When I arrived in Manhattan, it was obvious grace was in short supply. But I saw glimpses of it in the smallest encounters.
As I walked to the back of the room, flushed with adrenaline after speaking to a crowd, a woman grabbed my arm. She whispered loudly and urgently: "You're really brave to be talking about this here."
The "here" was midtown Manhattan. The "this" was moral beauty — courage, empathy, decency and forgiveness. I always knew it would feel odd, flying to America to talk about grace after the presidential election. Earnestness is about as welcome as wrinkles in New York City — it's not that it's terrible, you're just surprised to see it there.
All year, I had been both looking forward to and slightly nervous about launching my book Bright Shining: How Grace Changes Everything in a city that never forgets, never forgives, let alone never sleeps. Especially after an election riven with violent threats, ugly insults and polarisation that often resembles cyber trench-warfare.
I kept wondering if I would feel like a vegan turning up to a Texan barbecue. No matter how lovely your lentil sausages, they might not really be the right vibe.
When I arrived, from hotel to horizon, it was obvious grace was in short supply. Ugly, triumphant crowing followed the presidential election. Threats of violence, racism and sexism curled in the air like charmed snakes. Black people across the country — college students, professionals and children — received hateful mass-generated texts informing them they had been "selected to pick cotton at the nearest plantation".
Trump supporters goaded people with statements like: "Your body, my choice", "Build the gallows!" and "Gays, back in the closet". The Taliban even congratulated Americans on not electing a woman. The Taliban.
All of this was starkly at odds with the triumphant Donald Trump's promise to "heal our country" in his victory speech, even though throughout his presidential campaign people (political opponents, immigrants, Puerto Ricans, women) were referred to as garbage, vermin and bitches. The country has been marinating in a culture of contempt and cancellation, increasingly keening to violence.
Research by Lilliana Mason, associate professor of political science at Johns Hopkins University, found nearly 50 per cent of people who identify with one side of politics see the other side as "evil". Vice President Kamala Harris was repeatedly called the "Anti-Christ".
On the night of the "really brave" comment, I had been interviewed by the singular New York Times columnist, Maureen Dowd. She opened by saying while we were good friends, the idea of grace was somewhat foreign because she had always loved vengeance. She had long kept a written "Dead To Me" list which she once accidentally left on the shuttle on the way from Washington DC to New York. The crowd roared with laughter.
I tried to counter by arguing that acting with grace — giving people the benefit of the doubt, showing mercy, fortifying bridges, recognising common humanity, not stereotyping or defining people by the worst they have done — was not weak but required strength. That it may seem countercultural but is the best of who we are, and what we hold onto when all seems bleak.
That although grace seems absent from the political stage, we see it all around us, in hospitals, schools, aged care homes, blood donation centres — people giving of themselves because there is a need, not because the recipient deserves it, not because of something they have done or because of the way they think, vote or look. And that it is contagious — the more we see it, the more likely we are to act that way ourselves.
But it is a time of retribution in the US right now.
It is also a time of resignation. New York is of course a Democrat stronghold, and I had clear memories of the raw rage of 2016 when Trump defeated Hillary Clinton, the plethora of post-it notes of grief dotting the subway, the protests and marches and pussy hats. There was a feverish, palpable energy then.
This time, whilst Trump voters were more visible, and defiantly cheerful, Democrats seemed quietly stunned and almost fatalistic. The vote was so decisive.
Some people were wearing black, in mourning. I got invited to a "Dance Away the Gloom" party at Princeton. Professors at Barnard and Columbia shortened classes or gave their students the day off for the purposes of self-care, giving them space "to breathe and go a bit slower", or "connect with friends, loved ones, sleep for an hour to catch up [or] take a walk".
Tabloids contained stories like that of the principal in Ohio who was suspended for writing a note to staffers acknowledging some were struggling with the election results and "pain, uncertainty and division". She encouraged them to "move towards the light", and was quickly chastised and punished.
