In the spirit of Trump’s call for national unity, I have decided to begin tentatively reaching across the political divide. No, this doesn’t mean I’m ready to endorse Lauren Boebert. I’m still me.
But it’s clear we can’t go on living in this state of constant turmoil and mutual hostility, especially since we’ll all be living in Donald Trump’s America soon because the Democrats apparently are willing to cede the entire federal government to the MAGA movement to assuage Joe Biden’s delicate ego.
Leaving the comfortable bubble of like-minded friends and hanging with people who drive large vehicles with gun racks and bumper stickers calling for civil war is terrifying. (A tip: if somebody packing heat asks you how you voted on wolf reintroduction, run.)
My first venture into this territory was entirely accidental.
I recently attended a rodeo in Fraser with friends and family members. It was supposed to be fun.
It started innocently enough with the national anthem and rousing tributes to the various branches of the U.S. armed forces. We all appreciate the military and I guess a rodeo is as good a place as any to show a little love.
Then the dude in the broadcast booth reminded us how lucky we are to live in a country founded on freedom of religion. The founding fathers, you’ll recall, were especially devoted to freedom from state-sponsored religion, which he failed to mention. But, well, never mind.
It turned out it was just a warm-up to an extended Christian prayer over the loudspeaker.
Trying hard to be open-minded, I figured it must be standard practice for a sporting event that involves young people being tossed on their heads, stomped by large bovine creatures and rolled over by pissed-off horses.
You never know when it might have to serve as a substitute for the last rites if things go horribly wrong, I thought.
Can I have an amen, my bronco-busting brothers?
The events finally began. A rodeo queen and her princesses galloped by looking regal with their tiaras stuck on their cowgirl hats. Bareback riders were tossed to the dirt and scrambled to escape with their lives if not their hats. Calves were roped and tied more or less. Sheep threw toddlers off their backs to fulsome applause from proud parents.
And between the riders, filling the endless intermissions when absolutely nothing was happening in the ring was the chatter between a clown — I think his name was Billy — and the arena announcer who had just led us all in prayer.
The duo specialized in unabashed misogyny with tasteless insults to their wives, blondes, mothers-in-law and women in general.
A barely veiled reference to the n-word also was considered hilarious.
There was Denver-bashing, California-bashing, woke-bashing … you get the picture.
We stayed almost to the end, though I’d had enough of it after the first fat mother-in-law riff from the creepy so-called clown.
The grandchildren pronounced the commentary rude and the rodeo boring.
As for bridging the cultural divide, I’d call this an epic failure.
My next attempt to find common ground was more successful, and actually gives me some small hope.
I was visiting old friends at their house on the Jersey shore, which is Trump country all the way. T-shirts, yard signs, bumper stickers all convey the message in case you arrive unprepared.
The next-door neighbors were Timmy and Linda who, having been forewarned that Democrats would be stinking up the neighborhood, still wrapped us in warm hugs and told us to use the house, sleep in the guest room, help ourselves to the drinks in the fridge.
They immediately invited us to join them on their boat for a tour of the area and dinner at a dockside restaurant. And they agreed to remove their Trump flag from the back of the boat to make us feel more comfortable.
I’m not kidding even a little.
We joined them on their patio over beers where Fox News was on the TV in the background. We laughed and joked around and never strayed into discussions of politics. Honestly, there was no need.
Over appetizers at the restaurant on July 13, bulletins flooded our phones and the TVs overhead with the news that a bullet had glanced Trump’s ear at a rally in Pennsylvania. All of us were horrified. Timmy and Linda were shocked and saddened, but never expressed even a whiff of vitriol toward anyone.
In those first uncertain minutes, we were standing together in fear for the country and ourselves.
We motored back to the house under a moonlit sky, listening to Frank Sinatra on the stereo and talking about our kids.
While the night at the rodeo reinforced every awful stereotype, the weekend at the Jersey shore upended any narrow view of the Trump faithful.
Maybe Linda and Timmy are exceptional. But at least now I know not everybody in a MAGA hat wants to lock up Joe Biden, burn down every abortion clinic and poop in the Capitol rotunda.
It’s not much, but it’s a start.
Diane Carman is a Denver communications consultant.
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