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Politics has always been a central part of my life: something I’m deeply passionate about. It started in high school, where I spent countless hours in speech and debate, arguing political issues like my future depended on it. (And let’s be honest, in the world of high school politics, it kind of did.) That passion only grew as I became more involved in my uncle’s political journey, which took him through the House of Representatives, the Senate, and eventually a gubernatorial run. Politics wasn’t just a topic of discussion in our household; it was the air we breathed. And over time, it became something I couldn’t not care about.
Why? Because politics isn’t some abstract concept that exists in a far-off land of cable news pundits and campaign ads. It’s real. It’s personal. It shapes nearly every aspect of our lives: our economy, our healthcare, our education, and so much more. It affects me, my family, my friends, and even the stranger I pass on the street. So, when someone tells me they don’t vote because they “don’t care,” it’s hard not to feel a little frustrated. Voting, or not voting, doesn’t make politics go away. Voting is like brushing your teeth. You might not always feel like doing it, but if you skip it too often, things get messy.
What I find most fascinating about politics, though, are the conversations: the real, heartfelt, and sometimes challenging discussions with people who see the world differently than I do. There’s something uniquely rewarding about sitting down with someone who has polar opposite beliefs and having a respectful, thoughtful exchange. It’s not about changing minds or winning arguments; it’s about understanding. And believe it or not, I’ve had some of these conversations with my fellow police officer coworkers, many of whom hold very different political views than I do. Despite our differences, those discussions have been pragmatic, respectful, and, dare I say, productive. Who knew cops could discuss controversial political topics without flipping a table?
When I started writing this blog post, I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going with it. But as I reflected, I realized I wanted to get personal, to share how my passion for politics is deeply tied to my family and my upbringing. For as long as I can remember, my family has been my anchor. My mom, in particular, was my first love, my hero, my role model, my everything. When life got tough, like when her brief marriage to a condescending asshole fell apart, it was just the two of us against the world. And then there were my grandparents, who opened their home to us during those difficult years. Their house became the heart of our family, the place where everyone gathered, and where I grew closer to the people who meant the most to me.
But as I got older, I began to think for myself. And I noticed something: while my family was incredibly close, we also shared a strikingly similar set of political beliefs. Those who didn’t align with the majority were subtly, and sometimes not so subtly, treated as outsiders. It wasn’t malicious, but it was there. And it made me wonder: how do you stay true to yourself when your beliefs don’t match the people you love most? It’s a question I’m still grappling with, even as I continue to navigate my own political journey.
Those same family members who were once seen as “weird” for having different lifestyle choices and political beliefs? Turns out, they’re the ones I agree with most. And here’s the kicker: they’re not weird at all. They’re perfectly normal. They just happen to be progressive thinkers with a different set of moral standards than my immediate family. What’s really hitting me hard is the realization that I might be slowly pushed away by the very family I grew up loving so much, all because of where my political beliefs align. It’s like being exiled from the family group chat for liking pineapple on pizza. (Okay, maybe not that extreme, but you get the point.)
Let me take you back about 15+ years ago. My family went on a camping trip to Ponca, Arkansas, and we basically created our own little village. And what’s a village without a name? With three last names in the mix: Armstrong, Dixon, and Summerville, we became the legendary StrongDixVille. Fast forward nearly 20 years, and we still have a family group chat by that name. It was supposed to be a place to share milestones, funny memes, and updates about who’s hosting Thanksgiving this year. But about six months ago, someone shared a video that completely derailed the vibe. It was a pastor preaching about “gay demons” and how they’re supposedly possessing LGBTQ+ individuals. The sermon quickly turned into a political rant about how the “left” is encouraging these “demons” to take over the nation and making people gay. I made it through about 10 minutes before I had to tap out. I was furious. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t even politics. This was hate, plain and simple. And unfortunately, this kind of hate has become the soundtrack to modern politics.