Commentators were mocking Democrats as woke idiots shedding "liberal tears". Bill Maher spoke of "Queers for Palestine" T-shirts and people "still wearing masks, two years after the pandemic ended" and said no one had a monopoly on stupid.
But on Wall Street, JPMorgan Chase chief executive Jamie Dimon said that bankers, irrespective of who they voted for, were "dancing in the street" after Trump's win, anticipating the slashing of regulations. You could almost hear the grind of the sluice gates opening, preparing for the wealth to slosh in.
I have long known that grudges are both currency and weaponry in New York. Take author, orator and longtime New Yorker Fran Lebowitz who is, in her words, "an incredible grudge holder". She told 7.30's Sarah Ferguson: "People are always saying, the desire for human vengeance is not a high human desire. But it's very satisfying … Holding grudges is just another word for having standards."
I understand the importance of removing malignant people from your life — but do we need to hold those feelings forever?
In the New York Times, author Alex McElroy put the case for grudges, while arguing they should be reserved for small "harms and annoyances": "The best grudges are small, persistent and powerful, like an ant hauling a twig."
We know, though, that holding grudges can diminish our physical and mental health, while forgiveness can make us better. Researchers define a grudge as "sustained feelings of hurt and anger that dissipate over time but are easily reignited". A 2021 American study found that "holding a grudge is a cyclical process characterised by persistent negative affect and intrusive thoughts that interfere with one's quality of life. Over time the intensity of these thoughts and emotions abates, leaving individuals in a state of passive acceptance, in which the negativity is lurking in the back of their minds waiting to be summoned when needed."
It's the lurking negativity that worries me, the prospect of reawakening feelings that might otherwise dissipate.
Other studies have shown grudges can make you pessimistic, and perform more poorly in a fitness test; isolate you socially, heighten the risk of cognitive impairment, depression, anxiety and stress. Letting go of grudges, or accepting the humanity of someone who has harmed you can have the opposite effect.
One night in New York, I had dinner with a Hollywood luminary who told me his therapist had told him to try to understand the wounds in people who had harmed him. This, he said, was possible. Second, the therapist said he needed to forgive them. My friend responded firmly: "No. I will not do that. I will not forgive." Seeking revenge is like Ritalin, he said, it gives focus, energy and purpose.
Another friend at the table nodded: "It gives you strength."
So I sat in an underground Japanese restaurant on the Upper East Side, drinking whisky and wondering, not for the first time in my life, if I was somewhat of a fool. Grace and forgiveness, were they just tepid distraction in a vast, teeming, cut-throat city like New York? Like offering a tissue to a rabid dog?
That night, in my hotel, I lay in my bed thinking: Do I need a "Dead to Me" list? Who would be on it? Is it in fact a mode of self-preservation, or a secret to success? Can't I just walk away from people who harm me, stop thinking about them, move along to a sunnier clime? Why waste thought or energy on those people?
I am still thinking about this. But what happens when grudges against individuals become grudges against entire swathes of the population? Or simply when crankiness towards friends, acquaintances, family and community members who vote differently calcifies and grows ugly?
The challenge, now, for Americans to get along with each other is significant. Over the past few years, more Americans have been moving to parts of the country where people are more likely to agree with their political views. Red postcodes are getting redder, in other words, and blue bluer.
Analysis by political scientist Larry Sobato in 2022 found that the number of counties where at least 80 per cent of registered voters choose the same candidate (from the major two parties) — called "super landslide counties" — grew from six per cent in 2020 to 22 per cent in 2024.
This trend — of people shifting to regions of like-minded people, creating a kind of geographic homogeneity — was identified in 2008 by journalist Bill Bishop, in an analysis not of states but smaller groups, of cities and neighbourhoods. In a book titled The Big Sort, he argued that Americans were clustering more and more with people they agree with, whether it be on politics, religion or "lifestyle". He found college graduates beginning to congregate not just in cities, but particular cities; small clubs and community groups becoming more blue or red, mega churches designed for "cookie cutter parishioners" and businesses targeting similar-thinking "image tribes". Americans were being both drawn into similar groups and herded in.
