When I started dating David Cook, the Romeo and Juliet jokes got old.
The Cook family came over on the Mayflower and pulled handcarts into the Salt Lake Valley, then made money manufacturing explosives and spent it on right-wing politics. On the other hand, my progressive parents converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Dad grew up with a single mom who rose from small-town hospitality jobs to become Colorado’s lieutenant governor. Mom’s parents were Holocaust survivors whose passion for human rights led Grandpa to the U.S. Congress, where he and Dave’s father were colleagues.
That our patriarchs were on opposite sides of the aisle went without saying. They might as well have been from different planets.
Dave and I were proverbial apples nestled comfortably close to our family trees. Before we met, he co-founded a new conservative party in the campus Political Union. I was a liberal vegetarian who ran a small nonprofit dedicated to planting native trees in damaged riparian habitats. And yet, we became inseparable. The repartee was addictive, and it all seemed harmless enough: We were teenagers, he was my first real boyfriend, and I knew life would inevitably take us in different directions. Which it did. But years later it brought us back together, and — joke’s on me! — next week we’ll celebrate our 18th wedding anniversary.
In the long symphony of our relationship, political disagreement has been a constant drumbeat. Sometimes, it’s charming, made-for-TV bickering; sometimes, the conflict feels bitter and brutal and broken. Almost always, we eventually agree to disagree. Every once in a red-white-and-blue moon, we’re astonished and bemused to find that we genuinely see eye to eye. Usually it’s about something like local zoning laws. But we’ve learned the power of spin: Take that minor zoning law and call it a major victory.
There was a time when each of us hoped for a Saul/Paul conversion moment, that a miraculous awakening would reveal to our partner the truth about their dangerous and misguided path. Those dreams have faded like vintage denim. Yet, miraculously, in accepting that we’re not going to change each other, we end up doing just that.
Living with Dave keeps me humble. In so many ways, he is a better person than I am. He has a generous heart and is willing to do the hard work of caring for his neighbors. If everyone were as capable and good as my husband, the policies on which we most ardently disagree would make perfect sense.
Meanwhile, I have no choice but to confront my own hypocrisies because the person I live with knows exactly how willing I am to put my money and my muscle where my mouth is. I can’t discount people who disagree with me as monstrous or dumb, because I know firsthand, intimately, my partner’s goodness and brilliance — and we definitely disagree. I understand more palpably that opposition in all things is real. I’m accepting that it is important.
Over the years, we’ve learned the hard way to give each other space to be who we always knew we were. When Sunday dinners with my outspoken family take a partisan turn, Dave will quietly slip out. He’ll play with the kids or do the dishes or take a walk or take a nap, each of which is a better choice than engaging with that adoring but merciless crowd.
Being together usually makes things better, but sometimes it doesn’t. On the evening of Jan. 6, 2021, when it became clear that our quiet neighborhood just outside the nation’s capital would remain undisturbed by the events playing out a few miles away, Dave hopped on his bike and went to sleep at my grandmother’s home. Her place, just two blocks from the Capitol, was empty, and ostensibly he was going to make sure everything there was OK. But we both knew we had a lot of complicated emotions to process, and breathing different air for a while can help with that.
I ask myself: in a parallel universe, if we met right now, would Dave and I ever even consider dating? The honest, painful answer is probably not. He still has the same captivating almost-blue eyes, and a magnetism some lucky men get as they age. His sparkling wit has ripened like a good pear: it’s juicy and smooth and beguiling. Knowing him better makes me love him more, and I feel like a fortunate woman every day, (with the notable exception of the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November).
But we exist in an altered landscape. The chasm of polarization is wider and colder and more treacherous than when we first fell in love. Political differences have taken on an impregnable, fatalistic air. If Dave and I weren’t already fully committed to this eternal experiment in duality and compromise, I’m not confident either of us would even consider swiping right on a political adversary. And that is a tragedy.
Marrying Dave is the best decision I ever made. Not just because he’s great, but because he makes me better. I am more honest with myself about what I actually believe. Because of his rigorous scrutiny, I’m more selective and thus more confident in my advocacy. There is no room for virtue signaling when your most significant stakeholder defines virtue with a totally flipped rubric. I recognize compromise is not just the realistic way — it is usually the best way.
Our eldest child isn’t old enough to date yet, but sometime down the road, I hope she brings home at least one or two people whose political opinions make me want to threaten violence across the Thanksgiving table. In the long run, though, I do hope it’s her dad who has to bite his tongue. I may have learned the virtue of compromise, but I still like to win.
Kimber Tillemann-Dick Cook is a home educator and kitchen-table activist. She lives in Chevy Chase, Maryland, with her husband, three children, and their dog, Frida Paprikás.