I am a Chinese woman, a daughter of immigrants, who voted for Donald Trump in the 2016 presidential election. It is almost a secret, though I sometimes offer up the confession like it is penance.
I cried driving away from my polling place and sobbed on a futon when he won. My chest was tight, my stomach churned, my face was hot — all blood and breath and acid had conspired inside me to signal alarm. I immediately hated my choice, but I did not yet believe it to be wrong. I had bought into the lesser-of-two-evils arc, with “But her emails!” still echoing in my mind to assure me that this was the only option.
Earlier that fall, my church had just launched a new “Adopt A College Student!” ministry. It was imagined as a mentorship and fellowship opportunity for the young adults in our congregation, a chance to share coffee and do laundry. We were invited to apply for the program, so that we could prayerfully be matched up with an adoptive family. I learned the family of one of our church’s pastors had requested to be paired with me, and this thrilled me. I had secretly hoped to be matched with them, and I loved a narrative in which I was chosen.
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