It is hard to see the future with tears in your eyes.

Fargo, North Dakota

I dread getting dressed. Every other day on this trip I could throw on whatever was on top of my suitcase, but not today. “The neckline on this cowboy’s shirt is too feminine,” I tell myself, “Toms scream Liberal snowflake,” I think. “How is everything I own so gay,” I ask myself. My wardrobe is notably not that flamboyant, but none-the-less I am panicking. I have to fit in today. I settle on a red, white, and blue tie-dye shirt, dark jeans, black cowboy boots and a cream colored hat—just eclectic enough to not draw attention to myself at a Trump rally. Deep breath. Today is a practice in patience. I had planned on going around 4 pm when the doors were to open for the 7 pm rally, but upon hearing that the Trump campaign had given out more than 20,000 tickets for a 6,000-person venue, I quickly drive over. I pull in just before, and several thousand people are already in line, “fuck,” I mutter to no one in particular. I drive all the way to Fargo to attend this rally, and I might not get in. I decide to take my chances and get in line, “I saw a Smart Water over there, so they’re probably some liberals here,” I overhear in passing, truly thankful I wore the boots; Toms are the Smart Water of footwear. By the time I reach the end of the line, I am probably 3,000 deep (although much time will be spent with my fellow line dwellers debating just how far back we are.) The scene is aggressively white, not necessarily a surprise, but it is striking in person. The red hats dot the sea of white faces like buoys, rising and falling as supporters move through the line. In front of me are two older women who have driven in two hours to see the President and a local man in his late 30’s; behind me, a group of 10 enthusiastic high school supporters. A suburban mom drops off her daughter with the group of football players already in line, fawning over the girl to her embarrassment. “You boys are going to look after her, right?” she asks the group, “I know your mothers,” her daughter’s face blushing. “Mom, please leave,” she insists in frustration. It’s like watching a mom drop off their daughter at the movies for a first date, something about it is very out of place but captivating.

“I think they should bring Maxine waters out here and see how she does,” the woman in front of me says. The first of many times the congresswoman’s name is muttered in line and in the rally. I pretend to read my book, Travels with Charley in Search of America as I listen for a glimpse into the conversations occurring around me. “They say they’re refugees, I say FROM WHAT? They stay here for a month and then go back,” this woman will later introduce herself as Corrine and bring up this point once more. “They’re not really refugees if they’re going back to visit their friends,” she notes. I am familiar with many of the far-right talking points, but this one is new. Does she really believe people are willing to have their children ripped away from them for a vacation? A man walks by with a shirt that reads LGBT, “a gay for Trump?” I wonder, realizing quickly that above each letter is Lady Liberty, a Gun, a Beer and a Trump; a different acronym, I suppose.Happy Pride!

“No tariffs on these hats right here,” a man selling knock-off Make America Great Again caps, a fraction of the price of those inside. I don’t know how it would be possible to sell any hats at this event; it seems everyone but me has one. The girls behind me start up again, moving swiftly from topics of high school basketball practice to foreign policy. They talk about Jimmy Fallon, “My mom shuts off the TV when he does that first part, all he does is talk about trump,” the others nod in agreement and disgust, saddened they can no longer appreciate late night comedy. “I hate that people are making a big deal about people getting deported; that was happening under Obama,” one girl notes. “that’s like sad, but it’s off of Obama. And the pictures were taken while Obama was president,” another responds. “Are you sure it’s okay if Will comes,” Mary Sue asks. Boy drama, this is much better than them talking about ISIS, I’ll take this. “Ugh Will’s coming, you know he’s a lib,” one of the boys pipes up from behind. “Do you guys like think he’s gay?” I would like for them to go back to talking about ISIS now. “I wonder if they have gays for Trump,” one poses to the group, “Ew! What the fuck,” they giggle. Will, if you’re reading this. These people are not your friends! Mary Sue buys a "hot chick for Trump" button and they carry on.

I start up a conversation with the man in line, he voted for Obama both elections, but also Trump. He is an elusive and oft spoken of voter who I fundamentally don’t understand. “They were both outsides. I am tired of politicians; I think everyone is,” he says. “If another outsider comes along and challenges Trump, I’ll probably vote for them too.” He sees a Trump vs. Oprah shirt in the crowd, “Like that,” he points, “Oprah would kick his ass.” The Trump rally is technically in support of Kevin Cramer, Senator Heitkamp’s challenger in November. The man notes, “I bet two-thirds of these people don’t vote for Cramer. They don’t care.” He mentions an instance in which a group of refugees started their own postal service in Fargo because the USPS could not keep up with the ‘rural’ community. “It was a mess,” he says, “you can’t deliver the mail if you don’t read English.” Senator Heitkamp’s office did something about it when he called to complain, while the Republican representatives wouldn’t give him the time of day. “She went on the floor of the Senate and blasted the Post Master General and got them to do something.” He is firmly in Heitkamp’s camp. “I flip my vote back and forth,” he says, “I don’t need to pick a side. My friends ask what it will take to make me a Republican. Nothing, not even a million dollars,” he crosses his arms and shakes his head. He may be the only genuinely independent voter I have ever met. “I would love to see the wall built with private donations,” Corrine says, she is back in the conversation with hot takes, “it would be done by now.” She wears an American flag sweatshirt even though it is 90 and we’ve been outside for four hours. Big red glasses frame her face. Her friend, Carol nods her head in agreement. I ask if they come to rallies often, “The only other thing I’ve ever waited in line for is Elvis Presley, and he died three days later,” Carol responds. “I got a scrap of his scarf,” she smiles. Only two things will get her in a line, Donald Trump and Elvis Presley. “So, on your trip are you going to talk about the Muslims?” Corrine asks me. Confused, I ask her to clarify, “The Muslim ban that was upheld today?” She shakes her head in affirmation. “Muslims only want one thing, to overthrow our government,” she says, noting a law she’s been reading about that already outlaws Muslims from the country. “Write this down, It’s the McCarran Walter’s act of 1952,” she tells me, “they say ‘Oh that’s an old law,’ Well so is the Constitution and the Ten Commandments, but I don’t see them with an expiration date. A quick check on the ol’ interwebs will tell you that this is not true, but I don’t think Corrine quite cares about the details. After four and a half hours we are finally up to the secret service checkpoints, “let’s all take a picture,” Carol insists. They want to stay in touch, to follow my trip. I am filled with fear that if they search for me on Facebook, they will see my posts from Pride and this whole shtick will be up, “how about I give you my email!” I blurt out. We swap contacts before losing each other in the crowd inside.

