Yes, those were my precise words to Youngest, my 14-year-old son, late last week. I repeated them to him the morning after, as I was walking the dog alongside him as he walked to another day in his freshman year of high school.
I will repeat those words until they are no longer true. I see only two ways that statement will no longer be true. One, I become no longer horrified. Two, he would no longer vote for Trump over Clinton if given the choice.
I'll tell you right now that the first option ain't ever going to happen.
I honestly can't say that the second option would ever happen either.
I teared up with a friend the morning after (that would be yesterday) when we were on the phone and she asked how it was in my house [versus the relative peacefulness of her own house which, if you knew the horrible time that family is in the throes of experiencing, you could never imagine existing on any plane of existence]. I had told her when, a few days before the election, I had pushed Youngest to choose. He said he'd have voted for Trump.
I've been here in this little space a decade. If you're reading this, chances are you know me personally or you know me through this blog. Folks don't just happen upon my little space here. [Unless, you know, this string of words -- we can't wish for Trump to be dead because then Pence would take over -- becomes a search term for someone on Sir Google and you've now landed here.]
My point is, you all know who Youngest is. I've been talking about demon spawn since just about my first post. He must always be right. He must always have attention. He must always argue against your point of view. It's only been in the last year -- and he's 14 -- that detente has settled upon our house and peace has actually blossomed between his sister and him. [Interestingly, she left for college in August.] And the vast majority of the bad relationship they had was because of him.
And now here's the part where you can place the blame squarely at my feet: I got him a Trump for President shirt for Christmas last year. He wanted to wear it ironically. And so he did, getting grief from fellow 8th graders and others. I think he's worn it once or twice to school his freshman year.
On election night, after I'd called the race but the media was going to hold out for another couple of hours, the discussion rolled around to that shirt. He wanted to wear it to school the next day. I didn't want him to. Pete discouraged it as well. We both explained that while he certainly was entitled to wear it, given the hard feelings many Clinton supporters would have the next day and the fact that we're talking about interacting with other impulse-control-lacking teens, maybe it wouldn't be a good idea.
In the end, of course, he could do what he wanted in that regard. I suggested he keep his sweatshirt on first period and ask for his commander's opinion in his next class, JROTC. Walking with him to school the morning after, I asked if he had his shirt on. He did. And so I reiterated that I would remain horrified that I'd raised a boy who could vote for Trump.
And off to school he went.