Trump Is Not the Problem

I don’t mind Donald Trump. Well, sure, the guy is low on the evolutionary ladder, not able to climb one inch beyond the third chakra of power toward the fourth chakra of the heart. He lives in the reptilean brain in a perpetual state of fight, unable to access the mammalian layer of care for the young, never mind the neo-cortex of human intelligence.  He is a racist, sexist, classist raving lunatic son-of-a-bitch who would be referred to deep therapy if he were a student at my school. In a time when we need to get serious about our mutual dilemma on this planet, bring all kinds of minds together to understand profoundly that we’re all on the same side in the fight between human survival and catastrophe, his name-calling oppositional politics are dangerous and outdated.

But hey, that’s not what bothers me. What bothers me is the crowds that come out to listen and cheer him on. Well, sure, it’s mildly entertaining and no better way to feel powerful for a moment than ride on the coattails of someone’s rant. That’s how Hitler got the crowds coming. But if this is a portrait of the state of American intelligence, emotional and intellectual, we are in deep trouble. Where did those people go to school? What did they learn about fruitful human dialogue, care, compassion, intelligent and respectful debate?

And why does the media give him so much airtime? Well, that’s simple— the media circus more than ever feasts on the carcasses of disaster. Anything that captures people’s attention in a second, that hits that old reptile brain and cranks up fear and goes to the red zone of extreme emotion, is a banquet for them. That’s why no newspaper or magazine has ever once come in over 40 years to report on what happens in my school when children make extraordinary breakthroughs. No one wants to notice me drawing forth a beautiful xylophone solo from a five-year old. But if I smashed the xylophone on the kid’s head, the reporters would be over in a heartbeat. That’s the world we live in.

Imagine this scene. Trump rents out the Astrodome to do his shtick and ten people show up. One reporter with a pencil who writes a small paragraph on the back page of the paper next to the piece about the python who escaped from someone’s home. Wouldn’t that be heartening? Wouldn’t that be a wonderful thing to show the world about the soul of our nation? Wouldn’t he start to lose energy and realize that his zeal for outrage and insult and stupid ideas and hatred has nowhere to go? Wouldn’t that be just desserts? I guess it takes two million to tango and if Americans refuse the dance invitation, he’s left wandering around the dance floor empty-handed.

Personally, I suspect he’s so hyped up on the response he's getting that he’ll keep getting more and more outrageous and finally step over one line too many and the country will wake up. Let us hope. Meanwhile, all you people going to hear him speak—come visit my school instead. I promise I won't smash a xylophone over your head.