Why Hating Trump Means Hating Ourselves




For years the American people have claimed to be fed up with the political system. We’ve complained about wanting a leader who wasn’t a politician.

Who wasn’t schooled in the art of deceptive communication by which they side step all the tough questions.

A president who isn’t politically correct. Who doesn’t care about saying what needs to be said even if it offends some, or even most.

Someone who could not be bought by outside special interest groups.

Someone who will call out and confront the media for their lies and hidden agendas.

Then, in the midst of this great outcry and discontentment, Donald Trump appears on the scene. Cocky and gruff, but a near embodiment of all of these things.

And what happens?

Do we welcome him with open arms?

No. We hate him.

I guess when we said we didn’t want someone schooled in the art of deceptive communication, we didn’t mean ill-mannered.

When we said we didn’t want someone who didn’t care about offending people, we meant other people. Certainly not ourselves.

When we said we didn’t want a person who could be bought by special interests, we didn’t mean our special interests.

When we said we wanted someone who would confront the bias in the media, we didn’t mean our favorite news network.


See, the introduction of Trump to the political scene isn’t really about Trump. It’s about us. It’s a revelation of the heart of this country, and really, our hypocrisy. It reveals to us that, like a snot nosed twerp in need of a nap, we don’t actually know what we want, or what is good for us. We think we do but then it materializes, and we are horrified.

. . . . The more I think about the guy, the more I see myself.

And suddenly politics as usual doesn’t sound so bad, I guess.