I am a Republican in the era of Donald Trump, and I am emotionally depleted by the constant cruelty of the President of the United States.
I’ve told myself repeatedly that I am done being shocked by a degenerate of such magnitude that I wouldn’t want to invite him to a family gathering for fear of what he might say in front of my mother.
But just when you say you can’t be surprised, Trump exceeds the generosity of your lowest expectations. My heart hurt when Trump went out of his way to attack Myeshia Johnson, the pregnant widow of a fallen soldier he sent to the battlefield. I recoiled in disgust when he slanderously (and laughably) insinuated that Senator Kirsten Gillibrand was willing to prostitute herself to him for a political donation. When the President offered that among the white supremacists who killed a peaceful protester, there were “some very fine people,” it felt like an alternate history, one where the Citizens’ Council ascended to power instead of ignominy. Then there’s his support for Roy Moore, even after multiple women accused Moore of preying on them when they were teenagers and he was in his thirties.