Earlier in our friendship, on a trip from New Haven to Washington, D.C. in the spring of 2016, the two of us visited Gettysburg, where we found a low fog hanging over the fields and hills. It was late on a Sunday and the sky shed mist over the darkening gray monuments. Few people were around. We wandered for a while, pausing at a tall, aging statue to read off its panels the names of fallen soldiers. Nearby we found Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address etched on a stone obelisk, and Chris read falteringly through each line as a light rain came down.
“‘It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us,’” Chris read, squinting to see through the gathering dew. “‘That from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion’—what’s that word?”
Jordan stepped closer.
“‘That we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain,’” Jordan joined in, wiping droplets from the last passage. “‘That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.’”
Jordan led Chris around the battlefield. Up there were foxholes, he pointed out, and the Union army came up around those hills. This was a defensive position, he continued. Soldiers would aim their muskets through these notches as waves of opponents came charging up the rise.
At the top of Culp’s Hill, which looked down on beige pastures with denuded trees below and green fields beyond, Jordan told Chris the story of the decades-long friendship between Union general Winfield Scott Hancock and Confederate general Lewis Armistead. A widower, Armistead had become close friends with Hancock and his wife, Almira, while the two men were stationed together in California in the 1850s.
Then came the war. Hancock stayed with the Union Army, while Armistead left for the Confederacy. Like that of many others, their loyalty to friends, family, and country was tested by the brewing conflict between North and South. They would have to choose sides, and those choices had the potential to divide them from their most cherished friends. So in 1861, Hancock and Armistead parted ways.
From opposing camps, both men fought. Between skirmishes, however, their compatriots reported how deeply and often the two men spoke of each other. At Gettysburg, the two faced off on opposite sides of the battlefield. During the ensuing melee, they were each gravely wounded. Major Henry Bingham, an officer from Hancock’s staff, saw Armistead lying on the field and came to his aid. The fallen officer’s first words were of concern for his old friend, so Bingham informed him of Hancock’s own wounds. Armistead responded mournfully, asking Bingham to tell Hancock, “I have done him and you all a grievous injury, which I shall regret the longest day I live.”
“Despite it all,” Jordan said, his voice wavering. “Despite the war, and all it stood for, they remained friends. Even at the end.”
At their best, friendships are resilient and capable of bearing enormous strain. But sometimes two people can be bound by something deep, and then that bond can snap with little or no warning. Sometimes the heat of an argument will lay things so bare, and friends will hurt each other so painfully, that whatever kept the two together will be rent beyond repair.
That nearly happened to the two of us in the wastelands of Nevada. Out where valleys stretch for miles and the road doesn’t bend but only rises and falls—where the only indications of humanity you will see for miles are listing wooden shacks with the promise of INDIAN JEWELRY painted across plywood signs and the glint of metal on thin blankets spread out across their length.
Out there, we almost broke apart.
* * *
It was our fifth day on the road, and we were glowing over what we had seen in such a short period—Yuma, Phoenix, the Trump rally, Horseshoe Bend, Gunfighter Canyon. At the Trump rally, we were impressed by the power of President Trump as a speaker but also leery of the strange men that roamed the fringes of the rally. Outside, we were dismayed by the theatrics and the violence. Yet as we watched the exchanges between Trump supporters and protesters, we were filled with hope.
For an instant, it felt like we had transcended partisanship.
We had left Zion in the morning free to explore the vast, untamed countryside in the heart of Nevada. From Zion to Reno the interstate highway system branched out in every direction, with no obvious route between the two. So we picked a highway that would sweep us southwest, down toward Las Vegas, then zig and zag our way north along two-lane roads until we reached the California border. From there we would trace the boundary up along the Sierra Nevada, past Lake Tahoe, and finally into Reno.
Clear skies sent sunlight over the yellow-green landscape, which stretched out into the distance toward the looming mountain ranges that flanked the road. Tumbleweeds flitted across the asphalt and steppe, pushed along by squalls of wind. With Chris at the wheel, we passed cows lounging in fields and sheep grazing disinterestedly.
There was something beguiling about agreeing, especially as neither of us had expected to see things the same way. This was what we had sought all along: an understanding about what mattered in our civic politics and a common view that reconciled our different perspectives and allowed us to see the world through one another’s eyes.
“It’s funny,” Chris said. “The portrayal of what happens at these rallies was not at all what it was really like. If you went just by the reports, you’d think it was far more divisive than it actually was. You know?”
