I’m not leaving my America. I’m leaving Trump’s.

Credit: Handout

Credit: Handout

Now I know better. Fear weaponized, simple scapegoats offered — this toxic cocktail blinds people. It happened in Germany. Bosnia. Myanmar. Cambodia. Stalin’s Russia.

Less than a month ago, my heart dropped like a lead weight. The nightmare came home.

Fury and fear have been spinning in my head ever since. Donald Trump will soon be president again — this time with a MAGA-led Republican Congress and a rubber-stamp Supreme Court ready to green light whatever hateful agenda he couldn’t finish the first time.

He’s armed and ready to bulldoze decency. For a horrifying number of Americans, the misogyny, racism and antisemitism didn’t matter — or, worse, they liked it. That’s not just alarming; it’s sickening.

Back in the “good old days,” we were taught that the early stages of fascist regimes often began with the subtle normalization of hatred and the systematic erosion of rights — all disguised as efforts to protect security or preserve tradition. We learned that shameful episodes like Operation Wetback in the 1950s served as clear warnings of what not to do, just as the Nazi ghettoization of Jews was a stark reminder of the depths to which humanity could sink when fear and prejudice take the wheel.

Now? We’re banning books. Arresting librarians. Threatening teachers. Demonizing education itself.

It’s hard to even fathom what they’re teaching today — if teaching is still a priority at all. It feels as if the ugliest chapters of history are being exhumed and replayed, no matter the price society pays.

Look, we’re not in Kansas anymore. This is Nazi Germany territory.

The past few months have left me shaken. My family — the people I live for — represents every group MAGA has decided to target. So I’m leaving. I’m packing my family and moving abroad.

But I’m not leaving my America; I’m leaving Trump’s.

Credit: Joyce Ferder for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

Credit: Joyce Ferder for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

This isn’t a decision made lightly. In our house, we’ve seen too much of the inhumanity humans are capable of. My wife spent years in combat zones as a TV photojournalist and video editor.

In 2020, as journalists in the United States were beaten on live TV during the George Floyd protests, it was like a portal opening to her past. The chaotic scenes on screen mirrored the brutality she had endured in Panama, Argentina and Iraq — where right-wing regimes didn’t just suppress dissent but actively targeted journalists like her. Until then it was easy to wrap ourselves in the belief this could never happen here.

Now, however, every night the news feels like a barrage of emotional land mines. The parallels between other hellscapes and what’s happening here are coming too fast and too frequently for comfort. I’ve stopped lobbing in the occasional “It won’t happen here” because I no longer know that for sure.

My own history might not be as harrowing, but I’ve spent more than a decade as a crime reporter, followed by another decade helping the Marine Corps recruit young men and women. Those experiences taught me how vast populations look to their leaders for stability — and what happens when that trust is betrayed.

I’ve seen too many terrified faces — people losing their homes, their loved ones. I’ve witnessed the cruelty strangers inflict on those they deem “lesser.”

Ironically, the military, which many fear Trump will turn against fellow Americans, gives me hope. I know it includes decent men and women who take very seriously the Constitution they vow to defend and who will stand up for what’s right.

But I can’t sit idly by, praying authorities don’t come for my immigrant neighbors. I won’t watch them try to erase my son, strip away my daughter’s rights or escalate antisemitic rhetoric into action. I can’t gamble on this ending well.

This isn’t about losing an election. I’ve lived under more Republican presidents than Democratic ones — loyal opposition is practically a reflex. But this? This time it is different.

We’re watching the fabric of our society, our culture, get shredded in front of us. In Texas, they offer bounties for turning in women seeking abortions. Across red states, cruelty is being legislated with zeal — banning water breaks for road crews, criminalizing compassion, targeting LGBTQ+ people as public enemies. Decency is a crime; hate is a virtue.

This is not my America.

It’s not just the policies. I fear the swarms of emboldened bigots letting their hatred rage even more than I fear our government. Nazis marching in Ohio? Anonymous text messages telling LGBTQ+ citizens to report to reeducation camps. You see the angry entitlement, and the vicious disparaging rhetoric daily now.

