I received my absentee ballot back in early October. I filled out most of it without hesitation. The School Board race was a no-brainer—“Jeff” was my mom’s friend. For the U.S. House, I picked the incumbent who had served my community for 15 years—“Mike.” But not all of my choices were this simple.
I left a specific part blank: “President and Vice President of the United States.”
Friends from Harvard made the choice sound easy: “Vote for a fascist or a future of progress.” Meanwhile, my hometown friends argued the opposite: “Vote for someone who cares about us or for Biden 2.0.” I was torn.
Regardless of their opinions, neither option felt right to me. One felt like a betrayal of my school community; the other felt like a rejection of my roots. I didn’t want to let either of them down or disappoint either side.
I was first introduced to politics during the 2016 election, when my grandpa—unbeknownst to me—gave me a heavily biased “crash course,” listening to Rush Limbaugh and watching Fox News pushed my own beliefs to the right. I was all-in on MAGA: I staunchly watched Trump’s speeches, bought merch, and ranted to my family about the crazy lady that I saw as Hillary Clinton. But this phase faded, even before I came to Harvard. As I became increasingly educated, I found myself in a more moderate position. I still leaned right, but Trump’s extremism and rhetoric didn’t resonate as strongly as before.
This early exposure to right-wing media, and the feeling of looking back at what I now see as indoctrination, has had a different impact on me today: I now hate the feeling of unquestioningly agreeing with political echo chambers. I consider myself discerning, almost to a fault. Being in a bubble both at home and here was overwhelming, as I wanted to avoid indoctrination on both sides.
That didn’t matter much—until 2024, my first election as a voter. Despite disappointment over Nikki Haley’s primary loss, I remained adamant that I’d be casting my vote for Trump.
But when I sat down to fill in the bubble, I froze. I decided to postpone the decision and wait until I had to submit my ballot.
As I waited, the looming choice haunted me. My friends from home sent me Instagram reels “glazing” Trump. In contrast, I listened to classmates here rant about how tight the polls were: “How is the election even close?”
I kept returning to my desk drawer, staring at my ballot, and then tucking it away again.
Finally, I pulled it out and went with my gut: “Donald J. Trump J.D. Vance Republican.”
Was it a vote for my community? Both sides of Washington have devastated the Rust Belt (my home). Politicians had watched offshoring demolish the once glorious industrial backbone of the country. One writer for “Unherd” put it best when he said, “Folks here feel left behind — because they are.”
A vote for Harris felt like a vote for the “establishment,” which has been complicit in the Rust Belt’s demise.
However, I also considered it well-researched. Put simply, Harris hadn’t convinced me. She presented plans that went against my fiscally conservative mindset. Specifically, her plan to “eliminate price gouging”—implementing essentially socialist price controls—was awful. I felt we had too much unchecked illegal immigration, and while I didn’t fully align with Trump on the matter, Harris comparatively barely addressed the issue. Harris’s response to what she would have done differently than Biden over the past four years also strongly discouraged me. “There is not a thing that comes to mind,” she bluntly said.
However, I did align with Harris on certain issues. Climate policy specifically was an area where she had Trump beat in my eyes. It’s hard not to do better when Trump outright denies its existence. And while she was weaker on her border security messaging, I agreed with her plan to bolster legal immigration; we are a “land of immigrants” after all.
But the campaign optics didn’t help Harris at all. Trump repeatedly visited Rust Belt towns, reminding them that he was fighting for them and that their heyday would return. Harris also stopped in much of the Rust Belt, but it felt different.
The Democratic Party was once the party of the working class. Now, the factory workers in my hometown told me something different: they were voting against the “establishment;” they were voting for Trump.
Harris didn’t push against the “establishment” optics. The campaign used a strategy of celebrity endorsements and speeches on her campaign stops. Trump employed similar tactics but utilized them differently; summed up during his speech at a Pittsburgh rally: “We don’t need a star, because we have policy.” The concerts hosted for Harris felt less authentic and almost elitist, which stuck with me, especially as a student at a school often criticized for similar arrogance.
