topics of faith, sexuality or animal ethics, to name a few. In liberal spaces, which are supposedly more supportive of minorities, I can’t openly discuss many of my beliefs.

My friends say they don't know people who are like me. They mean, in part, people who have a rounded understanding of the political landscape and were undecided for most of the election season (which you can hear more about by listening to The Undecideds!). But they also mean someone who bucks the typical demographic trends and social expectations. By the numbers, I should be solidly on the left — white women with a college degree break 57% for Democrats, lesbian/gay/bisexual women break 83% for Democrats, voters aged 18-24 are 66% Democratic, atheists lean 84% Democratic. I’m also vegan, which is roughly two and a half times more common among liberals than conservatives.

I don’t feel like I’m on terra firma on either of our political sides. Instead, I am a bridge — my diverse views and identities allow me to stretch across different communities. Having one foot on each side of the border allows me to appear grounded and stable, but it means neither is home.

Take the 83% lesbian/gay/bisexual women who lean Democratic. Everyone I knew personally who was posting “I’m blocking anyone who didn’t vote for Kamala,” or “It’s okay to cut people off due to political beliefs, especially if you are a woman or LGBTQ+” after the election was in that demographic. Yet, the people they were aimed at cutting off were people like me, a bisexual woman.

My own community hated me.

One friend posted:

“BTW if you abstained or chose to vote third party you’re…a bad person 💗”

At first, I was hurt, but I wasn’t going to say anything because it was an emotional time for a lot of people and I figured it wasn’t worth it. If I didn’t say anything, no one would know I voted third party and it would all blow over, leaving our friendship unmarred.

But, I also felt obligated to say something. I felt like there should be space for my emotions, too. People are allowed to be angry and sad and devastated by the election results, but as soon as it turns into lashing out at others or characterizing them as evil, it has crossed a line. So, I sent her a voice note.

"Hey, so I saw your post about third parties, and I voted for a third party. It was a hard decision for me to make. I contemplated not saying anything at all because I prioritize our friendship over my opinion, but I also feel like I shouldn’t have to hide the choices that I’ve made in a friendship. So, I just thought I should be honest. I want to be clear, I don’t want you to change your opinion or your feelings or even take down the post. I just wanted to share that I really value our friendship over the last ten years — I think that’s way more important than whoever we voted for yesterday. And in a lot of relationships I feel like some part of me isn’t welcome; it’s always either my sexuality or my mental health or my politics, and so I just really want to create relationships where I feel like I am welcome to show up as all parts of myself and when we disagree I know our relationship is going to make it through. So I guess that’s it, I feel like I’m the same person, I just had to be honest — but if that changes things for you, it changes things for you, I guess, so let me know."

My note to her wasn’t perfect. I should have asked her why she felt the way she did instead of assuming; but I also don’t think I should have to be perfect in every message to preserve a relationship built over a decade of goodwill.

She said she loved me, but that we had fundamental moral differences — that my vote was more important than our relationship because what I do is who I am. She said she hoped the election was a wake-up call for me now that the Senate, House, and presidency were all red. And then she blocked me.

Truthfully, I was pretty apathetic about the results of the election. I have my concerns about Donald Trump, but I am not terrified of him. I was only terrified of how the aftermath was ripping my relationships with other people apart. Communal spaces kept popping up where people could share their anger, fear, and devastation over what they imagined the next four years would look like. It was hard not to be jealous of that. The winners got to celebrate, the losers threw a pity party, and I was cast off the island. In some ways, becoming a bridge was the only option that would allow me to remain compassionate toward others — it was that or drown in the chasm between red and blue islands, lungs filled with vitriol for both sides.

An old friend reached out to me to ask what I thought about the election, before it happened and in the aftermath, and he listened. He said all of his other friends were heartbroken, and thanked me for talking to him about it, adding that it helped him feel less angry if nothing else. Another person I spoke to said similarly that I helped him feel more grounded, that I provided a level-headed perspective, and he didn’t have much exposure to people like me.

These experiences make me feel more committed to my work than ever. I’m grateful that I get to remind people that the other side isn’t out to get them. I get to be the bridge to understanding their fellow Americans, to keeping connections with friends, family, and neighbors who think differently. I’m extremely privileged to be able to serve people in that way, just as I am privileged to be able to share my experience with Tangle readers and with people who know me in real life. But, it is work, and it comes with risks.

It breaks my heart that I have now lost connection with my first friend, who I grew up with, who used to send me excited videos of her latest creative project.

Sometimes, I don't want to be the bridge — the person being stepped on. I don't want to be the level-headed, grounded perspective. There is no space where I can feel understood and let my emotional guard down without being interrogated over my beliefs or analyzed like an exotic animal just because I'm not attached to an ideology.

The price of being a minority within a minority is I will always have to explain myself. I love helping people better understand the world, but sometimes I no longer care if they understand the world — I just want them to understand me.

It’s tempting sometimes to match polarization with polarization and snap, “yes, I voted third party, if that’s a dealbreaker than leave” because I am tired of feeding myself to people in baby spoonfuls, worried they can’t or won’t accept all of me.

But I don’t snap — maybe being level-headed and grounded is in my nature. I want to keep all my friends in my life and anyone who has ever loved me, but there is a price to being honest with myself and with them. In some cases, that price is being blocked. In other cases, the cost is my time to help them understand me, sans an ideological cheat-sheet, and as the questions accumulate, I give them my energy over and over and over. It isn't fair, but I can’t afford not to — because who else is going to.

I can’t help but wonder if my anger and exhaustion make me a bad person, or maybe not bad, but not sufficiently good enough. Am I valuable without an olive branch? Who will love me when I show up empty handed?

Everything in me is in tension. I want to be a bridge between red and blue America, but I also want to be seen and heard as I am, and those feel both incompatible and inevitable. I want to be the sturdiest bridge and most delicate olive branch — a peacebuilder — but I also want to be seen as a whole person rather than a fascinating perspective. All I can offer is my honesty, pain and alienation in hand, imperfect and whole, and ask that you show up as your whole self too.