My dad is one of my favorite people in the world. From when I was an angsty preteen to a depressed high schooler, he’d always have my back — whether I liked it or not. And while he and I have struggled in the past, we continue to have a great father-daughter relationship. When thinking about myself and who I’ve become, I can’t help but link my passions to my dad: he put me on to film and music and pushed me to be the best person I can be. Despite this, there is a dark underbelly to the friend-to-everyone person my dad appears to be. My dad is a fervent Trump supporter and has applauded his actions and attitudes since the 2016 election.

I understand that families will have their political disagreements. This is not unheard of in the entire 250 years our country has been established. But with the 45th and 47th President of the United States, Donald Trump, what it means to be a Republican or a disseminator of Democratic values has turned up on its head. 

In my 20 years of living, I’ve never identified as a Republican, nor will I ever. Even before Trump took office, I never saw myself as someone identifying with the morals or principles of an average Republican. In “Make America Great Again” terms, I’m what you’d call a “woke liberal.” But before I had any sort of understanding of American politics, I would identify myself with whatever my dad stood behind.

It’s a childish thing to do, but it’s something that almost everyone has presumably done. If your mom says she went to a specific college, then you grow up dreaming of following in her footsteps. When your dad has you listen to Depeche Mode and Pet Shop Boys, well, you’re going to be obsessed with them through association (and because they’re amazing). It follows that, when your dad tells you he’s a Trump supporter before you fully understand what that even means, you’re also going to say you support him.

One morning on my elementary school’s playground in sixth grade, I overheard peers of mine discussing the 2016 election. Some were saying they were pro-Hillary Clinton, while a few others discussed Trump. When it was my turn, I adamantly said that I liked Trump because my dad does. He must be a good, qualified president if my dad thinks so, I thought to myself. My opinion quickly changed when my classmate dropped the three words I could not yet comprehend but knew the gravity of: “Trump’s a racist.”

While my mind at 11 years old wasn’t as sharp as it is today, I knew from that moment that I would not be supporting a man like Trump. I only needed that one statement for me to dive deep into various articles discussing and critiquing everything about the newly elected president, Trump. My attitude toward my dad started to change then and there.

Right now, it’s nearing the end of Trump’s first year of his second term, and things could not be more bizarre. With Trump’s immigration policies and United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement (I.C.E.) expanding into every corner of the United States —  kidnapping people, even citizens, left and right — one has to take notice of the apparent rise of fascism. The silencing of free speech, the egregious display of wealth with the construction of the ballroom at the White House and the erasure of queer and racial history in this country are all contributing to this rise. The people around us — our dads, our mothers, our friends and family — who may support Trump’s rhetoric are, in a way, becoming the very same fascists we all read about in our grade school classrooms.

My father rescued me from an extremely dangerous household. When he and my mother divorced, I was in the midst of a split custody situation where one side was peace and the other was absolute chaos. My mother is and was a bipolar force to be reckoned with, who’d leave her child alone about 12 hours a day. The house was a mess, I’d be met with screams over any little thing that I did and I left with an anxiety disorder that I struggle with to this day.

At the cusp of my preteen adolescence, my dad and stepmom engaged in a custody battle that severely affected my mental well-being. While I was now at my dad’s full-time and safe from constant anger, I myself became a volatile teenager.

I’d lock myself in my room and would scroll endlessly on Tumblr all day, engaging in areas of the internet that would only damage my mental health even more. All the while, my dad would try to help me — no matter how much I fought back. 

I think it’s the fact that my dad has a skewed perception of women and emotions that makes me appreciate him trying to help. He was raised in a machismo, first-generation, Peruvian-American household where all things military and Republican were fundamental. He followed my grandfather’s footsteps in joining the Air Force and flourished in that career.

As I grew older and developed a passion for drawing and art, he’d go on to remark to all his friends on how talented I was. When I got awards in school for my grades, he’d brag about how smart his daughter was. And when I got accepted into UC Santa Barbara, he exclaimed with so much joy and hugged me tightly in the Costco checkout line, already bragging to the cashier about my latest achievement. 

