Tag Archives: Trump

That Does It!

First published in Story News, October 2019, I repost my essay here to let Trump supporters know I understand what it feels like to be betrayed by a leader you trust and want to believe in. But we must recognize when they cross the line, violating our own moral compass. When to say, “That does it!”

Sitting on the couch, my nerves splayed, I said a silent prayer that his televised announcement would allow him to clear his name once and for all. I was half-convinced I could will it to be so.

Tell them, Bill. Tell them this is simply not true.

After watching his confession, I turned off the television in silence. I robotically descended the basement stairs, emerged with a putty knife, and went outside.  

Tears streaming down my face on that hot August night, I began to scrape two bumper stickers off my car – stickers that had been there for five years. Ever since Bill Clinton’s first campaign for president in 1993.

My husband knew I was hurting and, after giving me some time alone, followed me out to the driveway.

“Are you angry that he lied to the nation?” he quietly asked.

I hesitated, confused by my shattered illusions.

“No, I’m hurt. Bill apparently has slept with everyone but me!” I retorted, trying to make light of my despair. “That does it!”

But…in truth, I was mad that he’d lied. To me. It felt personal. It was personal.

That night, the truth robbed me of my faultless president. And made me feel like a fool for defending him against all comers, of which there were many. Friends and foes alike queued up to remind me what a sap I’d been, how my blind devotion to a charismatic leader had prevented me from seeing what had apparently been quite obvious to others: He wasn’t worthy of my trust. But I hadn’t believed any of the stories about him until I heard it from his own feckless mouth.

Instead of firing back in Bill’s defense as I’d always done, I had to take their ridicule on the chin. Worse yet, I had to break up with my president.

* * *

William Jefferson Clinton was to me what John Fitzgerald Kennedy was to my mother: a young, charming, sexy, brilliant, passionate leader. My childhood home was graced with JFK’s stunning profile: framed in photos, etched on china and brass, embodied in three-dimensional figurines. When he was killed, my mother deeply mourned him and our nation. After she died, I found files of newspaper clippings she’d kept in memoriam. She’d never believed the stories of his sexual liaisons.

Although his pasty face and Big Mac-engendered physique weren’t exactly sex-symbol material, the sum of Bill’s parts added up to be my heartthrob. He had that certain je ne sais quoi. All the accusations about his illicit affairs over the years only made him more alluring. (They weren’t true, anyway.) Even though I have gay friends, his Don’t-Ask-Don’t-Tell military policies were okay by me. Even though I witnessed low-income parents struggling to comply with his Welfare-to-Work initiative, I didn’t falter in my devotion. Despite my peace movement alliances, if he bombed Serbia, they must have deserved it.

The harder friends tried to dissuade me, the more I dug in. Especially when Bill wailed on that sexy sax. And bit his lower lip. He was welcome to feel MY pain anytime.

In my eyes, Bill had human foibles and was politically expedient, but he was intelligent and his heart was in the right place as he set the course for our nation. He was ever-civil even in the face of unreasonable adversaries. And he was strong enough to partner with a woman who radically upgraded the role of First Lady. (However, that only complicated our relationship because, although I had a mad crush on Bill, I deeply respected Hillary.)

Yes, hypocrisy ruled the day as I harmonized with Marilyn McCoo on Wedding Bell Blues: “Bill, I love you so, I always will. I look at you and see the passion eyes of May…” (My husband was remarkably tolerant of my fantasy.)

I flaunted my illicit affair. Co-workers pasted my photo on copies of The National Enquirer whenever Bill’s latest accuser was featured. Union leaders would bring me token campaign paraphernalia (bribes, really) inscribed with his name – pens, hats, t-shirts, and the like. One friend gave me a life-size cut out of him, which initially graced my office before being featured in my stairwell at home.

I had many enablers, although not all shared my infatuation. In fact, some declared him “totally gross.”

