There’s a satisfying nostalgia about finding a campaign button from decades ago—Hoover, Perot, maybe even the matchbook from Aunt Helen’s City Council campaign.
These tokens remind us of the valiant launch of someone’s dream, followed by an expensive end. The hopeful politicians won’t make significant history — fading in a blink — so why not have a little piece of that moment in time.
That’s what initially prompted me to purchase the MAHA hat.
RFK Jr was struggling in the polls. I tossed money at his campaign a few times, not considering any other implication of my potential folly. Nothing extravagant. The hat was my largest expense.
His campaign website offerings weren’t anything I’d wear; a logoed sweatshirt, a bright T, but the hat…hmmm…even though ball caps don’t look good on me, this might look nice as décor on a hook in the mud room. And it certainly is great memorabilia!
I made my selection carefully, certainly not red! I don’t want to be mistaken for GREAT, just HEALTHY.
The hat arrived. Mottled grey with precise white stitching; MAKE AMERICA HEALTHY AGAIN stacked in block letters across the front and above the bill. Oh! This is cool! Much nicer than I thought! Subtle. Useful. And a collector’s item in years to come. Score!
My bathroom mirror agreed. No weird fit for me, the dome snugged perfectly.
I loved the ‘healthy’ message and wore the hat proudly. Knowing RFK wasn’t widely acceptable — at least in my own wider circle — my peripheral vision perused for disapproving stares, but there were none. Everybody was minding their own business. I might as well have been wearing a ubiquitous Colorado microbrew cap.
Relieved, I considered wearing it to the Arvada Art Festival coming up soon. It was so much smarter looking than that floppy Columbia sun hat that, although functional, made me feel frumpy.
The upcoming festival wasn’t just any outing; I’d invited a new acquaintance to join me.
She and I met while standing in line at the flower center. The conversation began with her mentioning she was new in town and didn’t know many people and ended with us making lunch plans.
As the Festival grew near, the nation was well into their political camps. Not wanting to create discomfort, I decided to get her ‘permission’ before making an egregious assumption by wearing a hat that had now become — by association — a significant political statement.
That day, the hat lay on the edge of the countertop, perky — waiting.
“Are you OK with me wearing this hat today?” I asked, holding it up proudly with an expectant grin.
“Well, I debated wearing my Harris T-shirt today.” She said with no other commentary for me to detect her vibe.
I grabbed the opportunity for a little playfulness. “Oh, I wish you had! That would have made my day,” I offered.
Such a subtle deference to friendship and the blending of ideals. Two friends, hanging together, enjoying art, drinking cool beverages and acknowledging competing ideologies. Truly, the melting pot that should be America.
But, alas, she didn’t wear her Harris T-shirt, so I left my beloved hat on the counter, donned the unflattering Columbian and off we went.
After that awkwardness, and once in the car, we quickly found common ground on which to land. While driving together, we recalled our lunch as a springboard and found ourselves talking about careers, community, hobbies and the like while we wound our way to the art festival about an hour away.
Photography and art were our common interests.
Lunch was especially poignant. We were ushered to a table in the nearly empty ‘back dining room’. The room was dark and cool — a serious respite from the concrete and heat outside. Sitting in the air-conditioned room, our individual political inclinations spilled onto the table. Was she waiting to unburden, or rather justify, herself? I can’t say. But we each shared our outlook and perspectives.
She was forthright and soft-spoken about her ultra-conservative upbringing and consequently was frozen in fear at the notion of Project 2025.
I could hear the fear in her voice when she said, “project 2025”. I felt something — not from agreement or disagreement, but from knowing the weight of inherited fear. I wanted to go deeper, but childhood supplants, and the resulting damage would be hard to traverse — in between mouthfuls of food, in that air-conditioned and dark room.
For me, I understood RFK Junior, not completely — of course, but enough to hope for movement toward transparency and trust in alternative health care. He spoke my language, a language I’ve spoken for the last forty years given my own medical traumas!
We see everything through our own filter, and this was no different…for either of us. I understood her fears, long held and lingering into adulthood. It was no different than my fears, sometimes irrational, but long held and lingering. In that, we were more alike than different.
She feared subjugation against her will. I feared medical control against my will — against my soul. I was terrified, as I’m sure she was too.
I thought our common ground was art, although in truth, it may have been shame and vulnerability at un-sutured emotional wounds.
The sharing was heartfelt and beautiful – the openness, the transparency. As I recall, her demeanor was non-combative, yet informative. Anytime someone mentions childhood wounds, it’s a time for compassion and respect. And that newly opened door, from my perspective, could gently become an invitation for future deepening.
In hindsight I realized the hat tainted my message. The hat gave my long held alternative healing beliefs a power that they never had before. Unbeknownst to me, that hat made me lethal.
By association, the hat represented a weapon of destruction to one and a weapon of liberation to another.
It’s hard to imagine this silly little hat could command such power. For her, this weapon would eventually suppress her. Make her relive a repressive childhood that she may still be trying to break free from. For me, the weapon represented freedom. Freedom to access healthcare that aligned with my long-held beliefs, in essence, a shield against those who would oppress and control me with a system of health care against my will.
The festival now over, the previous openness now closed, we headed home continuing our conversation of hobbies and art. I shared my goal of creating a photobook of historic homes. She shared her visions as well. Photography excursions pop up regularly. And sometimes it’s satisfying to grab the camera, find an abandoned barn, a field of flowers, paddleboarders on a lake…all fabulous photo shoot opportunities.
We decided to meet again around our shared love of photography, attending field trips, classes, and artistic outings.
But she was never available. According to her last text, she’d be busy the entire summer—with not so much as a day to spare.
I re-read her message a few times, wondering if I’d misread her all along.
Of course, people don’t always click. That’s a given. But we did!
This seeming incompletion begged for closure.
I couldn’t help but wonder…
Was it really the hat?