It was a vulnerable comment, meant as a concession, and Jordan nodded with respect. We agreed that some media were painting a simplistic and misleading picture of the complexity we had experienced.
Jordan responded in kind, complimenting the inspiring behavior of many of the protestors. Another agreement. It was only a year since we had argued so passionately over the role of activism while driving through South Dakota.
“You know,” Jordan said after a lengthy pause, “it does bother me that the default assumption for so many people on the left is that Trump’s supporters are ‘racist, sexist homophobes.’ It’s not fair—especially the homophobic charge, since he supports gay marriage. Yes, he says things I would never want a president to say. But most of them aren’t racist or sexist—or at least most of his supporters don’t think they are. That’s not what they’re responding to. Yet whenever he says something, the Left and the media interpret it in the most uncharitable light, and they use that interpretation to condemn all of his supporters too.”
A moment passed after Jordan said this. We had agreed on so much up until that point that we were willing to venture into territory we may have held back from in the past.
For Chris, it was a long moment. For a day or so, the intoxicating feeling of agreement had been tempered by a nagging sensation: Chris was feeling like a bad liberal. It was an odd, unfamiliar emotion. He had never been a perfect liberal, often advocating for moderation—and even the rare conservative idea here and there. But this time around, he felt a peculiar guilt. When Chris had thought to himself that Ben Carson’s speech could have been delivered at an Obama rally, he enjoyed the immediate contrarian quality of the notion. Now, though, that idea stalked him. It was what he had seen and heard and concluded, but it suddenly felt wrong as it echoed around his consciousness. It tasted bitter as it aged. So did his surprise at Trump’s power on stage. A small observation about Trump’s rhetoric began to feel like a betrayal. And as the détente continued, this dark feeling grew until it ruptured.
“Like what?”
Chris said it with an edge.
“The Mexican immigrants comment,” Jordan said. “He said something like, ‘Mexico is sending their worst people. They’re sending rapists. They’re bringing drugs. And some of them are good people.’ His supporters don’t hear that and think, He’s racist against all Mexicans. He isn’t calling all immigrants rapists and drug dealers. He is saying that there are bad people flowing across the border—in addition to good ones, yes—but the bad ones are harming people. And we need better border security to protect Americans from them. The emphasis is on security.”
“Dude, that was a racist fucking statement, on its face,” Chris said. “There was so much wrong with it—the idea that they are criminals or bad. You can’t just change the emphasis to suit your interpretation of it. Those words were clearly meant to stoke racism, and worst of all he’s never apologized for it.”
Not only did Chris feel like he had to stand up for something, but he was forgetting the language that let us disagree and debate without losing our comity. Chris had to prove to himself—and perhaps to Jordan—that he still belonged to the tribe that had raised him.
“Apologizing means accepting the Left’s interpretation of his words,” Jordan said. “If he didn’t intend what you or the media believe he meant, he doesn’t need to apologize just because you’re playing a game of gotcha.”
Jordan’s brows arched.
We both knew something toxic had crept in.
“He didn’t apologize because he was speaking to the most racist groups in our society. It was a dog whistle.”
“Jesus, you guys read dog whistles into everything.”
Jordan looked toward the window dismissively as he said it.
“Yes, because we should. Bad things need to be called out—now more than ever. Trump says stuff all the time that’s racist and sexist.”
“Like what?”
“The countless Muslim statements, for one. The Access Hollywood tape. And how about the Megyn Kelly blood coming out of her you-know-what thing? It goes on and on.”
“Again, you’re giving it the most uncharitable interpretation. He said, ‘She had blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her…wherever.’ And you’re reading into that something sexist. But he said ‘eyes’ first. Why isn’t the next logical thing her ears?”
“Are you serious? Even if we forgive that, there’s still a track record of near-constant slights and ugly statements. You can’t ignore that accumulation. We know what he is saying, because it’s in his policies and his words.”
“No you don’t! And that’s my point. All of your evidence that he’s ‘racist, sexist, homophobic’ comes from interpreting things into his words. Yes, they might be ugly and unpresidential. I already said I hate it when he does that. But you’re condemning him based on your projections about his motivations, or what he ‘really meant.’ You might disagree with his policies, but you can’t point to a single thing he’s said or done that’s actually racist or sexist beyond vague words.”
At this, Chris snapped.
* * *
The Boat had gained speed. As the tempo of our conversation quickened and our blood boiled, Chris had unwittingly let his foot sink down on the accelerator.
