On Friday, November 20, 2015 leading Republican Presidential candidate, billionaire Donald Trump, speaking at a rally in Birmingham, AL did something never before witnessed in America’s presidential politics which now spans parts of four centuries. This historic event at a routine Trump rally salutes the darkest, most dangerous moments of America’s politics and is a tragic low for a democracy linked foremost to high ideals of freedom, responsibility, and tolerance and founded on a promise of respect and community. Trump’s act struck at its core.
Trump screamed over his microphone at a protester (a first amendment political tradition at the campaigns of hard edged candidates who threaten the rights of groups and persons for the virtues of progress, thereby setting up contradictions and conflicts that fracture society) who was also wearing a t-shirt. It read: “Black Lives Matter.” Enbrazened by Trump, without shame or embarrassment, the mob moved to attack the protester, surrounding him, knocking him to the ground with hard body blows. Someone tried to choke him. As he was pummeled with punches and kicks–one woman kicked him in the face–the crowd chanted, “USA, USA, USA.”
As evil takes advantage of goodness, Trump descended into the circular fires of hell, the mythic pavilion of the darkest evil that feeds on the destruction of human virtue and human lives, that place of diabolical debauchery that devours the divine cover of human grace. Trump in a flash turned to a place of grief and death. And later said of the savage turn, it was deserved. He said it was earned by others. His act is a noxious form of evil, magnified by its blame.
Human experience has many levels. In descriptions, the complex layers of life, its acts and ideas, are described as circles, ladders, mandalas, to aid us in organizing the meaning and impact of our decisions and footprints. Life has layers. Evil seeks to seduce and smother them all. It begins tempting us with flaws that have unprincipled appeal and then turns our deepest love into an infernal rage. Evil silently, deadly smothers our common sense and sickens us by its horror in exchange for draining our strength.
Trump has brought me to the darkest edge of this evil; an edge that for me was host of a profound resilience, drawing from the joys and beauty of love. It has now become a site within of a painful, consuming rage. It is a rage so deep I want to stand on top of Trump with my foot pressed on his neck and as he winces, pee in his open mouth as I scream, “Black lives matter,” and then watch that hot, brown pee dribble out of the corners of his lips onto his cheek and draw a wet circle on his neck, pooling underneath to dampen his back.
In my bizarre phantasmagoria, I watch the piss steam rise and sting his eyes, his eye brows smoothed by the smothered wetness that causes his tears to well. He is gasping, choking, paralyzed as it splashes against his teeth. His mouth is open. He cannot make a sound. He cannot form words. He swallows for air, but drinks more piss. I feel dead. Without joy or satisfaction, but I cannot stop urinating on a man who called for bloodletting and the death of people like me–people like all of us–people whose blood bears the life and spirit Trump denies, the spirit that he labels “troublesome,” that he says deserves being “roughed up.” Said by him with the same ease as the piss of my confusing dream, this series of flowing sensations were once my deepest aspirations and ideas, an ideal of hope that abided the steps of the crystal stairs. I have been provoked to abandon hope. Now I stand over Trump with my scalding, hot pee stinging his eyes, smoothing his brow, pooling under him and filling his mouth, congealing in his hollow soul as evil laughs and my urine, without relief, flows down into his hell.
The evil in Trump makes me recoil from the goodness within myself. I am pulled by the darkest of temptations to abandon my most deeply sought passions: My mission of restoring and deepening a historical humanity for a new generation, abandoned. The encounter with his evil tells me how close the tragedy of nameless destruction lay underneath our breathing and distractions. As were slavery’s chains broken, I want to break these new chains, entangling me in the blind rage of pure evil, evil cloaked as a package of beautiful, horrible lies that appeal and trigger a cosmopolitan hate. I, by my rage and its back splash, am isolated from the imperatives of a just society. Hate has broken that connection. It becomes evil when both sides engage its pull.
I am in danger of being pulled into the infernal darkness. By a clown whose logic is no longer funny. I know God will warn the unruly, but in a strange parallax, I have seamlessly dissembled without heart or courage into a landscape that is the long backyard meadow for the looking glass tunnel that overwhelmed Alice–-and seeks to overwhelms me–within and without, absent caution of its impending doom! It calls me to follow the dreams that lay at the end of the looking glass. To be a blind mule at the Red Queen’s tea.
Instead, I stop and go the bathroom.
A protester is removed by security as Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump speaks during a campaign stop Saturday, Nov. 21, 2015 in Birmingham, Ala. (AP Photo/Eric Schultz)