The Red Hat

We had just finished up supper at a local bar and grill. I was with two of our kids and my husband and my sister and brother-in-law. It was a regular Saturday evening and just as we were walking to the front door, I saw an acquaintance.

We hadn’t seen each other for a long time. We weren’t friends, but friendly. I said hello and told her I hoped the kids were well, and was about to take my leave when I saw it. A red hat. I see these often enough to know not to even make eye contact with the person wearing the red hat, but he called my name.

Hey, Jess…

I looked over, and it was the husband of my acquaintance. I know him well, but never in my life did I think I’d see him with a red hat planted firmly on his head. So, I knew I must be confused. It must be a Cardinals hat. It couldn’t be a MAGA hat…it couldn’t be.

When he called my name, I looked up at the hat. I couldn’t look him in the eye. I scanned the side of the red hat. Sure enough, it said 45-47. Still, I could not believe what I was seeing. So, I smiled and said hello and looked at the front of the hat.

Make America Great Again.

Damn it.

We didn’t visit much at that moment — I could barely get a word out. As we left the restaurant, all of us just looked at each other while making our way to our cars. No one could really say much. We all know him. Some of us knew him very well. It felt like a gut punch. A kick to the chest. I felt deflated…and then I felt sad.

It’s hard to wrap my head around it.

Truth be told, I lost a lot of friends and family members in 2016.

I was teaching at the time and I went from hanging out in the teacher’s lounge to eating alone in my classroom. I did work with others who were like-minded, but the discomfort of working with teachers who voted for Trump was pretty overwhelming. I started isolating myself because I couldn’t manage being quiet with educators who voted for a man who espoused hatred for everyone, including other educators — including our students. I just didn’t want to be in the same room as these people, so I didn’t enter many rooms.

When COVID hit, I saw the absolute worst in these people. We were face to face in 2020. My school was open when others in the city were closed.

During COVID, some administrators would move the desks around in my classroom to make sure the kids who were playing sports were least likely to be quarantined. They would move the desk of a non-athlete to the center of the room and move the athlete to a corner to minimize exposure to COVID. Yes, they would come in with a roster and move the kids.

I once had the mom of an athlete call me and tell me to move her daughter to the center of the room because it didn’t matter if she caught COVID. She was injured and wouldn’t be playing for several weeks. She wanted to make sure another starter could move to the corner of the room.

That still makes me want to throw up.

I posted my resignation in February of 2021, but I finished out my contract. I stayed until May — I just couldn’t do it anymore. Not one more day.

This is where I live. A place that was taken over by extremism. It didn’t happen overnight…hell, it didn’t happen over a few years, but it did eventually happen. And there are a lot of people who are still wearing hats and denying COVID and acting like everything they see is not in fact because of the Republicans that they have been electing for decades.

But these stories aren’t the only stories. There are better stories about Missouri.

I have been speaking non-stop for a few weeks now. You may have noticed my essays have been taking a little longer to make it to Substack. I am just now sitting down to my desk to tell you why: I went on a 24-hour speaking tour in three separate communities, and in that time, I was able to connect with over 400 rural Missouri Democrats.

I started in Bonne Terre, Missouri — population 6,000. I was the keynote speaker at the Truman Dinner. An event that hasn’t been held since 2018. The St. Francois Democrats have been organizing their hearts out, and finally had enough interest to bring back the Truman Dinner.

There was so much energy in the room, and after the event, so many folks came up to talk about how much better they felt being in a room of like-minded people all working to stop the fascists in the Statehouse and in the White House. There were tears and laughs and solidarity and pulled pork sandwiches. I couldn’t have asked for more.

The Truman Dinner in Bonne Terre, Missouri. 5/9/25.

I stayed in Festus, slept a few hours, and then got into the car for the second event in Union, Missouri — population 13,000. This event was held in a new and beautiful library downtown. It was organized by women who have been doing this work since Trump was elected in 2016. They regularly host Democratic forums and dinners and candidates for office.

The turnout ended up being standing room only with several people attending on Zoom as well — the picture you see below had to be taken in panoramic because there were too many in the room.

They were a feisty group and reader, I want to tell you something amazing: after asking folks in the room to run for office, a lady on the front row stood up and said she wasn’t going to take it anymore…she wouldn’t let down-ballot races go uncontested. She said:

“I am 70 years old, and no one can fire me or say anything to me anymore. I am throwing my hat in the ring. I’m running.”

Oh, my heart!

Union, Missouri meeting. 5/10/25.

I got in the car after the library meeting and put in the directions to Warrensburg, Missouri. I was going to speak at a picnic. The drive was a little over three hours, so I started that way.

The drive took me through Jeff City, and I thought I’d stop for lunch. While waiting for my salad, I visited the restroom and a woman at the sink turned around and said “I know you!” I smiled and she told me that she is married to a woman and has kids in the school district, and every day is a struggle in this state.

I told her I would keep fighting and think of her when I needed a boost to keep going.

When I arrived in Warrensburg for the final event for the 24-hour tour, I realized I was about 30 minutes early. I could barely keep my eyes open, so I set an alarm, and wadded a sweatshirt up for a pillow, and went to sleep soundly in the backseat of my car.

I woke up just in time to brush my hair and put on some lip gloss and jump out to speak at the last event.

Johnson County, Missouri Democratic picnic. 5/10/25.

The organizer of the event said the turnout was better than it had been in a while. I had a hotdog and some potato salad and a cookie and then I headed to the mic. I spoke about 15 minutes about the Trump regime and the Missouri GOP and the defunding of schools and roads and hospitals and our way of life.

The crowd nodded and clapped and knew everything I said and listened anyway. We often find so much validation in listening to someone else say the things we wish we could say out loud.

The Johnson County folks were the perfect ending to a busy 24 hours and I was so happy to think about the people I met and the people I reconnected with while driving home.

It’s a little over two hours from Warrensburg to my house in Northwest Missouri. I finished the audiobook I had been listening to — Money, Lies, and God by Katherine Stewart. I recommend it.

I turned on a playlist called “Soft 70’s Rock” for the drive.

Side note: Why were so many of the songs of this era named after women, and why don’t they do that anymore?

Sarah. Valerie. Joanna. Lola. Roxanne. Jessica.

As the sun set and the music played and the cornfields started to become more frequent, I thought about what a beautiful place I call home and how happy I was going to be to turn into that old farmhouse and see the kid and the husband.

It was a marathon, 24 hours long, and I was happy to not think about red hats or lost friends or COVID or anything except the work I had just completed.

It was a good day, and I am in a place where I may be the underdog, but I am not alone.

A very good day.

~Jess