By David Himmel

Following the rehearsal dinner, we were going to make our way to another bar. We followed the sound of a live band playing in a small courtyard. It was that wonderful alternative-post-grunge-hippie rock band The Spin Doctors. Tickets to get on the lawn were fifty-five dollars, but standing on the patio of an ice cream shop, we managed an up close vantage point from the wings with plenty of room to dance—and not have to pay the ticket price. I felt a little guilty. Here we were, a group of Gen Xers, best pals from summer camp where a few of us even recorded a lip synced video to “Two Princes” in 1993, with enough money to buy a ticket. We were the target demographic. And judging by our dancing and singing along, we were having the most fun of anyone else on that small lawn.

“I think I’m going to Venmo The Spin Doctors some money,” I told my friend Rory.

“What!?” he shouted, unable to hear me over the jangly guitars.

They closed with “Two Princes,” of course. I considered my Venmo idea again as we headed out to that bar. We saw them heading the opposite way. Them… MAGAites. A Trump Rally would be taking place the next day at Grand Rapids’ Van Andel Arena. They bore the standard garb: the red hats, the “Fuck Biden” and “Trump 2020” t-shirts. We scoffed our liberal scoff and ducked into the bar for our nightcap without a second thought.

The next morning, I got up, threw on my running shoes and headed out for a nice five miles through GR’s downtown. It was early, but the lines had begun forming at Van Andel Arena. Flags, hats, t-shirts all winding through the barricades. Cops patrolled the area. Huge pick-up trucks wrapped in Trump gear with flags attached to the backs of the beds patrolled, too. One truck had an image of Trump dressed like a 1930s gangster firing a Tommy gun with that angry, hateful face Trump loves to make. Next to the image, it read, “The more they convict, the more we support.” So, this is their candidate. The Law & Order candidate. The one they’re proud has been convicted of crimes and they position as a 1930s murderous criminal. The irony is completely lost on them. But I ran on.

More and more MAGAites filled the streets. The old, the middle-aged, the twenty-somethings, the youth. There were fleeting moments that one of the angrier MAGAites might catch a glimpse of me and shout something hateful because, judging by my morning workout, I was not one of them. Because judging by the MAGAites I saw, a morning workout is not in the MAGA playbook. But, of course, no one yelled anything at me. They probably thought nothing of me.

MAGAites are like ants. You see one or two and it’s not such a big deal. But when you see an army of them, it can feel a bit scary. They’re also like bees. Leave them alone and they won’t bother you.

I finished my run, making sure to run around the arena again just to see how it was growing. And it had. Tables and tents setting up to sell the usual swag. (A day later, it made me laugh thinking about all of the “Fuck Biden” gear I saw for sale. Money well spent. A point of pride down the drain. An entire campaign in upheaval.)

The arena was around the corner from my hotel. No MAGAites that I could see were staying there. I showered and headed out with Rory to the venue a few miles away. He was a groomsman. I was the officiant. We got dressed. Joked around with our friends. Played bags with the new bags boards the bride, Kristin, had bought for her groom, Doug. They were made solid and to look like NES video game controllers. A quality gift. We took some photos with the wedding party. I ducked out for some alone time to rehearse my ceremony. It was going to be a tough one to get through.

And not because I was at a wedding, officiating a wedding, in the midst of a quiet divorce that continues to haunt my mind and guts with taunts of regret and flushed potential. In fact, the weekend so far had been the longest stretch I’d gone without those taunts. Tough to get through because I didn’t want to pause the ceremony to compose myself as I spoke about Kristin’s parents’ own wedding anniversary being that day and how her father died a few years ago. Or, especially the part where they included Kristin’s twelve-year-old daughter. They each read vows to her about their care for her and how she’ll always have a family—a Doug— to support her throughout her life.

It was a wedding rich with great friends and family and a whole lot of love. Quite the opposite from the twisted love fest occurring a few miles away at the Van Andel Arena where Trump spewed the usual grievances. He played the familiar hits. The stuff that super fans flock to. They’d made the pilgrimage. Like Deadheads or Phishheads or Parrotheads.

The lesson is this: Love and Hate can coexist. You just have to choose your side. From my perspective, Love is not directing adoration at a man who is fueled by his personal hatred. Love is the laughter between old and new friends, the sweat that comes from leaving it all on the dance floor, the quiet moment of that wedding kiss, the precious moment when a (step-) daughter announces the couple for the first time. Love is marriage—not exclusively—but the idea of building something together with the goal of peace, understanding, and joy. If Love is patient, as The Corinthians wrote, then Hate is grievances.

And in Grand Rapids, Michigan that weekend, Love won.

And maybe, just maybe, Love is Venmoing The Spin Doctors a few bucks.