Recently, "does not compute" has turned into total system overload. The unabashed physical violence, abhorrent racism, utter stupidity (go back to Auschwitz? seriously?) and us vs. them middle-school dodgeball mentality has begun to illicit a potent cocktail of reaction from within me over the past few weeks. It's this feeling of wanting to simultaneously vomit, weep uncontrollably, and smash all my dishes. It's this odd blend of anger mixed with grief mixed with the kind of remarkable vitriol that my 2-year old daughter displays when she explodes in all her tantrum glory.
I watched it explode just this morning. We were going outside in chilly weather. She didn't want to put her coat on. And off to the races we went. Guttural sobs, streaming tears, flailing arms and legs, throwing herself on the floor and writhing like a fish stranded out of water on her back. She lost it. Her emotions very quickly became too big for her little body, and she was totally overloaded. The tantrum took on a life of it's own. It was about the coat but it was no longer about the coat. She had passed the point of no return and her body simply erupted into pure reactivity.
In reality, she was exhausted. So after about 10 minutes of watching her rage around the house, clear entire shelves of their chat-skis with one single sweep of her arm, I finally picked her up and squeezed her tightly and shushed loudly into her ear. I stroked her head and kept repeating that it would be okay. That she needed to just stop what she was doing and go to sleep. And sure enough, after about 2 minutes, her rigid body began to soften, her sobs quieted, and she passed out hard on my chest.
I get it. She's tired. I'm tired. We're all tired. I am so tired that at the end of some days when my partner rolls in the door, I lay into him like a petulant child, barking orders and demands, when all I really need is a big bear hug. It's easy for me to resort to anger and reactive defensiveness to mask the squishy, tender parts of me that are run down or exhausted. It's scary to admit, I'm tired. I feel like nobody understands me. I'm trying really hard, and I feel like my needs aren't getting met. I get how it's easier sometimes to just go off, to sling a few f* bombs and wail and flail and throw shit around because at least then, you feel like you're being heard. I get it. It's exactly how I want to act when I'm overwhelmed by the ignorance and violence that has been driving the Trump train as of late.
But here's the thing. When my 2 year old loses her shit, it's because she doesn't quite yet have the emotional and cognitive wherewithal to deal any other way. She doesn't know any better. But I do. And Trump does. And so do his supporters. Cause we're grown-ass adults.
It's about the coat, and it isn't about the coat. It's about Trump, and it isn't about Trump. I think this is why I'm having such a hard time computing. Because it's not just about one overgrown toddler stomping around, flailing his arms and spitting lies and hate. It's about how this one toddler is riling up an army of toddlers. It's about the tantrums he is throwing and encouraging among his supporters, mainly middle-aged and in a middle to lower socioeconomic class who, yeah, are really tired. They're tired of not feeling understood. They're tired of trying really hard and not feeling like their needs are being met. But instead of getting underneath their anger, of connecting to the soft squishy underbelly, Trump is catalyzing it. He's playing to their anger and fear. It's calculated and intentional. And when that anger is also charged with obscenely overt racism, sexism, and xenophobia, it also becomes dangerous. I can tell you from experience, it takes no skill or leadership ability at all to rile up a group of toddlers. All it takes is one of them, yelling really loudly.
So if they insist on acting like toddlers, I will treat them like toddlers. I will tell them the same thing I tell my toddler when she freaks out. Play nice. Gentle touch. Open your listening ears. Use your words. I will even swallow the taste of bile in my mouth and extend compassion, the equivalent of stroking their heads and shushing in their ears like maybe their own mommies never did. Because I want to set a good example for my own children, and deep down I do believe that love is always stronger than hate. But when my own kid starts hitting and biting, I draw the line. And when I watch or hear about someone hitting or spitting at or verbally degrading another person, I have to speak up. I sure as hell won't tolerate their violence just like I wouldn't tolerate watching my or another person's child bully or get bullied on the playground.
So I'm going to also tell them something I would never say to my toddler because it's not developmentally appropriate: Grow up. Act your age. Get over yourself, get over your anger and start treating other people with the same kind of respect and understanding that you're hemming and hawing you want extended toward yourself. Do I think they'll listen? No. But I also don't think that Trump has a chance in hell to be President. Because at the end of the day when all the votes are counted, I firmly believe that the majority of the people don't want an egomaniacal narcissistic tantrum-throwing toddler bossing them around. We're too smart for that. And that gives me a little hope.
