On the first day of summer before my senior year of high school, my mother scooted me out the house and told me to go get a job. I started knocking on doors in the neighborhood, and after only an hour or so, knocked on the door of a man who ran a local home remodeling business. He took me on board that day.
My job title was “helper”, and my starting salary was somewhere south of $7.00 an hour. It would be my job to help his carpentry crew (two guys: Chip and Clyde) with anything they needed — hold this, dig that, cut this, go get that, etc. I was all kinds of terrified. I didn’t know anything about carpentry, I didn’t know anything about work, and I absolutely knew nothing about the people I was going to work with. These were grown, scary men who would probably treat me like shit and make my life miserable.
When I first pulled up to the job site (just another neighbor’s home), I was immediately greeted by 29-year old Clyde (I was 17). Clyde was kind of a quiet dude who kept to himself. He struck me as a very serious individual. He knew I was scared and had no idea what I was doing. He knew he had power over me, and he probably knew I was from a rich, white suburb — for whatever that was worth.
My first task was to learn how to drive the dump truck — a 1992 Ford F-350 with no center rearview and a shifter so large I sometimes had to use two hands to change gears. He wanted to show me the ropes before we got on the open road. Forward, back, dump, repeat. He got out of the truck and made me back it down the driveway. Seriously??
Flying essentially blind, sweating from the sheer stress and summer hear, I inched it back at his command. After about 10 harrowing seconds, I heard a tremendous thud and the entire truck reverberated. I started crying. My life was over. He was going to kill me. He came around to my side holding a 2x4 (he had smacked it against the truck), held it up with a huge grin on his face and said, “I’m just fuckin’ with ya, come on let’s go!” We laughed about it the whole way to the dump.
For whatever reason, Clyde and I just clicked. I would work with Clyde for six summers. I met his family. He met mine. We went fishing together. We played cards and drank Busch Light together after work — like every day. We did a ton of side jobs together, until one day he told me he was starting his own carpentry business (the same small business he still owns today). And through it all — just like that first day — we laughed. My God, we laughed a lot. We were simply inseparable. My parents thought it was a little odd. It probably was.
Besides a friend, Clyde was also a teacher. I was lucky enough to realize this at the time. He taught me important lessons about being a man. He taught me how to handle difficult and complicated emotions. He taught me about financial and familial hardship. He yelled at me when I needed it; he cheered me up when I needed it. Quite frankly, I would not be the person I am today without his presence in my life — without him taking me under his wing on that first day of summer so many years ago.
Clyde and I have always disagreed — sharply — on politics. It started when I told him I supported John Kerry in 2004, and I remember watching his reaction. His heart sank. When Obama won in 2008, he sincerely believed his life and his values were under attack. He felt exactly how I feel today. He was looking at the next four to eight years, and envisioning all of the ways in which his life would get worse. I’m going through that today. At the time, he said, “Andy, this country is going to shit, but I’ll support him because he’s our president. I will give him a chance.”
I’ll spare you the details, but today, Clyde’s life is a lot different than mine. Because of it, he voted for Donald Trump. He was happy when Trump won. I asked him, “Do you think Trump is actually going change things? Or are you just happy you got what you wanted?” He replied, “I just don’t see what I have to lose.” It’s true. I can’t argue with him. I won’t argue with him. He feels left behind, and if you look at his life, it’s just hard to make a case that he wasn’t. Maybe you have to know him like I do to understand.
But here’s the important part: You know how ~60% of respondents had a negative view of Trump the entire time? Clyde is one of the ~60%. Clyde is not a racist. He is not a sexist. He is not a homophobe. He does not insult people. He does not provoke people. He doesn’t react immaturely to negative Facebook comments. Rather, this is a man who has earned my love and my trust over the last 17 years, and he challenges me to think critically about my life and my politics.
The point I’m trying to make here is that I think there are two types of Trump supporters: there are the people like Clyde and there are people not like Clyde. The two groups are more similar than they are different, but they are different. They are afraid of the same things and have many shared experiences. But the difference is how they react to those things — how they channel their fear, the frustration, and their desperation. It would be unfathomable to Clyde to spray-paint a Swastika on a wall, or to make a snide remark to a woman wearing a hijab. But you’re not going to hear about Clyde or people like him on the Twitter.
Today, I, and many people around me are experiencing our own fear, frustration, and desperation. I feel hopeless, just like Clyde has felt hopeless.
Do I think Clyde is wrong? Yes. Do I think his life is going to get better under President Trump? No. Do I think his life can get worse? Absolutely. Am I viscerally afraid for my black/brown/LGBT/female friends and family? I am terrified. Plenty of smart people are talking about those things much more eloquently than I ever could.
But I am also willing to listen — to people like Clyde. Because one level beyond him — that’s where the real enemy lies. Clyde has access to those people, and if I can talk to Clyde, maybe he can start talking to them. Maybe we can get somewhere. Maybe I’m just naive. But I do know we are simply never going to fix this by living in an echo chamber, isolating ourselves, and growing further out of touch with Clyde’s America. They’re not going anywhere.
I sincerely believe there are more people out there like Clyde — a lot more. Ready to talk, ready to help, ready and willing to unify. I know people are still reeling from what happened on Tuesday. I am, too. There’s a lot of work to do. I think it starts with a conversation.
