Reclaiming Peace in Trump Country

how retreating to nature put me face to face with a stark reality instead

In an attempt to reclaim some peace of mind amidst the chaos of the looming election I headed up to the countryside. On my car ride to New York state’s Catskill Mountains I enjoyed the beautiful tapestry of autumn foliage. The leaves glowed mostly yellow, orange and red. There was still much green on the horizon too.

As I crossed the bridge from NJ to PA the scene changed. Riding up to the country for respite, I was confronted with political fervor instead.

My birthday, a blue moon, the last few days before the presidential election — all good reasons to go up to the mountains for a rejuvenating weekend alone. It was a bit of a shock to my system to see the countless signs supporting Trump’s reelection. For a while that’s all I noticed.

Once I got on Route 434 it seemed there was a placard supporting Trump on every single property I passed. U.S. flags (larger than the standard 3′ x 5′) were hoisted on flagpoles. They hung there, too heavy to fly. Of course, Trump flags and the newest neo-confederate symbols, Blue Lives Matter, peppered the scenery too.

I had to stop a couple of times in search of food. Why hadn’t I planned better? Brought snacks with me? I had finished my work day while also absentmindedly managing my teenagers (at home during remote schooling). I rushed out of the house to get to Narrowsburg from Montclair before dark.

At the rest stops I encountered men wearing camouflage jackets, baseball caps and masks emblazoned with the U.S. flag. And, again, this newer symbol of white supremacy: black stars and stripes with a blue line. The bumper stickers on their vehicles indicated a few were war veterans. I wondered: How do they all afford such shiny new pickup trucks?

Do they not see they’re just as much victims of this corrupt system as everyone else? Is the camouflage for recreational hunting or just to intimidate visitors? Perhaps they’re looking for meaning, for a purpose too.

Does Trump make them hopeful? Are they siding with a perspective that feels more powerful? Is that why the flags are so big? The message so strong?

I didn’t feel safe. I reminded myself to breathe and to make the best of my time away. I was going there to rest, wasn’t I? I thought I’d feel better once I got into more familiar territory. I continued to feel ill-at-ease once I got into town the next morning. Coming across wealthy weekenders (many of them Manhattanites, increasingly buying property in the area).

Is it possible to gentrify the countryside?

Now, instead of scrambled eggs and toast at the Chit Chat Diner, I can get my choice of ten different types of coffee and an egg and Brie sandwich on a ciabatta bun. I thought the luxury would help me feel better, it didn’t.

No one greeted me or acknowledged my presence. I searched for the humanity in others faces. Maybe it’s the masks? I’m feeling self-conscious. I’m acutely aware: I’m woman of color on my own, in a mostly white environment.

Was this my own privilege showing itself? Expecting safety. Encountering alienation and disappointment instead.

My initial reaction was to contract, to be angry and afraid. Much like, I imagine, they feel: angry and afraid. From this perspective everyone appears my enemy. I forget my own creativity. My own fire. My own power. Seeking refuge, I was, instead, stirred up.

How are we each protecting our imagined territory?

As if this land is one group’s alone. As if we could return to some imagined past where we weren’t compelled to face the dark reality confronting us.

This grappling helped me return to a different type of safety. It was impossible to ignore my surroundings. But I was reminded to not retreat into a fear-only stance either. Were the folks I encountered as starkly different as I had presumed?

I returned to the land. The same trees that nurtured me as a young girl. The place where I learned the wonders of being in the mountains. Where I first met the majestic Delaware River.

The ground covered in soft pine needles. Memories of gathering small treasures: pine cones, smooth river rocks, wild lilies. Ice cold water invigorating our senses.

We communed with birds, fish, frogs and all types of insects. Sometimes we had the good fortune of spotting bald eagles, snakes and even an occasional black bear.

I recollected campfires with my grandfather. That time, cradling my small hand in his, he lovingly said: “Holding hands is the best thing in the world.”

Going to get fresh eggs at the friendly neighbors’ next door. Greeting an ancient blind woman churning butter by hand.

Each year my grandmother re-built a little dam so my sister and I could swim in the creek out back. Twenty five years later my mother did the same for my children. Teaching them, as I had learned: women lift boulders in a multitude of ways.

I went back to the river, back to the trees, back to the fresh air. I sang songs. Prayed to my ancestors. I let the tears come. Gratitude and gladness appeared too. My heart softened and I encountered just a little more peace.