"Mrs Y" — my secret life on New York's Upper West Side

Quarantined somewhere on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, possibly just around the corner from where I’m sitting now, is a man I’ve wanted to meet since 2004. He calls himself Mr. X — at least that’s how he has signed his columns in the New York Sun about the tribulations of life as a closet conservative in one of the most liberal voting districts in America. He has popped up eight times since then, reporting everyday life as he — and I — experience it, in sardonic anecdotes that made me laugh out loud.

It’s hard to know how many conservatives there are on the Upper West Side. The UWS Republican Club meets in a larger room now than it did in 2004. But probably many on the right don’t bother to vote, since in our district Republican or Conservative Party candidates never, ever defeat those running on the Democratic, Working Families, Green and other progressive party lines.

Earlier this year my husband turned down a young man collecting signatures on the sidewalk for a Democratic candidate’s nominating petition. “I’m a registered Republican,” my husband explained. “Have you ever seen one?” The kid laughed.

But to many of our friends and neighbors, it’s no laughing matter. “Republicans should burn in hell,” a motherly woman in my little amateur orchestra said recently, her voice quivering with rage. In our synagogue, “social justice” is the eleventh commandment, and Trump is an abomination unto the Lord. An acquaintance calls her daughter’s high school “terrible” because though the classes are excellent, too many of the parents are Republican. One old friend, unable to tolerate my politics, blames my husband instead and scolds me for sleeping with the enemy. Most unnerving is how casually people who deplore all hatred can say — and on some level honestly mean — “I wish somebody would shoot the president.”

Because they believe that right-wingers are “evil,” friends and neighbours are reluctant to connect us with them. So long as we keep our mouths shut, most UWS people automatically assume we think as they do because we are literate and seem decent, just like them. And like Mr. X, we usually prefer to let their assumption stand.

It depends on the situation. With the woman who wanted Republicans to burn in hell, I felt called upon to reveal myself and ask whether she included me. After a second of shock and embarrassment, she nodded: yes, she did. On the other hand, with professional connections in the arts and the academy, it is smarter never to mention politics. And not only at work; Mr. X was afraid — with reason — that if the parents of his children’s classmates knew his politics, they would not allow any more play dates.

True, even with friends on the left who already know or suspect our rightward leaning, it is possible to enjoy dinner parties, warm feelings, good conversation. On such occasions, not only does everybody avoid politics; we avoid discussing books or plays or local real estate deals that might indirectly lead to politics, or turn out to be code for talking politics. If one of the guests does mention a conservative policy with contempt — because it doesn’t occur to him that anyone present could feel differently — my husband or I may speak up. Mildly. But I hate to fight, and no real discussion ever follows, so what’s the point? Is it worth ruining everybody’s evening — and maybe never being invited back?

Some people who know our politics seem to be thinking about it even when we are not. For some, I suspect, association with us reassures them that they’re broad-minded, maybe even daring. Not that they know exactly what we do think: if it’s a given that conservatives are evil, details are irrelevant. I remember only three people, ever, who have wanted to hear specifics. Once a virtual stranger, seated by chance next to me at a dinner party, was adventurous (or bored) enough to ask directly. (Note: how did she know my politics beforehand, unless she’d heard it gossiped about?) The second began, touchingly, that if my husband and I are Republican, it can’t be as bad as people say. (She lives in Berkeley, California, the left-coast’s equivalent of the Upper West Side.) The third has been a good friend too long to be happy thinking ill of us.

But realistically, when a friend, or casual acquaintance, waiting in the supermarket check-out line, gibes in passing at some Republican regulation or person, should I start explaining why I disagree? He voiced his opinion, assuming I agreed. He didn’t bargain on a discussion. Not in the check-out line. We’re both in a hurry. And I’m not a good talker under pressure, anyway.

An evening with people who agree on fundamentals — and they do exist even here — is simply easier all round. They won’t be horrified, won’t even roll their eyes, whatever I say. But if we want to engage only with our own kind, wouldn’t it make sense to move to a place where everybody shares our politics? Demographic studies suggest that that that is exactly what increasingly polarised Americans are doing.

It’s been almost three years since Mr. X last appeared. Has he given up on the UWS, this cozy village where we raised our children — its block parties and volunteer organisations, museums and concert venues, skyscrapers and playgrounds, cafes and parks, and the flowering trees along the Hudson River? Its friendly population, so congenial in every way but one?

Come back, Mr. X. I need you to help me keep pretending that this is a witty farce of secret identities. We didn’t know in 2004 that by 2020 conservative lecturers would be canceled and trigger warnings would silence professors. Maybe keeping our mouths shut is part of that same dangerous trend. We’re all supposed to believe in dialogue, even on the UWS. Is silence sensible and civilised or lazy and cowardly? Is this still a comedy?