When I woke up the morning after Trump’s 2016 victory, it was clear that the world was ending.

I was a junior in college, pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts in acting. The theater department was housed within the humanities building. We shared space with the students studying women and gender studies.

Another student, both gay and black, said, 'Anyone who voted for Donald Trump hates me.'

I only knew one other person who, like me, had cast their vote for Donald Trump. We had both filled out our mail-in ballots in guilty silence.

When I arrived on campus that morning, I collided with a good friend; she had filled a 7-Eleven Slurpee cup with booze and was drinking it somewhat discreetly in the hallways. She was not the only one, and she was not reprimanded.

In the quad, my physical theater professor (yes, that was a real course) was handing out free, consolatory pancakes to students with swollen, red eyes.

In my afternoon scene study class, a young woman sat in the corner and cried, “I really thought we would finally have a woman for president.”

Another student, both gay and black, said, “Anyone who voted for Donald Trump hates me.”

My professor nodded with the bravado of righteous indignation, like a wise elder at the gate watching as the city crumbled to pieces, pitying the young people who would have to go on living.

As I ascended the staircase toward my bedroom that evening, my roommate, the one other person who was not utterly demoralized by Hillary Clinton’s defeat, popped his head out, surveyed the room to ensure we could not be overheard, and whispered, “I’m not sad that he won.”

“Me, neither,” I breathed.

That was all we said. Even in our own home, it was not safe to say more.

I kept my vote for Donald Trump a secret for years. There were many days, listening to my friends bemoan the callous inhumanity of Republican voters and the inevitable rise of fascism because Donald Trump wanted to cut taxes, that I would wonder if — at my lowest points, fantasize that — my ballot had been lost in the mail. Maybe I was not culpable in his victory at all.

The vigil for American democracy that had taken place in my humanities building had convinced me that if I were to be a conservative traversing among the creative society, I must be a quiet one.

But times change, don’t they?

Times change when men invade women’s locker rooms. When doctors sterilize children. When Big Pharma lies to us. When free speech is compromised.

Today, the conservatives are more classically liberal than the liberals. And I, as someone with classically liberal tendencies, am living in my era.

I’m fist-bumping RFK Jr. as he promises to “Make Frying Oil Tallow Again.” I’m vibing with JD Vance’s commitment to the hard-working blue-collar class of America. I’m getting behind Elon Musk’s defense of free speech on the internet. And yes, I am no longer ashamed to say that I really hope Trump can Make America Great Again.

But regardless of which way this election goes, I refuse to behave like my humanities department did in 2016. I will not hold a vigil for the bygone American republic. I will not assume the worst of those who voted differently than I did or didn’t even vote at all.

What matters to me most this election season is the way we treat one another.

At the end of the day, most of us will never meet our president. He or she will not keep our keys for us when we leave for vacation. Our president will not gather with us for Thanksgiving dinner. It’s unlikely our elected officials will come together to pray for our sick mother or celebrate our new child. But our neighbors, our family, our community who may vote differently than us, they will be there.

This is America.

Go out and vote for the best candidate without shame. Put that campaign sign in your yard, if you want to, because we can handle a nation of people who don’t all vote the same way, and, in fact, we must.