It remains nearly impossible for me to embrace this mystery that is support for Donald Trump. It approaches an almost mythical level of gullibility and misplaced hope. It runs counter to assumptions of what is proper and sensible and wise. The only way it begins to make sense is as an ill-informed reaction to perceived assaults on the “American Way,” whatever that is.
It’s a tenacious holding-on to the past, a debilitating, Bible-fueled narrow-mindedness, a refusal to acknowledge what and who America really is or can be. It is an allegiance to the pocketbook and superficiality. A hook, line, and sinker loyalty to a snake oil salesman. Or maybe it’s simply a thumbed nose to liberalism.
There has been no swamp-draining, and Trump is the farthest thing from a breath of fresh air. From all appearances, he is incapable of caring, dead inside. All he has done is brought his own entitled emptiness to the nation’s highest office, and landed a pile driver deep into a psyche that reveals cracks and fissures and signs of irreparable damage caused by being fed a constant diet of bullshit.
What is the endgame for Trump supporters? What do they want this country to look like when he is finished? If he wins or finagles a second term, what more are they expecting him to “accomplish?”
The possibilities don’t so much boggle the mind as cause one to grieve.