We’ve just about covered all the bases here at The Shinbone Star when it comes to Donald Trump and Trumpism. Still, even after 1,284 posts, new subject matter keeps rolling in.
Like, for instance, enchiladas.
Yes, we’ve touched on the Trumpian “taco bowls” that are served at the edifice in Midtown Manhattan that bears Trump’s name, but this post is of a more personal nature, and enchiladas are one of my favorite food groups.
Allow me to tell you a story.
After moving to a new house in a new state, my children and their families keep making pilgrimages to see just what sort of place they stand to inherit in a future that seems not quite as distant as I might like. Last weekend it was my son’s turn, and he brought his family to our house for the first time. While squiring them around town, we decided on Mexican food for lunch.
Okay so far? All right then, I shall continue.
Upon arrival at the restaurant, the hostess greeted us and I told her we needed a table for four and a half — a very thin slice of grandpa humor, indicating the diminutive presence of my 5-year-old granddaughter. The hostess grabbed a handful of menus, a coloring sheet and a complimentary box of crayons for said granddaughter, and we followed her to our table.
Careful, the plot’s about to take a wicked turn!
Seated at the next table was a vile, disgusting Trumper in a Trump cap. Someone please pass the Tums!
Now I would have asked for a different table, but this guy was one of those Stealth Trumpers. He wasn’t wearing a flaming-red MAGA cap, but one of those sneaky blue ones that said simply “President Trump.” Anyway, that’s why I didn’t notice right away that I was seated in the wrong neighborhood, and since we were already seated before I did notice, it’s why I didn’t make a scene about wanting to be moved.
(If honesty counts, let me confess here that I’m not entirely sure I’d have made a scene by demanding to be moved even if I had noticed earlier, and that kind of bothers me, too. It makes me question my commitment.)
There are hundreds of reasons to hate Donald Trump, but the one that really kick-started my motor toward a new career as an Underground Resistance Publisher (URP) was when candidate Trump made his first racist screed against immigrants and asylum-seekers, you know, the people he later clarified come from “shithole countries” like in Latin America.
Yes, Trump the presidential candidate was a racist in 2016, he’s still racist today, and the way I see it, anyone who supports Trump and his policies is also a racist, so we’re really not breaking any new ground here. But just so we’re crystal clear, what kind of disconnect do you have to have to wear your goddamned Trumper cap into a Mexican restaurant where a good many of the employees (not to mention a fair number of other patrons) have a Latin heritage?
I know, right?!?! It’s like wearing an Obama cap to a Klan rally!
Let me describe this guy for you. No, wait! Instead, YOU describe him and I’ll tell you if you were right. If you said “old white guy,” BINGO! Step right up and collect your prize!
Of course, I’m an old white guy, too, which more and more is becoming downright embarrassing. But that’s beside the point, maybe.
To continue my story, see, there I was, my blood pressure spiking over the sonofabitch to my left, while my Paraguayan-immigrant daughter-in-law sat across from me, my U.S. Navy-veteran son ate chips and salsa at the other end of the table, and my half-Latina granddaughter colored quietly under my wife’s admiring gaze.
But instead of enjoying lunch with my family, all I could think about was what kind of lousy bastard sits there wearing a Trumper cap while his Latina waitress clears away his dirty dishes? The kind of bastard who wouldn’t mind seeing my grandkid thrown into a steel cage is the answer I came up with.
Since that day, I’ve had time to reflect more on those very questions, and I’ve decided that Trump’s America is exactly the kind of America it’s always been. To get his campaign rolling, Trump hung a target around the necks of brown people, and boy, did that resonate with a certain segment of our society! Adolf Hitler used a similar tactic to get his act rolling back in the ’30s, but hey, we’re not supposed to make Nazi comparisons because it pisses off the Trumpers, right, doesn’t persuade them gently to our cause.
Of course, the way it works in this American version of Nazism is that the target keeps shifting depending on our nation’s racist mood and which color or creed the powerbrokers need to demonize — unless you’re an African-American, that is, because there ain’t no shift for you guys, you’ve had a target around your necks every day since . . . since . . . well, since fucking forever.
But I guess my point is that this nation is what it is, which is what it has always been, and there are those of us for whom the veil has lifted, who are ashamed of our country’s foundation of racism and would do something about it if only we could. People like us tend to vote Democrat, even if the eventual nominee isn’t the exact one we currently favor. We’re also the kind of people who think about the consequences if we don’t.
Then there are the assholes who wear Trump caps into Mexican restaurants to enjoy some ethnic cuisine while having their wrinkled white asses served by brown people. People like them vote Republican, without exception.
As you can see, there are only two paragraphs left in this story and you’re probably wishing it had contained something deeper, perhaps some insightful analysis that could clarify your confusion about what it all means as we edge ever closer to November 2020.
Sorry, friends, this is all I’ve got. The whole enchilada.