My J6 Neighbor Was Released From Prison By Trump. I’m Furious About What Happened The Day He Got Home.

Last week my next-door neighbor was pardoned for his role in the Jan. 6 insurrection. When his sister called my home to announce his imminent return, I was shocked at my husband’s enthusiasm to welcome him home.

“We’d love to have him over for dinner to celebrate his homecoming,” he said.

I glared at him with my mouth agape. How did he expect me to share a table with a Proud Boy?

When I asked my husband why he instantly invited him over, he replied, “He’s our neighbor, and we should be neighborly.”

It’s as if my husband wants bygones to be bygones. I wonder if he’s thinking that what’s done is done and there’s nothing we can do about it, so we might as well be nice and move forward.

“You understand I won’t be there, right?” I told my husband.

“Do we really have to discuss this now?” he asked, not taking my concerns seriously after working a double shift.

I’ve been emotionally distraught since our neighbor was released from prison along with all the other Jan. 6 rioters Trump pardoned.

My husband and I have both avoided watching or reading or listening to the news since the election, thereby sheltering ourselves from reality. I was doing well keeping my anxiety at bay until Friday when we learned about our neighbor’s release. 

My husband’s invitation, in my opinion, gives the impression we aren’t outraged over our neighbor’s illegal actions. It’s as if we’re welcoming him home from a six-month vacation instead of incarceration for a violent crime.

Before his imprisonment, our neighbor didn’t hide the fact that he was a Proud Boy, and our whole neighborhood witnessed the FBI surrounding his property, red lights whirling and speakers blaring, “Come out with your hands up,” when he was arrested for his participation in the events of Jan. 6.

Despite our political differences, he has always been friendly, protective of our property when we’re out of town, and willing to go out of his way to help us with projects or when we needed a helping hand. In return, while he was imprisoned, my husband cut his grass and watched over his house during the recent hurricanes.

His first morning home, our neighbor returned the hummingbird feeder that had landed behind his house during Hurricane Helene or Milton. Our dogs wagged their tails as he reached over the fence to pet them. My mom, who lives with us, walked over to say hello. I refused to join them.

From the table under the lanai drinking coffee in my pajamas, I could hear him regale my mom with the story of his release from prison.

“After Trump pardoned us, the D.C. mayor wasn’t planning to let me out,” he said, explaining his Proud Boy mates were waiting outside the federal penitentiary and threatening to call in their members and start a mini J6 if he wasn’t released. Their motto is to “leave no man behind,” he exclaimed.

“Trump was circling above in a helicopter watching the scene of Proud Boys chanting, ‘Let him free,’” our neighbor explained to my mom.

I listened, fuming, as he complained about the 4XL clothes the prison guards dressed him in, and which made him look like a “homeless person.” He said he was eventually let out the back door instead of into the fanfare of his gathered friends.

Our neighbor said he was unfamiliar with the area, so he wandered over to a restaurant where he saw people wearing MAGA hats. Feeling safe, he asked if he could use someone’s phone. When he explained he had just been pardoned for the Jan. 6 riot, the patrons of this restaurant shook his hand and offered to buy him a meal.

At that point in the story, I couldn’t stand listening to anymore of his bolstering and walked into our house.

I was raised Catholic, so being nice, kind and generous were family traits that were instilled in me from a young age. Every Thanksgiving, New Year’s Eve or any other holiday, my mom would always invite an acquaintance or even a stranger to our house because they had nowhere else to go.

The virtues of “do unto others as you’d like to be treated,” and “treat your neighbor as yourself” have been drilled into my head, along with the Thumper rule: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.”

But I’m not ready to forgive and welcome my neighbor back with open arms. I don’t know if I will ever be. Still, I’m a strong believer in forgiveness. I know it releases the burden of anger and resentment on myself and can lead to improved mental and physical health.

On the other hand, I don’t think the images of a mob violently attacking our Capitol, assaulting police officers and attempting to overturn the 2020 U.S. presidential election will never go away. For me, it’s just like the 9/11 terrorist attack — the memories are still there, even decades later. Every time I see an airplane fly too low or near a building, I cringe, afraid it’ll strike. And now, every time I see my neighbor, fury for those who tried to overthrow our government burns in my stomach.

I commend my husband for being able to separate my neighbor’s actions from the nice guy he is around our home. Part of me wishes I could do the same to unburden myself of this anxiety. But the idea of breaking bread with my neighbor after he took part in an effort to overthrow our government stresses me out even more. Far from my neighbor feeling remorse for his actions, he is victorious. I wouldn’t be able to swallow his nonsense, let alone food.

I told my husband he is free to invite whomever he wants to dinner, but if it’s a Proud Boy, I won’t be at the table with them.

Melania Murphy is a freelance writer in Florida.

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