As Jordan made his last point, we fired up a rise, crested it, and began a rapid descent down the chest of one of Nevada’s vast dales. It was one of those valleys that extended so far that the road narrowed into a spear point and was washed out by a ripple of heat. Even though the road never turned, it seemed to point into oblivion.
“That’s such bullshit,” Chris sputtered.
Jordan was leaning against the passenger door—as far from Chris as possible.
“Look, it comes down to this for me: Trump has said things that have made people in my life fearful for their safety,” Chris said. “People I love. He has attacked the most vulnerable groups for political gain. And that’s not fucking okay.”
“Democrats want those groups to be fearful of Trump,” Jordan said. “It’s the best way to motivate them to vote. They’re trying to create an image of Trump as an authoritarian racist. It’s a conscious strategy to stoke fear. Again, I’m not saying Trump hasn’t said dumb things, but Democrats bear some of the blame for the fear these groups feel right now.”
“No, Democrats are protecting these groups from hateful rhetoric. The Wall and Muslim ban don’t make sense except as appeals to bigotry. That’s fucking racist.”
“It’s not racist when there is a legitimate issue to focus on. Illegal immigrants have committed crimes, including murder. People have a right to be angry about that. Trump is meeting them where they are, and raising an issue that matters to them. How’s it fair to Americans that illegals commit crimes, are released back to Mexico, then come right back over the border again? Why can’t he say that?”
“It’s irrational.”
“How?”
“It’s a tiny number of incidents. You can’t make policy on that. And whipping up people’s anger based on a handful of cases—that’s disgusting.”
“He’s not whipping it up. When he gets up in front of a group of people who have lost loved ones to crimes committed by illegal immigrants, that anger is justified.”
“There are so many better things to focus on,” Chris said, his voice straining. “More important things. It’s irrational to heap all this attention on an issue that is so infinitesimally small.”
“How is it any more irrational than the focus on police shootings?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Do you know how many unarmed African Americans have been killed this year by cops?” Jordan said.
“If you have a point just say it,” Chris retorted.
“It’s 14.”
“I don’t trust that number. And that’s not the point, anyway. Police brutality is a totally different issue because of the history of racism. It’s a consequence of a whole mess of other problems.”
“I’ll google it for you.”
“I don’t need you to google it. Police brutality toward African Americans has gone on for decades. That’s why it’s relevant. The numbers on the other issue are insignificant in comparison.”
“Chris, how is one parent’s pain any more valid than another’s just because it was committed by a cop rather than an illegal immigrant? Why is one group’s suffering more important than another’s?”
Neither of us listened. We barely let the other finish a sentence before landing our next jab. Heads were shaking furiously. Angry interruptions were mouthed. Eyes bulged. Chris’s heart was pounding in his ears in a way that made him stumble over his words.
“There are decades of built-up anger toward police—justified, by the way—in the African American community,” Chris repeated. “Every time a cop shoots an unarmed black kid, it’s a reminder that our country is still in the grip of real, systemic racism.”
“In 2017, I think it’s just as irrational,” Jordan replied. “The police are not trying to kill anyone. Killing another human is the hardest thing in the world. It scars you for life. The idea that cops want to kill black kids is ridiculous. At worst, they’re poorly trained.”
“So explain to me why blacks are disproportionately killed by the police,” Chris said. “Explain to me why they are disproportionately incarcerated.”
“Explain to me how most of the cities where these shootings have happened are run by Democrats,” Jordan said. “In Baltimore, the mayor and the DA were both African American. Chicago has been run by Democrats for decades, and so has Oakland. Why don’t you point your anger at your own party’s failed leadership?”
“It’s way more complicated than that—and you know it.”
“No, they’re linked. You’re attributing racism to police officers in a way that’s totally unfair. They’re doing a dangerous job, and all they want is to get back home to their kids at night. They have to make split-second decisions about when to use force or not. Trust me, it’s not simple. We spent months running those kinds of scenarios. It’s fucking hard to know when someone might have a weapon. Especially when your adrenaline is pounding.”
“I’ve watched cops be racist to my friends. I’ve witnessed a Suburban full of kids get pulled over and only the black kid in the third row gets pulled out and asked for his driver’s license. Not even the driver. I—”
“That doesn’t excuse the Left from whipping up anger and hatred toward the police.”
“Let me fucking finish.”
“Go ahead.”
Chris was trembling.