As I walk down the area stairs the announcer comes on, “President Trump respects the first amendment just as much as the second...but some people are trying to abuse the first amendment,” before a message about what to do if a protester is near you. “Hold a sign above them and chant “Trump Trump Trump.” The announcer notes there is a designated area for protestors outside, although it is far enough from the scene that I never saw any. The ceremony begins with the pledge of allegiance, the woman next to me speaks with vigor, enunciating every word; a compact made with her hand over her heart. Some speeches are made, and then there's a music break before the President arrives. The playlist is mostly classic rock and Elton John. Wait. Record Scratch. Freeze frame. They are playing Elton John. Tiny Dancer plays over the speakers, and I grow very uncomfortable, for some reason or another, this is the part of the day that is really getting to me. How is this possible? Does gay icon Elton know about this? Can someone call him? It is Pride. It works me into a fervor, and I am filled with even more anxiety as Trump’s arrival grows near. The music takes a turn to what I think is an Antonio Bocelli song; the crowd is just as confused. God Bless the USA, begins and the crowd explodes, this is the moment. The choice of song triggers a memory I had long forgotten. A vision of my pre-school appears before me, in the post 9/11 days at my school, the teacher would play this song as we laid down for naps. When she wasn’t paying attention or had fallen asleep herself, each of us would try to quickly stand up when the singer would say “and I’ll proudly stand up.” It was a test of whether you could stand up in patriotic salute without the sound of the crinkling blue mat alerting the teacher. We'd giggle quietly as we jumped up in down in silence. That memory is ruined. "I wish we could have had this stage back about 100 yards. You'd see how many people. This place is packed… This place is packed. The only thing more packed is outside, trying to get in," and so it begins. He is especially encouraged today with the announcement of Justice Kennedy’s retirement and the upholding of his Muslim Ban. "You need a senator who doesn't just talk like they're from North Dakota but votes like they're from North Dakota. That's what you need,” he says. Trump turns the speech to his greatest hits, Crooked Hillary, "If crooked Hillary would have won this election, and if she came here, which is about a 0% chance, after the election she'd have 200 people in a conference room in a small hotel." The crowd erupts into chants of “Lock her up.” They’re still doing this, aren’t’ they? Huh. He allows the candidate for which this rally is for to speak for two minutes, “On behalf of the most vulnerable, the unborn child, thank you for standing for life, Mr. President.” Uproarious applause. “YES!” the woman standing next to me screams, rising to her feet. Trump takes back the stage. The biggest jeers in the crowd come not when he mentions Hillary or Pelosi, but his new foil—Maxine Waters. The crowd detests her. What is different about Congresswoman Waters than the other two? I’ll let you, dear reader, draw your own conclusions on that one. Everyone applauds for a singular Black man in the crowd who Trump points out and refers to as “my friend. He holds up a sign that reads “blacks for trump” on one side and “build the wall” on the other. This is getting weirder by the minute.

“That’s right!” The woman next to me says, she claps and rocks back and forth when Trump decrees, “we’re putting America first.” The crowd is getting more and more riled up with each enemy he lists and every mention of the Fake News. They grow angrier and louder as his portrait of America grows grimmer. Up until this point and aside from demographics, this is not entirely dissimilar to other rallies I have attended. I have felt irrational fandom about Obama at massive rallies before; I know that feeling. But something is uncomfortably different here. Obama used that fandom and pointed it towards hope, he spoke of a bright future that relied on everyone working together. He spoke of transcending resentment to move towards action. Trump uses that same energy, and he turns it towards anger. He speaks not of a bright future, but of an ugly present. He speaks to fears. I watch as kind people turn into a mob. They are our neighbors and friends. They are folks who wake up every day and go to work believing profoundly different things than me, some of those things based in truth and some not. I believe with all my heart that these are decent people, but under Trump’s spell, they are the thing I fear most. I see the press pool sneak out, signaling the end is in sight. I jump up to beat the crowds to my car, afraid that the welling tears in my eyes are about to burst. I get back to the jeep and ultimately break down. Big, ugly tears fall. I don’t know how we fix this. I don’t see how politics can function if we merely manipulate people into a fervor of their worst fears. I fear we may be beyond reprieve. The totality of what I have seen and heard doesn’t become real to me until I start driving away, the road still cleared from the motorcade. It is hard to look at the lanes as the tears turn to hard sobbing. It is hard to see the future with tears in your eyes.