Then that slutty Monica Lewinsky tried to bring him down with her lies. Damn that Newt Gingrich for fabricating charges. Like Hillary said, it WAS a right-wing conspiracy. They could all go to hell. Bill was my guy. Until…

Until…the day he appeared on television and confessed he’d had “inappropriate relations” with THAT woman.

Bill had betrayed me. Me! I was a woman scorned. That’s why I understand what’s happening now.

* * *

Sitting on the couch, a friend and I shake our heads in a synchronized fashion as we watch the latest Trump scandal unfold: Witnesses are confirming that Trump withheld much-needed funding from the Ukraine to defend itself against marauding Russia unless it did opposition research on a potential Democratic candidate. Then publicly invited China to do the same.

“Why do they stick by this criminal?” I rhetorically ask. He responds by asking me the same question with a different inflection and a few well-placed swear words. Because answers are not readily forthcoming when behavior defies logic. The frosting on the (let-them-eat) cake is that Trump’s campaign has raked in 50,000 more small donors since the impeachment inquiry began.

We turn off the television in silence. We reach for our adult beverages, crank up the music, and start stress-eating.

I’ve been hoping that, with the latest breaking news, the Trump 2020 banners will come down, along with the Confederate flags that seem to correlate with the Trump endorsements in my upstate New York town. Hoping my Facebook “friends” who originally supported Trump will read my next post and say, “Oh, wow. That does it! You’re right! He’s gotta go.”

I remain disappointed. But maybe this latest misdeed will do it.

Phew! The madness will be over soon.

WHAT?! The banners are still up, and more are appearing. His supporters continue to accuse me of spreading fake news because “he’s no worse than you Democrats,” and I must be “a sore loser” – which we all should be based, on how the election was “won.”

My head is bloody from banging it against the wall. My tongue is bloody from biting it in certain social circles. I want to shake Trumper friends (especially women) until they come to their senses.

Yet, my long-overdue rejection of Bill back in the day gives me hope. As I watch the current impeachment inquiry coverage, I reflect on my blind allegiance, my unwavering support in the face of significant evidence to the contrary. Granted, his accusers weren’t up against a Clinton News station masquerading as “fair and balanced.” Bill didn’t incite angry mobs in his own defense, polarizing friends and family, adding lies to lies. But Bubba is not The Donald – I couldn’t crush on him if he were. Bill has a foundational believe in democracy. And his “crime” was inconsequential compared to what patriotic whistleblowers are telling Congress today.

In public service cases like this, thanks to investigative journalists in particular, evidence does mount, and the final straw – the one that destroys unwavering devotion – can present itself quite unexpectedly. Because once you know, you can’t not know.

* * *

Ten years after I’d scraped my bumpers clean, I walked into my last cabinet meeting prior to retirement from public education. I was feeling a little melancholy until…I realized all my colleagues were wearing Bill Clinton masks. We joked about my schoolgirl crush and misguided idolatry, but there was part of me that still felt embarrassed by my own naivety. I could still get in touch with my profound disappointment; my disillusionment still stung.

That same year, thanks to a friend of a friend, I was asked to serve as a facilitator at the first Clinton Global Initiative in New York City. In the hotel lobby, I ran into my ex as he exited the elevator. In his inimitable style, Bill sauntered up to me, extended his hand, and thanked me for volunteering. He was taller and thinner than in my dreams, and we’d both aged over the ensuing years. A decade earlier, I would have melted on the spot (and perhaps slipped my room key into his pocket). But that day, I meekly replied, “Thank you for the work you continue to do on behalf of global health and economic justice.”

As they say, the thrill is gone. While I still believe he’d been the right president for the times, integrity did and does matter.

Because this rabid supporter of a president facing impeachment did eventually sever ties with her beloved, I believe it possible that many in Trump’s “base” will start to break up with him, too. They just haven’t felt the weight of the final straw yet. But they will.

Devotees don’t go down easily but, with the right evidence presented in the right way, we can and do (eventually) say, “That does it!”

Until then, I’ll continue to watch broadcast news as if it’s roadkill: I don’t want to see it but can’t resist taking a peek.

