Following coverage of the storming of the Capitol, I was transported back to a summer day in 2016. There I confronted the face of what is now being called a mob, a riot, an insurrection. During the dark days of the Trump presidency, I recalled this encounter over and over. Even as it haunted me as a worst-case scenario of alienated extremism, it provided a glimmer of hope.

It was in Utah, between visits to National Parks. I was in a laundromat at 1:30 on a weekday afternoon, washing our hiking clothes – a weird time to be in an empty laundromat in a mangy strip mall along the highway that ran through town, but that’s travelling. Empty, that is, until an athletic young man came in with a basket of what looked like mostly toddler’s clothing. 

He was angry, banging things around, mumbling irritably. Not the most comforting companion, but I kept reading my paper. 

Then he began speaking for my benefit. He was on a political tirade about that [B-word] Hillary Clinton and our [N-word] president. I now saw him clearly, close-cropped blond hair, late twenties, solid and trim. My responses, facial twitches and grunts, were non-committal. Do they have concealed carry here in Utah? Why are these machines so slow?

He was a veteran of Afghanistan and Iraq, three tours in all, and now he was unemployed, doing the washing while his wife worked down the road at Wal-Mart. The Democrats only cared about transgendered people and immigrants. Trump was his choice.  

“My uncle in Wyoming thinks we should kill President Obama.” That tripped my fuse.

I leaned forward. “Soldier, that’s treason!”

For the first time, his face lost its combativeness. “Yeah?”

I explained my point in neutral, yet forceful Civics 101 terms. For the first time we were making eye contact. The conversation turned to the wars he’d seen. We both discussed them with a dispassionate eye to their dragging pointlessness. He was impressed with my knowledge of the history and situation; he probably didn’t meet many civilians who were daily readers of the “New York Times”.  

Like so many soldiers before him, of whatever ideological stripe, he resented those who sent him there, and even more, those who had forgotten him since. The [F-word] “politicians.”

Now he was back on his plight and his grievances. They wouldn’t even hire a guy like him at McDonalds, because “they have all the Mexicans they can use, never mind they can’t speak English.” This went on for a while, as I returned to contemplating the slow progress of the dryers.

Suddenly he asked, “What do you do?”

“I work for a labor union.”

He released a long audible sigh. “God, I wish I had a union job!”

A new image arose, displacing the mad militia uncle, Wal-Mart and McDonalds, villainous politicians. I heard about a father who worked for the railroad, a member of the Brotherhood of Railroad Brakemen. Family life, economic security, pride. Could his dad have even voted Democrat?  Did it even matter then?  

And was such a thing still possible?  

Back in 2016, I met a face in the rioting white supremacist crowd of January 6^th, 2021. Yes, he was a racist. Yes, he was resenting people even worse off than himself. Yes, he was far too ready for murderous violence.

But don’t talk to him about white privilege (save that for people like me) or label him “a deplorable.”

Get him that union job.

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