I shot Donald.
Last night I had a dream that I shot Donald. I shot the Donald, as in Donald Trump. The big T himself.*
And in this dream, we were together in some sort of hotel lobby - perhaps one of his creations? I am not sure. I am sitting in a purple armchair. The cushions are stiff, unaccommodating and I do not like them. To my immediate left stands the big T: he is laughing and I watch him schmooze. Here, the room holds a good smattering of similarly whitefleshed businessmen, none of them without their standard-issue red ties. Lock, stock and barrel, I think. I am the only woman.
I am close enough to see the D’s veneer-addled teeth, and the corresponding smile slathered across his face. (And here I can’t help but be reminded of the Cheshire Cat, with a grin able to float away on its own). This Trump, he speaks loudly. Forcefully, at - with - these Men Of Commerce. And he talks, no - yuckles - at the younger ones too, those trusting enough to stand closer by.
This Man! This man. He stands at the edge of the crowd and spits out words and accusations and laughter. And they follow along. Oh their leader! With hands that fly about in front of him! Belly-upped geese hands, I muse. A president, whitened palms open and gesturing - flapping! - at the crowd. Do they not see? I wonder. Do his people not see? For aside from speeches and the big B Bravado, his gestures are those of supplication, a plea for the others to come along, to join in, to please whoop it up.
And then - mid-oration - this Trump-Man, still entertaining (for who knew politics could be so funny?) takes one of his gooseloose hands and decides to slap it flat onto a younger man’s shoulder directly to his left. And this, as if by weight alone, traps the poor fellow to the D, whether wanted or not. (Perhaps this is done in goodwill? Yes. Perhaps it is done in goodwill. But I see it, I see a microsecond of fear on that young man’s face before he too behaves, chuckling along with the rest of them. Because everything is so funny. Yes, because everything is so funny here).
And it continues. The dream continues: the jokes, the laughter, me watching these men’s jolly and well-filled bellies, straining at suit buttons. And here, at what I presume to be the conclusion of the ‘show’, more heavy pats on the back: smiles and smiles floating about the room, glasses raised: everyone is doing such a damn good job!
I see all of this.
(But) I have no reason to shoot. No, not really. Not then. And yet I do. I reach, and out from under my seat and I pull out a gun. I am holding a gun! I am holding a gun. And then, I do it -
I shoot. And that's when he, well all of them really, stop. They stop mid-amusement. They see me. Oh, of course they do - now that I am firing a gun. Of course. And perhaps unsurprisingly, a weapon soon appears in the Trump’s hand too - and here the both of us - the Donald and I - we shoot at each other. I aim for his face. Once. Twice. Three times over. Perhaps more. But I remember it disintegrating, sort of folding into itself. He - our Donald - not so lucky with the draw, or I perhaps more. His bullets? They miss, disappearing past my right shoulder. Perhaps he was not such a good shot after all.
And then things get dreamy-weird again, as nightsleep sometimes does: even though I aimed at, shot and watched as his smirky face folded in on itself, he did not die. Or, to be more exact, he did die. But he came back. He must have come back. He resurrected. And me, in a shock of understanding, and as I attempt to flee his new-to-me vengeance, know now that this will always happen - men like Mr. T will reappear. Those who spew hate, who use fear to make themselves appear more powerful, who want the world to think them as BIG - this! This has happened over and over and over. And this will continue. And I knew, sitting in my hotel room of unknown origins, behind a nightstand too small to hide me that no matter how many bullets are fired, some form of who he is will always make a return. It - he - will inevitably come back and fit into human flesh once again, business suit or not.
And then I wake up.
This was a dream. But it wasn't, really. For even if the Trumpster is impeached, shot in the face, decides to take a lifetime trip to the golf course in the sky, he would still exist. Well, not him. But a facsimile. Because it is not really a man who is the problem, you see. Not really. For a man, as all men do, will be born and then will die. No, I see now that a single person is never truly the problem. But ideas - and those followers of his ideas - are. And until these beliefs are dismantled, re-educated, deemed unworthy of following - until there is a heart-change in the white, male and powerful, there will be arrogant souls with flappy hands making speeches. Oh, they will stand and make fun of the less fortunate, the less able-bodied, even those who have been sexually assaulted and brave enough to speak up about it. Because such things can only be funny to those in power. Anything else would be daunting.
Here is the clincher: they, and they alone, will decide of whom to be afraid. They will dictate that those of darker colour, the ones fleeing wars, the poor, those of a different faith are the risk. They will decide. and they will find excuse to spread these ideas of hate: they will try to rule this world and think it their right. No, the men who grasp for power are not the problem. Not really. But their ideas most assuredly are. For until their erroneous beliefs - these fears - can be stopped, can be shot down and disintegrated, there will continue to be men with floating smiles, wearing red ties and declaring themselves more deserving than others.
And there will be those who follow them.
*now let me be quick to clarify: in my wakeful state, I have no intention of shooting anyone; I do not condone the use of violence. Further, I am not prone to carrying a firearm. In fact, I have never held such a beast, never mind seen one close up.** I am much more a “let’s talk about this, we can come to some sort of resolution over a nice cup of tea” sort of gal. I hope anyone reading this (re: the US border patrol if I ever decide to visit the land of Red Vines after I post this) understands that my intention is never to harm. I repeat: I have no intention of harming the president.
**yes, I am terribly Canadian. In fact, as I write this, I am wearing my long johns and sipping tea while curled up in my igloo. Don’t worry - I’ve left the polar bear outside tonight. He gets a little cranky when I don’t share my Tim’s with him.