How to Raise Kids With Your Core Values When Living in MAGA Times: Practical Parenting Tips
Last month, I leaned against my dented 2012 minivan waiting for my 12-year-old son Javi to finish after-school soccer practice, a lukewarm iced coffee sweating through its cup in my hand. Three dads stood 10 feet away, one in a faded red MAGA hat, arguing about the recent school board vote to keep gender-affirming books in the middle school library. He laughed loud enough for me to hear that any parent who lets their kid read that “garbage” is “grooming them.” Javi walked out right then, stopped short when he heard, and climbed into the backseat without saying hello. By the time I pulled out of the parking lot, he asked, “Why does that dad hate gay people so much he wants to take away their books?”
I fumbled my coffee, spilling a few drops on the center console. This isn’t the first time this has come up. We live in a small town in western Pennsylvania, where more than 60% of voters went for Trump in the last election. My own dad, who we see every Sunday for dinner, votes that way. Javi’s soccer coach, his best friend’s dad, our regular cashier at the grocery store—most of the people we see every day lean into MAGA politics. I didn’t grow up here, but I’m raising my kid here, and I can’t just pack up and move to a blue city bubble. That’s not an option for most of us, anyway.
A week after the soccer practice incident, Javi came home from school upset. He’d brought his favorite Heartstopper graphic novel for free reading period, and a boy in his class told him his dad says that book is dangerous and shouldn’t be allowed at school. Half a dozen other kids nodded along. Javi didn’t know what to say, so he just put the book away and didn’t talk about it the rest of the day.
I sat with him on the couch while he ate a cherry popsicle, and I thought about all the vague advice I’ve seen online: “Talk to your kids about values.” “Stand up for what you believe.” None of that tells you what to actually say when your 12-year-old is looking at you like the world just made less sense.
The first thing I’ve started doing that works is skipping the long political lectures. When Javi asked me about the dad at soccer, I didn’t rant about Trump or far-right extremism or explain the entire history of the GOP’s anti-LGBTQ+ platform. I just said, “That dad believes something really different than we do. He thinks that talking about gay and trans people in books hurts kids, and we believe all kids deserve to see themselves in stories, and no one gets to take that away. What do you think about that?” It’s short, it’s clear, it gives him space to respond instead of just talking at him. That day, he said, “That’s stupid. If I want to read the book, that’s my business.” I just said, “I agree with you.” That was it. No need for more that day.
The second thing I do is make my actions clear when we’re around family and friends who disagree, instead of pretending everything is fine to keep the peace. A few Sundays ago, my uncle made a joke at dinner about “illegals” taking construction jobs around town. Javi was right there, eating his mac and cheese. I didn’t start a screaming fight that would ruin dinner for everyone, but I didn’t laugh or look away either. I said, “Uncle Rick, Javi’s best friend Miguel’s parents are both immigrants working construction here. They pay their taxes, they coach the rec baseball team, that joke isn’t okay, and I don’t want that kind of talk at my table.” Javi saw that. He doesn’t just hear my values—he sees how I act on them when it’s uncomfortable. Kids pick up on that way more than they pick up on what I say when we’re alone.
I also don’t force Javi to write off people he loves just because they vote differently. A few months ago, he asked me, “Grandpa is the nicest guy I know. Why does he vote for people who want to get rid of abortion for women like mom?” That’s a hard question, but I didn’t lie. I said, “Grandpa grew up in a different time, and his church teaches him abortion is wrong. He cares more about that one issue than he cares about all the other bad things those politicians do. I don’t agree with him, not even a little, but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad person. We can love someone and still disagree with them on really important stuff.” That helped him make sense of it, instead of feeling like he has to choose between loving his grandpa and believing what we believe at home.
Some weeks it goes well, some it doesn’t. Last week, Javi got into an argument with another dad at the playground and called him a racist, and we had a long talk on the way home about how calling names usually just makes people shut down, even when you’re right. I still mess up too—once I stayed quiet when a cashier made a transphobic comment because I didn’t want to cause a scene, and Javi called me out on it later. I apologized, and we talked about why it’s hard to speak up sometimes, and that it’s okay to get it wrong sometimes, too.
We still have our 10-minute chat in the car once a week, after school, when we drive to get ice cream. We just go over anything weird or mean anyone said that week, and talk through it. It’s not perfect. There’s no neat fix for raising kids in a time when politics feels like it’s seeping into every part of everyday life, from soccer practice to Sunday dinner. But this works for us, most days. We’re still figuring it out.
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