I’m a New Yorker and a hardcore Yankees fan, but I’m married to a Dodgers fan. As if being fans of competing sports teams isn’t bad enough, my husband Joe and I are political opposites.
He is a hardcore MAGA supporter, and he is fortunate that I love him despite his politics. “You are voting against your own interests as a Latino,” I told him.
He wasn’t fazed and said, “Trump is going to do so much for this country.”
I rolled my eyes and walked out of the room before things escalated, which usually consisted of me slamming doors to get my nonverbal point across. The first time Trump won was hard enough for me. Our marriage counselor told us, “You two just cannot talk politics. That’s the only way your marriage will make it through.”
Together for 15 years, I had met Joe in suburbia at Bogies, a.k.a. Westlake Village’s cougar bar, when I was going through a divorce and channeling my Studio 54 days. He stared at me with his mouth hanging open as I danced on top of a speaker in 4-inch heels. My first thought was: I’m never gonna get rid of this guy.
Security told me I had to get down. Joe rushed over to help me while “Brick House” continued to play.
“Nice moves! Can I buy you a drink?”
“No, I’ll buy you a drink. Otherwise, you will want something from me,” I said.
“OK, I’ll have what you’re having.”
When he told me his name, it was the same as my ex-husband’s.
“I can’t call you that. I’m just gonna call you Joe.”
“What should I call you?”
“Trixie.”
After a few drinks, my reckless-abandon behavior kicked in. My young son was on the East Coast visiting family, so I really felt single and free. I asked Joe straight out, in New York style, if he wanted to come home with me. Neither of us was in any shape to drive. So I called a taxi, not because I was from New York, but because Uber didn’t exist then.
At 7:30 a.m., he woke me up and asked if I could drive him to his car because he had to go to church on the Westside. WTF?
We were opposite in so many ways. Raised Catholic, I did my time in Catholic school and church. Our parents made us go to church every week and listen to the priest drone on. I was no longer about to spend beautiful, sunny days inside a mildew-scented sanctuary. Zuma Beach was now my congregation on Sundays.
As a married couple, every morning before work, we sit by the pool under palm trees drinking coffee. I can see him reading a Fox News article on his phone. I feel the anger bubble up.
Instead of saying my usual “Why are you reading that crap,” I pretend I have a deadline and excuse myself. I go to my office and start writing — that’s my antidote. I think about how his Christian family also supports Trump. I’m always the odd man out, walking out of rooms when the orange man is mentioned.
Then last year, the worst thing happened to me. Trump somehow won again. My writer friends in L.A. all started texting me: “Please tell me your husband didn’t vote for him. How can you be in the same room with him?”
My reply to them was: “Ah, I love him, but I agree. I don’t want to be anywhere near him right now. Remember when Hillary lost? I didn’t look at him for two weeks!”
“Why does he like Trump?” they asked.
“I don’t know! I think it’s the same with all Christians,” I said. “They are all on the same team, thinking Dump is their savior.”
Yeah, my husband supports Trump and he’s a Dodgers fan, but he is also one of the best men I’ve ever met. We were invited to my friend’s Las Virgenes Unified School District retirement party in Van Nuys. These were committed and passionate people who proudly protested every Saturday morning.
“When we get to Laura’s, do not talk politics. They will be bashing Trump, but please do not respond,” I said to Joe.
“I know that. I don’t talk politics in a mixed group of people,” he said.
Joe and I are different in many ways, but we make each other laugh. And as a bonus, he is up for anything. He loves my son. He taught him to ride a bike, took him all over the San Fernando Valley for auditions as a child actor, showed him how to use a fishing pole in Troutdale on Kanan Road in Malibu, and watched the L.A. Raiders on Sunday after they returned from church while I made meatballs and danced to disco music in the kitchen.
He even gave up the idea of having his own biological kids because at my age, if I were lucky, maybe I have one egg left, we could call Nemo.
At his family reunion in Long Beach, with the smell of tantalizing Mexican food in the air, I overheard Joe tell his cousin that I was the funniest person he had ever met, which to me is one of the highest compliments you can give.
Laughter is the universal equalizer. If we can make people forget their differences with a bit of humor, that’s a home run in my book.
Before Game 1 of the 2024 World Series at Dodger Stadium — Dodgers versus Yankees — my husband pulled out his Dodgers jersey and insisted we have the 10-inch Dodgers dogs. I said that wasn’t happening, and instead, I ordered a New York-style pizza. We gave in to my husband and allowed pineapple and jalapeños on half although we were mortified.
Rooting for the Yankees in hostile Dodger territory, I had a slight advantage over my husband: My mother and sister were visiting from New York. We had to do everything possible to combat the Big Blue Crew.
The day prior, we walked into one of the many nail salons in L.A. Wearing my “N.Y.” baseball hat, I showed one of the manicurists the Yankee logo I wanted. At first, she shook her head no because she was also a Dodger fan. She passed me to another manicurist, who was willing to paint our nails with navy and white pinstripes.
Back in our family room, things weren’t going well for the Bronx Bombers, blowing lead after lead. Every time the Dodgers scored, we had a chorus of f-bombs thrown at my laidback West Coast husband.
“Yes!” screamed Joe when Dodger Freddie Freeman hit a walk-off grand slam, winning Game 1.
“Get me another beer, woman,” Joe said jokingly.
“You suck. Get your own beer,” I replied.
In the end, we all know what happened in the 2024 World Series at Yankee Stadium. We will give you this one, Los Angeles.
It isn’t easy being married to someone you disagree with. However, when I see him do his many acts of kindness, like pushing my mother in her wheelchair in the hot California sun while sweat drips down his face, I think, yes, there are errors and fouls in this relationship, but he is my home base.
The author is a writing professor for Antioch University and a published essayist who lives in Los Angeles County. She is on Substack, Bluesky and Facebook. Visit her website at andreatate.net.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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