The Big Sort was released in the year Barack Obama was promising a united, better America, and won. In 2004 Obama had garnered national attention when he stood on stage at the Democratic National Convention and declared that there were no red or blue states, just the United States. Bill Clinton referred to Bishop's book frequently during Obama's presidential campaign, saying: "Some of us are going to have to cross the street, folks."
But since then, the trend has become more acute. Bishop looked at presidential elections, and measured counties by a smaller metric — of 60 per cent of the major party vote. Now it's 80 per cent.
Do clusters breed contempt? Are we more likely to have disdain for people who think or vote a different way if we never meet them? If they never tend to our sick parents, teach our children, run our councils, cut our hair, head our organisations, staff our libraries? Surely the answer is yes.
The subtitle of The Big Sort was "Why the Clustering of Like-Minded America is Tearing Us Apart". Bishop wrote: "Americans are increasingly unlikely to find themselves in mixed political company … pockets of like-minded citizens that have become so ideologically inbred that we don't know, can't understand, and can barely conceive of 'those people'."
It then becomes less about voting for people, but against them, about picking sides. It becomes about identity, being against instead of for something. Bishop told a journalist in 2022 that Trump instinctively understood this: "It's gone from splitting up the goods of society to: Is politics giving me an opportunity to express my identity?"
There's a reason that Trump leapt upon Joe Biden's statement this year that Trump supporters were garbage (he had meant to say that the Trump supporting comedians who called Puerto Rico garbage were garbage, but it was a damaging gaffe).
Many people are sick of being dismissed, laughed at and not taken seriously, being called idiots or denigrated for saying the wrong thing. In a matter of hours Trump was driving a big garbage truck in a high-vis vest, showing again his canny political instincts.
Hillary Clinton's "basket of deplorables" comment was the lowest moment in her 2016 campaign; she baldly claimed that a full half of Trump's supporters were "racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, Islamophobic — you name it". Trump would later thank "deplorables" for his victory, having assured them: "While my opponent slanders you as deplorable and irredeemable, I call you hardworking American patriots who love your country."
Is it getting harder to recognise that people on different political "sides" love the country too? When Obama was inaugurated, in 2008, Bishop wrote in a new edition of The Big Sort: "The message people living in a democracy must understand more than any other message is that there are Americans who aren't just like you, they don't live like you, they don't have families like yours, and they don't think like you, they may not live in your neighbourhood, but this is their country, too."
These are not abstract disagreements and theoretical insults. They have entered American — and indeed many Australian — homes and bedrooms.
A survey of 2,201 adults in October found that, because of disagreement over "controversial topics", one in five Americans had become estranged from a family member (21 per cent), blocked a family member on social media (22 per cent), or missed a family event (19 per cent). Roughly double that said they had argued with a relative about these subjects, with almost half of 18-34 year-olds saying so. Six per cent of all respondents said they expected family relations to worsen after the election.
Large numbers of Americans report that politics is making them sick, according to research undertaken during the last Trump administration. Those with the most extreme views report especially poor health, with one study linking those views to the onset of mental health and sleep disorders.
Recognising this, the American Psychiatric Association earlier this year compiled a list of tips on how to discuss politics without compromising your mental health. They advised caution and suggested: "Difficult conversations can be better in person than in writing because there can be more of a give-and-take and shared time." They also suggested: "If someone is unlikely to change their mind or unlikely to engage with respect, it may be better to let the moment pass. Similarly, consider your own position — are you willing to be open to listening to the other person's views and opinions?"
These kinds of rifts were acknowledged frequently during the Democratic National Convention held in August. Whilst skating close to sounding superior, Barack Obama advocated tolerance: "After all, if a parent or grandparent occasionally says something that makes us cringe, we don't automatically assume they're bad people. We recognise that the world is moving fast, that they need time and maybe a little encouragement to catch up… Our fellow citizens deserve the same grace we hope they'll extend to us."