Some might disagree with every reason I listed above for my vote—even I look back and cringe at some of my thought processes. But this is not to convince people that I had the correct reasoning in who I voted for. This was my mentality then, and it is the thought I put into my vote.
I told no one about how I voted. Despite Harvard’s push for intellectual vitality, admitting this vote felt like social suicide. I knew stories of people losing friends over their politics. I agreed with widespread sentiment that Trump is an ‘awful’ person, but my vote didn’t come down to personality.
On a campus where 81% of students elected to vote for Harris in the 2024 election, I felt there was no way I could justify my conflicted yet ultimately conservative vote—I feared being “canceled.” I didn’t want to lose my school community. Now, I’m sure some people figured it out. I’m not quiet about my views. Nevertheless, I never explicitly disclosed my choice. And when Trump secured a decisive electoral victory, I convinced myself, “My vote was inconsequential anyway.” So I shrugged it off and continued with my life—class, weekends, clubs. My vote didn’t seem like it would impact the rest of my time here.
It is only now that I look back and feel regret.
I first became frustrated with some of Trump’s cabinet picks. Why was he nominating that awful person for Attorney General, Matt Gaetz? The rest of his unqualified cabinet wasn’t much better. At least there was Marco Rubio. Despite these concerns, I hoped that Trump’s policies would be better.
But the policies that followed didn’t change anything for me. I voted for someone I believed was a successful businessman who could manage the economy and save the Rust Belt. Instead, he imposed absurdly high tariffs on hundreds of countries using a formula that made zero economic sense, based solely on trade surpluses and ignoring other variables—tariffs that raised the price of manufacturing. The plan even extended to a remote island only inhabited by penguins. It was just madness.
Beyond the economy, there’s a long list of Trump’s policies that I now have grievances with, including his push to make Canada the 51st state, the renaming of the Gulf of Mexico, and the constant attack on DEI. Is this really what I voted for? It seems he has blown all the policies he preached on the campaign trail so far out of the bounds I thought he would ever take it.
Now here we are: Trump is actively trying to dismantle my school community. And I voted for it.
I’ve watched him work to destroy the research system that I came here for. He continues to threaten my international friends with deportation. I have listened to my international peers express fear about studying at this University, which we all came to together. To add insult to injury, his policies seem to hurt the manufacturing industry I sought to help.
And in the midst of it all, I am reminded of what I had decided in November. I can’t help but feel complicit. I am the “dumb, uneducated, brainless fool” that the liberals say handed Trump this presidency.
Do the people who found out my votes blame me for this? How can I support pushing back against a problem I feel I created? What can I do now?
I can’t change who I voted for in 2024—no one can. But I can change what I do next. I can support my peers and work to foster a more supportive community on this campus. I can educate myself better before I vote in the future—and realize the weight my vote will have—because no vote is inconsequential.
With the current state, staying involved is easier said than done. I have become so disillusioned with politics. The Republican party is being led down the drain by a terrible man, yet their moderate policies still align with more of my views. Democrats still resist many of my beliefs, yet they are the party of morality and tolerance. Students on campus don’t know how to separate votes for a party from a specific politician. Politics seems to drag me morally, mentally, and socially.
Yet even in this tumult, I have learned I need to listen to and consider others’ perspectives. I must self-critique and grow, because that is what college and being a participatory citizen mean. This article is the first step in my journey.
That being said, I still consider myself center-right. I agree with many of the viewpoints I used to have, but I now have an even greater understanding of politics and its implications. I’ve learned two things from my experience here: one, in reality, Trump doesn’t mesh with my views at all, and two, Trump lies. He painted a picture that played in my mind of America’s golden future, yet it’s been 100 days, and I’m still waiting to see a win come out of any of his policies.
You don’t vote with facts alone—you vote with identity. I am shaped by my school community, by my hometown, and by my own convictions—and my vote must reflect the well-being of all three.
Let it be known: not every Trump voter is proud of what’s happening. Some of us are reckoning with it. Some of us are trying to do better.
Anonymous hopes people understand that not all Trump voters are happy with the actions Trump is taking now.