“I honestly can’t believe you hold these opinions.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Chris didn’t respond as the Boat barreled down the hillside with ferocious speed.
“If you have something to say, say it!”
Chris stared straight ahead as the road rumbled beneath the car. Something had been torn, and we both knew it. The few feet between us may as well have been miles.
“I’m done with this conversation,” Chris said.
* * *
Jordan stared out the window. The sun was just past its midway point. The landscape was vast and beautiful. We were nearing the ascent up the other buff wall of the valley. All this scenery, and Jordan may as well have been seeing black. His mind spun with anger and aggrievement. Every thump of the tires or growl of the engine took him away from the present.
Friends don’t attack each other like that, he thought. How could Chris be so unreasonable?
Jordan began to question these trips and the friendship itself. Once we get home, that’s it. No more trips. I don’t need this. The feelings dragged Jordan down. Every few moments, he tried to pull himself out of the spiral. But each minute Chris didn’t apologize made Jordan plunge even further into rage. And yet the two of us were just a word away from healing, Jordan knew. He could open his mouth, offer something heartfelt, and that would be it. Chris would snatch it up and offer his own. He always did. The reconciliation would begin, because it had happened 100 times before. Those words just felt too hard to say that afternoon. They were caught in his chest, and he couldn’t will them out.
So instead Jordan simmered.
Chris was lost in his own fury. He felt claustrophobic and wronged. He couldn’t look at Jordan—a friend he no longer recognized. Chris had always harbored the belief that Jordan didn’t actually disagree with him all that much. Under a layer of conservatism, they were the same. After this exchange, Chris wasn’t sure.
Both of us wanted to say something to unpoison the well, as we always did. These fights had life cycles—peaks and valleys that ended in a hair tousle, a tease, or a line of fraternal affection. But we had never fought quite like that before, over something so fundamental, and we couldn’t summon the right words no matter how many times we tried.
And if we couldn’t, then we would likely part ways. No more road trips, and likely no more friendship. We now lived on opposite sides of the country, after all—Chris in Connecticut and Jordan in California. With little reason to talk or see each other, we would likely drift apart.
Maybe it had all been a foolish undertaking to begin with. It was folly to think we could survive in a car for so many hours and not fight—not come face-to-face with the limits of our tolerance. Others must have tried this before, and there was a reason they hadn’t told the story. Perhaps there was no story. Perhaps our differences were simply too great.
As we crested each hillock on the undulating road, shocks of yellow wildflowers spread out across the Sierra foothills like gold. We had passed around a mountain range, cutting along the granite of Nevada hills carved jagged and naked for the highways. The road leveled off from there and dropped down into an ocean of blooms which augured the coming of California.
“I love you, man,” Chris said at length. “But I need some time to calm down—to find the words.”
“I feel the same, Chris,” Jordan said. “And I love you too.”
We didn’t say much more, and we were quiet for a long time after that. But we were nearly back in California. And we had broken the silence.
* * *
On the other end of those empty, windswept valleys was Mono Lake. When he was growing up, Chris’s mother had hung a framed black-and-white photo of the lake on a wall in their bathroom. Tufas—the great limestone towers made by the precipitation of carbonate minerals—rose on the edges of the frame. They looked like the spires of a sandcastle, doused by rain, after a child had roughly patted them into form. “It’s a dying lake,” Chris’s mother would tell him. It had been draining for years, emptied by the decision to divert its tributaries elsewhere to quench the thirst of distant cities such as Los Angeles. As the waters receded, more of these tufas had emerged like scar tissue out of the depths. Only the work of a group of citizens who prized the lake saved it from desiccation. Chris wanted to visit, and Jordan was not going to stand in the way.
Out of the parking lot, we explored the shore. The tufas looked like the rock formations of brittle clay we had seen in the Badlands the summer before. Alkali flies parted in great black clouds ahead of our footsteps as we walked along the edge of the water, which lapped gently with the mountain breeze that cut across the lake’s surface. We found a cove, removed from the groups of tourists, and sat under the tufas to avoid the heat of the sun. We loitered silently on the shore, watching the calm blue-green water lap against the finely grained, tan-colored sand.
“Can we swim in it?” Jordan asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
Chris considered it.
“I’m not sure.”
“We can’t leave without swimming in it,” Jordan said, forcing a smile.
