Barbecue and Nation Building

This past week sucked. The shocking reality of President-elect Trump is hitting slowly and painfully. I would be lying if I said it didn’t cross my mind that my degree in Government is trash and that public service is dead. That it doesn’t matter if you outright lie or have no real policy plans—the American people will elect you anyway. It’s been difficult to walk around Harvard and feel like someone actually did die, like we collectively suffered a terrible loss.

But in lieu of wallowing in our grief, I want to try to make sense of things by talking about something that always comforts me: Southern-style barbecue.

Where I grew up in eastern North Carolina, barbecue is a staple. And I’m not talking about just the vinegar-based shredded pork; I also mean the process of getting the whole community together for a potluck-style cookout. Especially during election season, candidates for public office rely on a big barbecue to feed hundreds of people coming out to their events. Herbert O’Keefe, the editor of the Raleigh Times during the 1950s, once remarked, “No man has ever been elected governor of North Carolina without eating more barbecue than was good for him.” Voters know that watching how a candidate treats their barbecue can tell them a great deal about that candidate’s values.

For a region still grappling with lingering prejudices, the South boasts food that is uniquely accessible, classless, ubiquitous, and immensely delicious, to say the least. No matter who you are, where you grew up, what color your skin is, how you worship, or how much money you make, you too eat and appreciate the comfort of Southern cooking.

In the wake of the election, I’m struggling with a profound sense of disconnect. I feel the pain of my friends of color, people who feel like their elementary school bullies just got elected Leader of the Free World. I feel their fear that this may galvanize people who act out of hate. I feel the distress of those who may not be safe or welcome in this country because of their religious identity. I feel my own pain that no matter how hard a woman works, she’s still not good enough. I’m in pain knowing we awarded the presidency to a man caught on camera bragging about sexual assault.

But I know that I have family and friends who voted for Trump. I know that I have no idea what it’s like to be financially insecure or worry about supporting a family. I don’t know what it’s like to have my job exported out of the country and lack the training or opportunities to earn a stable income. Fortunate enough to attend a college like Harvard, I do not know what it’s like to feel ignored or dismissed by elite special interests.

When I think about how to reconcile the disconnect between what I feel and what I know, I think about what it means to have a barbecue. Barbecue, the food and the event, doesn’t belong to any one person or group. It’s great because it’s for everyone. And you can only have a barbecue by bringing people together, outdoors or at a table; the conversation is just as crucial as the food.

Since the election, many people have mentioned the necessity of “understanding the Trump voter” and engaging in meaningful dialogue. And I recognize the reality of how hard those conversations are going to be. I know there’s distress and fear for many people in this country, regardless of whom you supported (or didn’t support) for president. I know I myself need time to grapple with the election before I can have those discussions.

But the sadness I feel about the outcome of this election is not greater than the sadness I feel about the prospect of a country divided, unable to speak to one another because of our political beliefs. The late Justice Scalia’s creed is more important now than ever: “Some very good people have some very bad ideas.” There are 60 million people in this country who supported Trump, and I refuse to write those people off entirely as racists or sexists or xenophobes.

The solution to our political problems might just be politics—albeit of a different definition. Instead of the horserace style, Clinton v. Trump, outsider v. establishment politics, we may need to rethink how we politick among ourselves. We may need a nation-wide barbecue, the opportunity discuss our experiences and be open about our fears. We need to know the “other,” and think about how to solve our nation’s biggest challenges. And it starts with you, with me. It starts with honesty and commitment to respect, and tough conversations with your family and neighbors at Thanksgiving.

So roll up your sleeves and pull up a chair: We’re having a barbecue. And if your religion prevents you from eating pork, don’t worry; I brought candied yams and collared greens, too.

Caroline M. Tervo ’18, is a government concentrator living in Pforzheimer House. Her column appears on alternate Mondays.