Pretend, please, that I am on the ballot.
That’s Donald Trump, asking his voters to show up in November.
Okay.
I can do that.
In fact, I think we should take him very seriously, because Donald Trump spent years insisting that the health of the President was absolutely, undeniably, urgently our business. Joe Biden was too old. Biden shuffled. Biden stumbled over words. Biden looked tired. Biden forgot things. Every pause, every step, every facial expression and verbal detour became material for national examination and, often, ridicule.
So if Trump would now like to place himself metaphorically on every ballot in America, we should extend him exactly the same courtesy.
I am not diagnosing the man from photographs. I have no idea what a bruise means beyond what his doctors tell us it means, and neither does anyone watching from a couch with the miraculous medical degree that apparently arrives free with every social media account.
But Donald Trump is eighty years old, President of the United States, and the same man who told us this scrutiny mattered.
Fine.
You wanted the stethoscope on Biden.
Do not put it away now.
I want meaningful medical disclosure. I want journalists to ask questions without the question itself being treated as treason. I want the same curiosity, the same scrutiny, and the same fucking measuring stick.
Let’s notice what he’s really saying. He’s saying his people only show up when he’s on the ballot. He’s asking them to pretend, because he knows the whole machine runs on whether you decide to stay home.
Hold that thought.
While we have the stethoscope out, I would like to use it on AMERICA.
I am considerably less interested in whether America is GREAT than I am in whether America is WELL.
Trump is enormously proud of his beautiful ballroom, his gilding, his chandeliers, his curtains. I keep thinking about the curtain. Not the one hanging in the ballroom. The much bigger one, the one hanging in front of all of our eyes.
Pull it back.
Can people buy groceries without standing in the aisle doing math in their heads? Can they afford the house they already live in? Can they see a doctor without checking the bank account first? Are our old people being cared for? Are our children okay? Can women tell the truth about what happened to them without somebody immediately searching for the hole in their story? Can we hold an election, lose, feed the dog, get up the next morning, and keep living beside people who voted differently than we did?
Are our institutions healthy?
Are WE?
Or have we gotten so used to making ourselves smaller that we call surviving a victory?
Here’s what makes that so hard to answer:
We can’t catch our breath long enough to try.
We are being bombarded. BOMBED, really. Not with one big explosion you’d see coming, but with a barrage, one blast after another after another, delivered straight into the palm of your hand.
BREAKING.
EMERGENCY.
LOOK HERE.
BE AFRAID.
You’re still reeling from the first one when the second lands. You haven’t finished being horrified when the third one hits. Spin. Scandal. Outrage. Distraction. All of it arriving so fast that nobody gets to stand up, brush off the dust, and ask the only question that matters:
What do I do about this?
That’s not an accident.
That’s the design.
BREAKING. EMERGENCY. LOOK HERE. BE AFRAID. BREAKING. EMERGENCY. LOOK HERE.
KEEPING US FURIOUS FOR ELEVEN SECONDS AT A TIME.
Long enough to react. Never long enough to organize. Long enough to share the post and type something at 11 p.m. Never long enough for the anger to cool into a plan.
A person who can’t breathe can’t think, and a person who can’t think is awfully easy to steer.
So breathe.
Right now. All the way down.
Then use it.
Countries have bodies, too. They carry wounds. They compensate for injuries until the compensation becomes the next injury. Eventually somebody has to stop admiring the chandelier and look at the patient.
Donald Trump says PLEASE PRETEND.
No.
We are all going to stop pretending. We are not five.
Look behind the curtain.
Look at him.
Look at us.
Then put down the fucking phone long enough to remember that your outrage has a job, and the job is waiting for you on November 3rd.
Check your registration. Today, not “soon.” Make a plan for how you’re voting, when, and with whom. Text the friend who always says it doesn’t matter. Drive the neighbor who doesn’t have a ride. Bring snacks. Stay hydrated. Remember to BREATHE.
Don’t pretend anyone’s on the ballot.
SHOW UP.
VOTE. 💜
