The Trump Years

I'm at my computer, playing a video game. My face immobile. Fingers clicking the keyboard. For weeks. Months.

Spanish Fork, Utah. My brother Ryan is at the wheel. I'm beside him; in the back seat are my sister Kim, and Aaron, my youngest brother, the one I know least and for whom I feel impatient awe.

We've loaded golf clubs into the back of Ryan's truck; we leave Kim's house, waving at the kids, who are playing in the front yard. William, Aaron's three-year-old, catches sight of us leaving and panics, screaming. He chases the truck, running down the sidewalk after us, crying — terrified.

Ryan stops; Aaron descends and takes sobbing William into his arms and speaks to him reassuringly and disappears into Kim's home, where he deposits William into his mother's arms.

Sahar and I are at a stoplight. This is in quiet Belmont, a mile from home. An old truck pulls up next to us — an '90s Ford, a beauty. I glance at the driver. He is staring — glaring — at us. I look away. Soon, Sahar, who is in the driver's seat, says, "That guy is staring at us." I tell her, "Ignore him." She says, "It's the bumper sticker." And I remember the old "Feel the Bern" sticker that remains on her bumper. "Just ignore him," I say. "Why should I have to ignore him?" she asks. So I look at him and wave. He continues to stare — not at me, whom he disregards, but at Sahar. Until the light changes and he roars away.

Sahar says, "You didn't do enough."

I'm going through my Missionary Journal. And remember being interviewed for a local public access TV station in General Belgrano, in the province of Buenos Aires, Argentina. July, 1988. The interviewer, who appeared to be something of a local celebrity, asks me, "Who will win the American election?" I'm taken off guard — we were supposed to be talking about my then-beloved religion — and respond by naming my preferred candidate. "Bush, I believe," I say. He shakes his head. "No. Your country is ready for something new."

After the interview, when he shakes my hand, he says, "Always remember, when you vote for your president, you are voting for all of us. The entire world suffers more or suffers less according to your vote."

26 women. One of them, I had met. She was the younger sister of my neighbor in Salt Lake City. He attacked her at a beauty pageant, when she was 21 years old. 

I decide to teach Journey Into the Past, by Stefan Zweig. When I introduce the book, I tell my students something about Zweig's life. "Ultimately," I say, "with the rise of fascism in Germany, when it became obvious to Zweig that his country was lost, he left for Brazil with his wife, Lotte Altmann. They were there for two years before they took their own lives. They left a note saying that they couldn't overcome the despair they felt at what had become of their country."

My students are surprised — embarrassed — to see that I'm crying.

Stupidly, I imagine that if I read all the books, or the right book, peaceful sleep will return, peace of mind will return — I will have unlocked the mystery of what was happening to my country and to people I love. I'll be able to say, "Ok. This is what's happening." Escape From Freedom. On Tyranny. Beautiful Country Burn Again. The Plague. How Fascism Works. How Democracies Die. The Origins of Totalitarianism. I Shall Bear Witness.

Eventually I stop reading. The sleeplessness persists. TV is easier. "The Sopranos." "Schitt's Creek." "The Bachelorette."

On Mother's Day, 2020, I insult much of my family by questioning their decision to meet at a park near their Utah homes.

At some point I tell them — text messaging — that by my birthday, August 2, there will be over 140,000 dead Americans as a result of the virus.

This claim is met with great skepticism.

From that point forward, we no longer speak of Covid.

But as the summer passes, I become obsessed with my prediction. Looking at my phone, following the trajectory of the pandemic, I find myself, to my great shame, wanting more people to die so that I'll be right.

But the virus doesn't care what I want. It merely does its work. On my birthday, there are 146,000 Americans dead. I tell Lincoln, "I told them! Three months in advance, I told them!" Lincoln nods his head sadly.

At work, a new language has developed for consolation, camaraderie. "This chaos." "This circus." "This shit-show." We all know — we imagine that every person in the world must know — what "this" is.

8 minutes and 46 seconds.

Reports that the Amazon is in flames.

I text Sam, "Impressed by how well the NBA bubble has worked."

Finally, after months, we are able to dine indoors again, and we go to Vivace.

A woman at the end of the bar, distressingly tan, slams down her hands. "Trump 2020!" This goes on for a while.

Finally, Sahar says, "Would you mind keeping it down? We're trying to enjoy our dinner."

"Majority rules," the man next to her says. The tan woman says, "This is a bar, we can say whatever we want."

The bartender says, "Actually, this is a restaurant."

"It's not worth it," I tell Sahar, and I watch the World Series on the wall's TV.

The woman is getting louder. Eventually, yes, I turn to look at her. She points at me, says, "Look at him. He eats like a faggot."

A special thanks to:

All for Nothing, by Walter Kempowski.

DAMN, by Kendrick Lamar.

INRI, by Raúl Zurita.

Fetch the Bolt Cutters, by Fiona Apple.

"This Extraordinary Being"

Everything Flows, by Vassily Grossman.

Jorge and David and I are on Zoom, arguing about colonialism, the roots of white supremacy. I hang up on them, my dearest friends.

Often, I sleep through the afternoon. Upon waking, I need a drink but do not drink. I ride my indoor bicycle. I think, Maybe there will be good news, and I put on the news. Soon, I'm back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I think, I should write something. I should be recording this — what is happening. You see it happening. All those years of reading, which you believed in, which you thought would prepare you to see it. And now you do see it, and you're on your bed, staring at the ceiling.

It's the eve of the election. I have voted. I will change no one's mind. No one will change my mind. But before this ends — before tomorrow, and the inevitable chaos, circus, shit-show — I finally say, too late: I saw it. I bear witness.