Neighbors turning on neighbors. Cultural differences being criminalized. Children weaponized as pawns in deportation schemes. We’re teetering on the edge of a free fall into rock bottom, pulling anyone with a shred of decency down with us.

I know the trolls will come for me now that I’ve spoken up. But I’ll take the marketplace of ideas over fear any day. And hey, if any of you can explain — rationally — why I should stay, I’m all ears. Go ahead, convince me. I’d love to hear it.

Yes, I could shut my eyes and wait it out for four years. As a 62-year-old white man, I have the privilege of insulation. But turning a blind eye has never been the answer, and it won’t start being one now.

I believe I have an obligation to make the world better for those around me. Until now, that meant leaning into the fight: donations, phone banks, petitions, protests. But now, the risk is too close for comfort.

After too many sleepless nights and endless spirals of “what if,” we’ve chosen a future in Northern Ireland. It’s a place with its own scars, but those scars tell a story of hard-fought peace and dialogue — two things we’re starving for here. And, bonus, over there, removing guns from society was an obvious part of the solution, not part of the chaos.

In Northern Ireland, my family will be able to finally breathe, thrive and focus on building something meaningful — instead of just surviving. Plus, they supposedly speak the same language as us. Well, sort of.

Yes, family and friends have asked if we’re sure — and if it must be now.

The answer to both is a resounding yes. History has shown us that the window for making a secure environment can close all too rapidly. I want my family and friends to know they can always hop a flight to safety and sanity. We plan to help anyone who follows. Humanity is a collective effort.

Leaving is hard. Uprooting our lives adds an entirely new layer of complexity. Selling our home isn’t just about finding a buyer — it’s about walking away from the first house my wife and I bought, the one where we designed our dream yard and filled every room with memories.

For my mother, who’s in her 80s, the challenge is even greater. She’s leaving her grandchildren and the life she’s built. Yet, her resilience warms my heart — she’s already picturing herself living in a real village.

The pets, blissfully unaware, bring their own challenges: paperwork, travel restrictions, ensuring their safety.

We have just spent a week in Northern Ireland, sorting out logistics, meeting with immigration solicitor (gotta admit, that sounds better than lawyer), looking for a car, learning to drive on the “wrong” side of the road and sorting out the new currency.

The house we’re moving to in Portballintrae has views of the North Atlantic, but it also comes with adjustments: smaller spaces, new systems, a different way of living.

It’s overwhelming at times, but every sleepless night reminds me why we’re doing this. This isn’t just relocation; it’s preservation. We’re packing hope, resilience and determination.

We’re not giving up our citizenship. We’ll keep paying our U.S. taxes. I’ll still keep an eye on what’s happening. America is still home. But when I turn off the news, I hope to breathe a little easier.

I know I’ll be homesick. My memories, identity and roots are American. Trading a wooded lot in Atlanta for a semidetached house in a village of 754 will be a culture shock.

I hope we can return someday, that all of this turns out to be a false alarm. But I can’t take that chance.

This isn’t retreat; it’s strategy. When the rules are rigged, the boldest move is to stop playing. It’s not fear; it’s purpose. I’m building a life where compassion, justice and democracy aren’t theoretical. They’re real, lived values.

To those staying: I’m rooting for you. Keep fighting for the better America we know is possible. I’ll cheer and donate from across the Atlantic, my heart always carrying a piece of this country.

For me, the most radical act of hope is pivoting. Reclaiming agency. Living aligned with my principles. Sometimes, the smartest move isn’t fighting in a broken system from within — but working on building a new world and thriving outside it.

This isn’t goodbye. This is a hello to a new unknown. But it’s also a declaration: I refuse to accept the terms set by others. I’m choosing a life where dignity, compassion and justice can win. Though my heart might have dropped like a lead weight last month, it feels lighter knowing we’re moving toward a place where hope still flickers.

As Tom Bodett said in so many Motel 6 commercials, “We’ll leave the light on for you.”

Todd Copilevitz, a marketing consultant, is a former reporter and columnist for The Dallas Morning News.