I’ve been too quiet for too long

A friend recently asked how I was doing—someone who proudly supported Donald Trump through two elections and continues to defend him today. The question was casual enough, innocent even, yet it ignited something deeper, sharper, and infinitely more painful than simple small talk could accommodate.

Truthfully, I’m not doing well—and I haven’t been for some time. How could I be, given everything that’s unfolded over the last several years? Financially, I find myself hurtling toward ruin, a circumstance directly shaped by policies enacted by the man you championed—a conman who exploited your loyalty, who thrived on division, cruelty, and open disdain for truth.

But finances aren’t even the core issue. Money can be regained, stability restored. What’s harder to reclaim is faith in a community I once loved, friends I once trusted, and a country I once deeply respected. I live with genuine fear for my family’s safety, a fear amplified by an emboldened culture of hatred and ignorance deliberately nurtured by your chosen leader.

I’m married to a Black woman, and we have mixed-ethnicity children—children who deserve to grow up safe, secure, and respected. At least one of my children openly identifies as bisexual. One of my best friends is a gay man happily married to another man. These are not abstract ideas or distant political debates; these are real lives—my family’s lives and my friend’s lives—now threatened by a rising tide of bigotry that Trump encouraged and legitimized.

I fear deeply for the future of our marriages—mine and my friend’s—as extremist ideologies continue to challenge landmark rulings like Obergefell. I’ve watched with horror as Roe v. Wade, once considered settled law, was dismantled, and I worry daily that our marriages could face a similar fate.

Initially, I held no animosity toward those who voted for Trump the first time. He was largely an unknown, an outsider who promised change. But by 2020, ignorance was no longer an excuse. Your continued support, especially after witnessing his open embrace of hatred, division, and incompetence, says far more about you than about him.

January 6th was, without exaggeration, the lowest point in American history since the South seceded to defend slavery. It represented a violent assault on democracy itself—an assault directly incited by Trump and carried out by his supporters. Your silence or rationalizations about that day are impossible for me to accept.

Yet, as deeply personal as these issues are, I also recognize they’re not the only important ones. I hold no illusion that my family and I are uniquely affected. There are countless others, facing equally devastating or even more immediate threats—particularly in communities directly targeted by hate. Issues surrounding immigrant rights, the rise of white nationalism, threats to transgender individuals, and the relentless persecution of marginalized groups are urgent battles deserving of support and allyship. Though these issues are crucial and deeply important, they are not mine to lead, but rather to support.

So I’ve mourned—deeply and genuinely mourned—the erosion of the Constitution and the weakening of democratic norms. I’ve felt profound sadness watching rights stripped away from vulnerable people, while you stood by, either approving, indifferent, or worse, mocking the suffering of others with sneers of “wokeness,” as though compassion were a disease rather than the hallmark of strong moral character.

I’ve watched in horror as facts became optional and decency negotiable. I’ve seen you justify cruelty and ignore corruption. And as I’ve watched you remain silent—or worse, complicit—I’ve come to understand something painful: your support was never neutral. It revealed something fundamental about who you are, what you value, and, by extension, who I was by continuing to associate with you.

The contempt I feel isn’t casual or reactionary. It’s profound, lasting, and deeply personal. I can no longer look away or pretend we are separated only by “differences of opinion.” Opinions differ on taxes or zoning laws—not on whether human rights are negotiable, democracy disposable, or whether empathy itself should be mocked.

For a long time, I resisted accepting this reality because acknowledging it felt unbearably sad. It meant grieving friendships and a world I had built around shared experiences, laughter, and love. But this grief is necessary because silence or neutrality in the face of injustice isn’t tolerance—it’s complicity.

So no, I’m not doing well. But I am clear-eyed now about why. The cost of friendship with those who support cruelty and corruption—either actively or passively—is simply too high. It’s a price my conscience won’t allow me to pay.

If you ever find yourself questioning, reconsidering, or seeing clearly, maybe we can speak again. Until then, understand this: my silence isn’t bitterness; it’s a boundary—one drawn out of respect for myself, my family, and every value I once believed we shared.

With hope you’ll eventually choose a better path,

-Amos