Chris looked out over the lake. It stretched for what looked like miles. He had no idea how expansive it was. The scene was on a scale even his adult imagination couldn’t fathom. But then again, these trips had a way of adjusting the sizes of things. Mount Rushmore, once colossal in his mind’s eye, seemed small—quaint, even—when we arrived at its base. The views from the peaks outside Yellowstone, or the view of Horseshoe Bend along the Grand Canyon, were infinite. The landscape below was frozen in place by the great distance.
“Look,” said Jordan, showing Chris his phone, “it says right here we can.”
“I guess we can.”
So we took off our clothes and waded into the water in our briefs. As we swam, the salinity of the lake thickened the water and left a thin, oily layer on the surface. When we brushed our hands through its depths, a swirl of something other than water twisted in its wake. A thin slime coated our chests and legs as we paddled out farther and farther from shore. But the salinity also made us buoyant. Chris thought it must be somewhat like walking on the moon.
“There’s tiny little kelp in the water!” Jordan declared.
“They’re brine shrimp,” Chris explained.
“Are they safe? Like, will they swim up my…ahem?” Jordan said, laughing.
We lazily swam in the water far from shore—beyond the rush of the highway, beyond the sound of people.
“Let’s swim over to those rocks,” Jordan said. The two of us took off paddling like dogs, and with a smile began racing toward them. We climbed up on the craggy banks and lounged in the sun, feeling the salty water dry on our skin.
“Let’s go farther out,” Chris said, jumping back in, and Jordan followed.
As we swam around, the water slowly washed away our lingering anger. It was like a cool salve easing our pain and healing our wounds. By the time we climbed out of the water and threw our clothes over our wet skin, we were nearly back to normal.
“I like this place,” Jordan said.
And Chris smiled.
* * *
Our fight had brought us right up to the edge, but we survived. The two of us had wounded one another, and the venom lingered. Yet we had begun to heal and as we walked away from the lake, our arms and faces crusted in invisible layers of salt that pulled our skin tight, we could smile again. We even shared a basket of fried food at a lakeside dive bar just up the shore, where we left wet marks on the canvas deck chairs.
Soon we were back on the road, driving along the highway grade up the face of the Sierra peak that shadowed the lake in the late afternoon.
“Look man, I really love you,” Chris said, always quick with the word. “I trust you with my life. I’m sorry for getting so angry.”
“I love you, too, brother,” Jordan replied. “And I’m also sorry. I know I got aggressive.”
“It’s just that there are people in my life that really have been hurt by all of this. I care about them so much. And it pains me. So I reacted based on that. I should have been able to say that, though, rather than starting a fight.”
“I’m really sorry, Chris. I didn’t understand how personal it was for you, and I never would have responded that way if I did. It’s personal for people in my life too.”
And that was it. The words flowed off our tongues with relief.
We had found our way back to the table, to try again. Closure has its own mythology. Neither of us had convinced the other of his rightness. But friendship isn’t predicated on perfect symmetry. There are greater forces at work than politics, no matter how definitional our chosen sides may feel. We had returned, because disagreement isn’t anything to run from; it can be a virtue. Both of us hoped we would be able to prevent it from tearing us asunder; both of us hoped it would continue to teach us all the same. As long as we listened, we could make each other better.
Chris had been quick to dismiss Jordan’s invocation of families who had lost loved ones to violence, and something about his own reaction troubled him. No matter what kind of bearing it had on policy, it upset Chris to think how callously he had dismissed someone else’s pain. It wasn’t the sensation of apostasy or the anger or the guilt that lingered longest.
Chris also sensed for the first time how Jordan was afraid of losing friends over his political views. He must have carried that insecurity for years. How difficult it must be to hold opinions that are not just rejected by one’s peers but reviled—viewed as unworthy of discussion or even engagement. When Jordan was confronted, his armor went up not just for himself but also for all the people he cared about who shared his views—his family, many of his Marine comrades, and millions of Americans he didn’t know.
How had things gone so far off the rails? In his mind, Jordan zeroed in on one moment in particular—when Chris had said that people in his life had been hurt by Trump’s rhetoric. Jordan had heard those words, he recognized the emotion they carried, yet he pressed on with his argument anyway. He tried to show Chris why he was wrong. What if instead he had paused, recognized the pain his words had caused Chris, and asked to learn more? What if he had made an effort to understand that pain and to show that he understood why this mattered so much? Then things might have gone differently.
Finding common ground isn’t about being right. It’s about laying a foundation to argue passionately while respecting the other side. It’s not about getting to agreement, but getting to the point where disagreement isn’t reason to pull away.