He always tells me about the endless potential I have. Whenever I go to him with overthinking thoughts on whether or not I’d turn out like my mom, he quickly reassures me the opposite. Whenever I vent to him about my worries for the future and if I’ll be successful, he tells me again that I’ll be just fine. Whether these are to hush my anxious thoughts or not, it helps me tremendously with my own self-esteem. 

His other ego also shines through, sometimes. When I tell him that I’m feeling anxious, he’ll brush it aside, saying that I’m feeling this way “because I’m a woman” before reassuring me. Whenever we’re in public and someone happens to look different from his perceived norm, he’ll quickly point out his judgments — despite teaching me never to point and judge people in public. 

When he would drop me off at school — no matter what grade — he’d spot a young man walking and state how “gay he is” and how “he needs to man up.” But when I would introduce him to queer friends of mine, he would treat them with the same amount of respect and kindness he does to his family and friends. 

He’s known for being an avid “foodie” who knows where to eat around the world. With his background as a nurse in the Air Force, he would travel to Germany, Japan and Afghanistan. He’d instantly find the best restaurants or holes-in-the-wall to eat at and could recommend countless places no matter where you traveled. He loves talking to locals and learning about their cultures and practices, but when discussing communities of color in private, he’ll use deeply offensive slurs.

No matter what I’ve said or done to tell him his behavior is terrible, he won’t listen. He’s like an old dog that won’t learn new tricks. He’s stubborn in his thinking, and with the rest of our family thinking just like him, there’s excessive groupthink all around. Now, in Trump’s second term, things have gotten more bizarre, to say the least. 

When I visit home, no matter what time of day, Fox News is blasting from the living room television into his bedroom. He scrolls on Facebook about eight hours a day, constantly looking at far-right Instagram Reels and livestreams. He’ll repost 30 posts a day, all attacking “lib-tards” or messages with outwardly racist and homophobic tones.

With him raising a young woman, I wonder if he’s ever had a stance on abortion. I don’t exactly know how he feels. When I got on birth control at a young age, he didn’t mind, and when a friend of mine was raped, he leaped to tell me that if anything were to happen to her or any girl friend of mine, he’d help. I think about that a lot. 

But when I got into an argument with him and told him that he voted twice for a man who was taking away my rights — that there are girls in the country who are exactly like me, dealing with far worse outcomes — he didn’t seem to care. “They can go across state borders to get one!” he replied in defense. 

When the Jan. 6 insurrection happened, I wondered again if his stance on Trump would change. Instead, he told me Antifa was dressed up as MAGA Republicans to slander their name. That statement then and there showed me his cultlike worship he has toward Trump.

With Trump’s second term centering around I.C.E. occupation and the silencing of free speech, it is becoming increasingly obvious that this is a fascist takeover. Now, with the loud whispering of Trump planning to run a third term, it seems that’s where we’re headed. 

Hispanics and Latines are in detention centers, and media companies have to talk positively about Trump lest they’re met with multiple billion-dollar lawsuits. I.C.E. occupation has reached the threshold of my hometown, and all I see are local residents cheering on these kidnappings — my dad included.

In times like these, it seems infantile to justify my relationship with him on the basis of him being a good father. But this is my loved one, who I believe is brainwashed and has been taken advantage of by far-right propaganda. The father I knew years ago would not have aligned himself this much with Trump, but perhaps my perception of him has always been wrong. 

When I hear my peers talk about similar instances with their grandparents or family members, it’s all in the same gray area. These people have been nothing but great to those around them, but their political affiliations teeter on fascism and are reminiscent of Nazi rhetoric. Is this what the current state of our country is now? Seeing these role models in our lives turn towards far-right nationalism? Me and others can only try to disparage them, but unfortunately we’re a stubborn country.

Isabella Leon reflects on how great a father her dad is — that is, until he opens his mouth and discusses his personal politics.