The reason I’m writing this post is because I’m starting to resent the family I once idolized, not just because of politics, but because of the hate that politics has unleashed. It’s the slurs, the divisiveness, the way everything has to be turned into a political battleground. I mean, I once saw a local sheriff’s office post about arresting a convicted child predator, and the top comment was something like, “Bet he voted for Kamala Harris.” What? How does that even make sense? It’s exhausting. And honestly, I’m just tired of it.
The breaking point came when someone in the StrongDixVille group chat decided to celebrate a certain politician. I won’t say any names, but let’s just say they may or may not be the newly appointed director of health. My wife, being the thoughtful and professional person she is, chimed in with a counterpoint, drawing from her own expertise in public health. You’d think that would be the end of it, right? Wrong. Cue the label: “brainwashed.” Then came the laugh reacts, the memes, and the mocking comments. Suddenly, our family chat felt less like a space for sharing holiday plans and more like a middle school cafeteria where the cool kids were dunking on anyone who dared to think differently. It was like watching a political roast battle, except the only thing getting roasted was my patience.
After taking some time to cool off (and maybe scream into a pillow), someone in my family reached out. I’m sure they meant well, but their sage advice was essentially, “Just ignore the hateful stuff.” Oh, brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that? Let me just sit back while my wife gets dragged and pretend everything’s fine. How about this instead: let’s not say hurtful shit and then act shocked when someone has the audacity to respond? It’s like punching someone in the face and then getting mad because they said “ouch.”
I’m struggling because I love my family. I really do. But I’m also struggling because I can’t ignore the hate that’s seeping into the relationships I hold dear. It’s hard to reconcile the family I grew up loving with the one that now feels so distant. And while I don’t have all the answers, I do know this: hate has no place in love, and politics shouldn’t be a wedge that drives us apart.
In reflecting on my journey with politics, family, and the intersections of both, I’ve come to realize how deeply personal and transformative these forces can be. Politics isn’t just a system or a set of policies: it’s a lens through which we see the world, shaped by our experiences, values, and the people we love. For me, it began as a passion ignited in high school debate rooms and fueled by my uncle’s political career, but it has since evolved into something far more complex. It’s no longer just about policies or elections; it’s about identity, relationships, and the difficult balance between staying true to oneself and maintaining connections with those who matter most.
My family has always been my anchor, the foundation of who I am. Yet, as I’ve grown and formed my own beliefs, I’ve found myself at odds with the very people who shaped me. The StrongDixVille group chat, once a symbol of unity and shared memories, has become a microcosm of the broader political divide: a space where love and laughter are increasingly overshadowed by judgment, mockery, and even hate. It’s heartbreaking to witness how politics, which should be a tool for progress and understanding, has instead become a weapon that fractures relationships and fosters division.
But amidst the frustration and heartache, there’s also hope. Hope in the power of conversation, in the moments when we can sit down with someone who sees the world differently and truly listen. Hope in the realization that, despite our differences, we can still find common ground, or at least mutual respect. And hope in the belief that love, at its core, is stronger than hate. Politics may shape our lives, but it doesn’t have to define our relationships.
As I navigate this tension between my beliefs and my family ties, I’m reminded that growth often comes with discomfort. It’s not easy to challenge the status quo, to question the values we were raised with, or to stand firm in our convictions when faced with opposition. But it’s necessary. Because at the end of the day, politics isn’t just about winning arguments or elections. Its about building a world where everyone, regardless of their beliefs, can feel seen, heard, and valued. And that’s a world worth fighting for, even if it means losing a few battles along the way.
So, to anyone grappling with similar struggles, know that you’re not alone. It’s okay to feel torn, to grieve the relationships that politics has strained, and to seek out spaces where you can be your authentic self. And it’s okay to hold onto hope—hope that one day, we’ll find a way to bridge the divides, to prioritize love over hate, and to remember that, despite it all, we’re still family.
For a Thought 
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