I loved that guy….until…..

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Swear to God

Click below to read my latest published article about the upcoming election. Hope it helps you sleep better, pray more, and swear with intent.

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Abort. Now.

When the DVDs ended, I was still watching women losing rights and my country transitioning to Gilead. A real life Handmaid’s Tale is unfolding…click below to read more.

Abort. Now.

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Nothing Else Matters

My Vox Populi blog post about the upcoming mid-terms:

https://voxpopulisphere.com/2018/10/02/patricia-a-nugent-nothing-else-matters/

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Only a Nazi Should be Called a Nazi

My latest essay, published by Vox Populi, February 16, 2016.

Only a Nazi Should be Called a Nazi

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This Little Light of Ours

I’m no shrinking violet. Most who know me, or read my work, think me somewhat bold and outspoken. Not afraid of a showdown if I deem it a moral imperative. But I could not screw up enough courage to watch the recent presidential debate. The thought of watching that know-nothing misogynist harass the candidate President Obama considers “the most qualified person to ever seek the office” made my stomach turn over.

So at 9pm, after Hillary’s historic entrance, I took to my bed. Scared and nervous, filled with negative energy. There’s so much at stake in this election; I’m very emotionally involved. For distraction, I reached for the biography of Julia Ward Howe and snuggled in to read. (She wrote that catchy little song, The Battle Hymn of the Republic, although too few recognize her name.)

But there was no escaping the debate. Text messages started pouring in from friends filled with similar angst. Giving me a blow-by-blow of how Trump was steamrolling Hillary and hogging air time, yet the moderator wasn’t keeping him in check. With matching vitriol, I replied to each for a while and then decided that these pinging messages were equally bad for my mental health.

I recalled that my friend Ellen is trying to convert her abhorrence of Donald Trump to energetic support of Hillary Clinton. Admirable as that is, I’ve been so consumed by my own loathing of him that I’ve made no effort to follow suit. My Facebook page reflects my obsession with exposing him in order to defeat him; I can think of little else.

Yet seeking refuge in bed at 9pm forced me to re-think my reactions to this campaign. I decided to focus on what I want rather than on what I don’t want.

To center myself, I lit a candle. Breathing deeply, I closed my eyes and envisioned Hillary in her red suit surrounded by purifying white light. I began to send Reiki to her right there on stage. (I had enough confidence to hope it wouldn’t relax her so much that she’d appear “low energy.”) I sent her light and love, strength and wisdom. I whispered my intention that she be forthright and a force for peace. I asked that she be able to break through the barriers that prevent so many from fully embracing her candidacy. I even wished her more likeability, allowing myself to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of that sexist view.

When I was done, I rested my head on the pillow, calmer and more confident that all shall be well. My terror was gone.

Texts from friends kept coming, but their tone had changed. My correspondents were now reporting that Hillary was strong, really knew her stuff, got in a few zingers, and looked radiant.

When I knew for sure the debate was over, I crawled out from under the covers to watch the postmortem. Many analysts had detected a noticeable shift about forty minutes into the debate. While Trump had started out somewhat coherent, she’d seemed tentative. She then became “scorching,” according to the New York Times. And he melted down.

The timing of her gaining momentum perfectly correlated with the timing of my sending out positive energy.

I’m not claiming any credit for Hillary’s debate performance; that would be absurd. She’s worked hard for this moment and has the cred to whip his butt. But I do believe that the universe showed me that using energy to empower her is more productive than railing against a madman. (See? I haven’t fully reformed…) Perhaps my little ray of white light joined forces with light sent by others who believe in the power of intention. Those who are also tired of being scared, anxious, and angry. Perhaps our collective white light can be refracted as through a prism to generate an inclusive rainbow of color. If so, together we can be an impetus for tipping the scale toward a more civilized America.

If nothing else, my new commitment will help me survive the next month. I’ve been giving Donald Trump way too much of my energy; I’m taking it back to resend it to the only person right now who can save us from imminent self-destruction.

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