By Carly McWilliams
In the past three months, I have seen countless tweets on my timeline jokingly claiming that Pete Buttigieg is a Republican due to his center-left policy positions and controversial record as Mayor of South Bend. These tweets usually make me laugh, but they also make me a little sick to my stomach with guilt, because even though I am not a supporter of Buttigieg for the presidency right now, I used to be.
When I first heard about Buttigieg last January, there was no real substance to his presidential campaign — no policy proposals, voting records or legislative successes to point to. Buttigieg’s initial brand was essentially being the opposite of Donald Trump, and he used certain traits like his youth, higher education and relative thoughtfulness to argue for his potential rather than his past. To me, his rhetoric of a fresh start was just what young people in America needed to hear, and it was enough to sustain my support as his campaign dragged on without concrete positions or plans.
It wasn’t just Buttigieg’s speeches that drew me into his candidacy. He represented something that connected with me personally — as another gay person from the solidly red state of Mike Pence, it meant a lot that someone who shared these important parts of my identity was becoming more nationally visible. His sexuality and Indiana roots were essential parts of his story, and his success came from the strength they gave him, rather than in spite of them. The persona Buttigieg made visible at the beginning of his campaign gave me hope for the future of my state, one I tended to love despite its quirks (read: deep-set conservatism).
Over the summer, though, something changed. The Democratic debates began, and I saw the truth in Buttigieg’s campaign. I noticed how he never adapted to constructive criticism, while other candidates did. He started releasing policy, but it wasn’t as progressive as many hoped. He came for his Democratic opponents with unwarranted, ugly attacks. He didn’t connect with nonwhite voters across the country. Every time I read something new about Buttigieg, my high hopes fell further and further until I realized that my heart was no longer in it. I wasn’t just swapping out which candidate I preferred, I was feeling completely disillusioned with a movement I had once believed in.
I started writing this article exactly one year after Buttigieg announced that he was launching an exploratory committee, and my experience has been bittersweet to look back on. I know now that I made a mistake. I undercut the promise of older candidates with real credentials for a small-town mayor who, as Senator Amy Klobuchar put it, wouldn’t be taken seriously as a candidate if he was not a man. But on the other hand, I can’t remember an earlier time that I’ve felt so excited about politics. The first few months of Buttigieg’s campaign felt like the tides of the country were starting to turn. Young people were excited, Midwesterners were excited, public figures in the LGBTQ+ community were excited. It was a moment I had never witnessed before on a national scale.
After taking a step back, I don’t know that I regret those months of my life that I spent believing in his campaign. I wish people did not recognize me as “the Pete Buttigieg girl” due to the photo I took with his husband Chasten, who I still follow on Twitter for other reasons (pictures of their dogs). But I can’t say I would take back the surge of hope and fighting spirit that my time supporting Buttigieg culminated in, and I don’t think I should feel guilty for that.