Throughout our journeys, we would often reflect on how fragile common ground can be. Had we not been in a car together, we might have walked away. We recognized there was a limit to how we could argue, and it was important to understand where that line was. It showed us that our friendship was not something that could be taken lightly or for granted. We had a responsibility to each other to respect its bounds, to tend to it, and, where we could, to strengthen its resilience. That realization made it even more essential to do these trips, to solidify our friendship despite our different values and priorities.
* * *
Around seven o’clock, we pulled into Carla Medina’s driveway in a mobile-home park in Sparks, just outside Reno. Carla had been Jordan’s childhood babysitter. As we got out of the car in the growing twilight, Carla opened the door and gave us a big wave.
“My baby!” she shouted.
Jordan went up to give her a hug, and Chris grabbed our bags from the car.
“This is my friend Chris,” Jordan said.
“You go to school together?” Carla asked, eyeing Chris’s long hair.
“Yup! We’re best friends.”
Carla’s husband, Chuck, came out to greet us too. He was a thick man with a closely buzzed head of hair. He shook our hands with a big hand tattooed with a navy anchor between his thumb and index finger. He looked like a brawler but had a peaceful temperament.
“Hope you boys are hungry,” Chuck said. “I’m grilling steaks.”
“And I made you tamales,” Carla cut in, holding Jordan’s arm. “My baby loves tamales. I taught him to eat them.”
Carla led us through a tiled kitchen and into a dark living room littered with family photos, including one of Jordan in his dress blues. Carla had a stainless-steel pot of something bubbling on the stove; nearby were baskets full of tamales in big banana-leaf wraps and a bowl of freshly dressed salad. She’d been cooking all day, she told us.
Carla had taken care of Jordan from the time he was a year old. Early on, Jordan’s parents had their hands full with Jenna, Jordan’s older sister, so Carla had become something of a surrogate mother. The two of them had developed a special bond that had lasted for decades. She considered him one of her children.
As Jordan told it, Carla’s life had been full of adventure and struggle. She achieved the American Dream, Jordan kept saying throughout the trip. Originally from Guatemala, Carla came to the U.S. and stayed for a few years before returning home with hopes of coming back. Eventually, she received a green card and brought her family with her.
In Los Angeles, Carla, her then-husband Raul, and their six children began a new life. She met the Blasheks and went to work raising Jordan and Jenna, while her husband earned his living at local restaurants. Her children went to high school, three of them went to college, one joined the Marine Corps, and each of them started their own families. Raul passed away far too early, leaving Carla alone and without enough support. Rob, Jordan’s father, helped where he could with tuition, and the family persevered. Many years on, Carla was the matriarch of a growing multigenerational family. She then married Chuck, a sweet and doting man, and they had lived together ever since.
Carla kept regaling Chris with stories about Jordan as a baby. She told tales about taking him to the park, teaching him to eat new foods, and defending him from his older sister—and sometimes even his mother. Soon the conversation turned to the past few days as we told Carla and Chuck about our adventures at the Trump rally. It was our first time sharing the story with an audience and we indulged our memories. Chuck was fascinated; Carla was less impressed.
“I have no time for Trump,” she declared, waving her hands as if at a fly.
What mattered was work and family, she explained. She didn’t understand why everyone cared so much about what the president said or did. It was irrelevant to her daily life. Instead, she had her real estate back in Guatemala to manage, as well as a house in Las Vegas she hadn’t been able to sell. And, more important, she had her grandchildren to watch over while their parents were at work. Those were the things she cared about.
“If I don’t work, I don’t eat,” she concluded.
Chris watched as Carla sat across from Jordan telling story after story. Carla looked at Jordan with maternal pride. Somewhat embarrassed, Jordan smiled and lovingly corrected some of Carla’s details. They were family, somehow.
Just a few hours before, we had been in a pitched battle over immigration, and Jordan had defended Trump’s rhetoric. But there we were in the home of a former undocumented immigrant whom Jordan cared deeply about, and by whom he was welcomed as family.
It all felt so complicated.
Yet in Carla and Chuck’s trailer, on that evening, Jordan’s conservatism was absent—as was Chris’s liberalism. For at least one evening, the two of us were solely friends sharing a meal with Carla and Chuck. All else melted away. Battle lines were undrawn. Defenses were laid down. That night, the four of us told stories, spoke of life’s difficulties, shared in one another’s dreams, and passed around a warm meal.
We were Chris and Jordan, improbable friends once more.