Only in a surrealistic election year such as this could an otherwise ironic remark like the following — by Sherry Turkle — be read as straight-up un-ironic truth:
” … that this man who stood against democratic institutions is also a misogynist is a stroke of good fortune. The next time we may not be so lucky.”
(From “We Need to Talk about Donald“)
We live in Trump-country, a red county in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains, near — but oh so far politically — from the coast. In a recent “President’s Day Parade,” our guests from the Bay Area got depressed when a pro-Trump display passed by.
It’s mostly peaceful here, save for the occasional wintertime flock of shrieking geese flying overhead and the bucolic sounds of butane honey-lab houses exploding.
Trump-love makes no sense to me, except as a sort derangement. We have some family further up the West Coast, a group of devout Christians, one of whom (Facebook informs me) recently joined “Prophets for Trump.” I’m still trying to parse the morality of that.
Meantime, what will happen to the children?