Tim Walz, the vice-presidential nominee, spoke of the importance of community: "That family down the road – they may not think like you do, they may not pray like you do, they may not love like you do, but they are your neighbours. You look out for them, and they look out for you."
Oprah Winfrey spoke in a similar vein: "When a house is on fire, we do not ask about the home owner's race or religion, we do not wonder who their partner is or how they voted."
Fundamental to grace, or decency, is looking out for people you disagree with or even dislike. And recognising that people we disagree with politically still have values. A September 2024 Gallup poll found the number of Americans who think the country is divided on the most important values is at a record high of 80 per cent. But a similar finding in an Ipsos poll in January was balanced with the recognition that seven out of 10 Americans also think most Americans want the same things out of life. They also found growth in support for bipartisanship and community.
Where I saw the signs of grace in America, as usual, was in the people around me, in the smallest encounters. Over breakfast, I smoothed over cracks with an old friend I had lost contact with after a turbulent divorce. I held the hand of an elderly, ailing, brilliant scholar in Princeton who beamed at me from his sick bed as we laughed about the improbable fact that he could read and write in 26 languages (one time he was in hospital, he decided to learn Welsh, for fun, and had mastered it by the end of his stay. Oh, for a brain like that!).
My best friend from primary school flew over from Oregon to come to my book launch; I had not seen her for decades, but knew her teenage daughter had died in a car accident last year. I worried words would be useless given the immensity of her grief, but we drank wine and talked for hours. I looped my arm through hers as we walked along the street, and she rested her head on my shoulder.
I apologised to a close friend for repeatedly disappearing from view and shutting down when I get sick and thanked her for being the kind of person who would fly across the world in a blink despite that.
I drank margaritas with my oldest friends, women who flew from Los Angeles and San Francisco. We met when we were all three years old in Germany, when they were mischievous toddlers. Now they are magnificent women making documentaries, providing therapy and financial advice. Having danced and muddled our way through decades together, not always in sync but always with a fierce love, we decided to ink our friendship on our arms.
I also met with a former, much-loved boyfriend who I had stupidly, inadvertently hurt and we hugged.
You'll most often hear pollsters asking people how divided, hostile and violent we feel about each other, about the frustrations of politics and the deafness of wealthy powerbrokers. We hear less about how many of us yearn for community, for answers, for decency, for connection. All around me, I saw people tending to other people. Elderly parents, needy children, fractured families, wobbling relationships, traumatised patients, confused clients, curious audiences.
Bill Bishop is acutely aware his "The Big Sort" of 2008 is now "The Bigger Sort". He gets around it personally, he says, by living in a small town, where people help one another.
He tells the story of a hurricane hitting his county, where 80 per cent voted for Trump: "Most people who got flooded out were Hispanic, and the Catholic priest got up and said, 'We need to help these people. But if you ask them for their names, addresses, Social Security numbers, all that stuff, they won't come because a lot of them are illegal. So don't ask.' And there was no discussion. People just agreed: We're helping — we're not asking. And so people just came in. They got helped."
When you're working on a problem that's right in front of you, he says, "and it's not abstracted and it's not about identity, it's about somebody's hungry and doesn't have any clothes, then all those other issues begin to go away. They go away and you deal with people as they are and not as an ideologue. And it's a great feeling. It is the greatest there is. You solve this problem not by talking about it, but by doing stuff. So don't talk about it — do something. We're not going to become good people and get over this modern problem because of a great leader. We're going to get over it because we work with others who aren't like ourselves."
Helping strangers, looking out for the vulnerable, walking alongside each other, even going back to people you loved to tell them you are sorry, understanding that we all make mistakes because we are human, and yet that it is still, somehow, always possible to see the beauty in each other. Insisting that this is the stuff that matters.
That's where I saw grace in America this year: in friendship, in loyalty, in love. Like water particles in air, imperceptible, but also unmistakeable, always there.
Credits
Words: Julia Baird
Illustrations: Lindsay Dunbar
