Hope is a beautiful thing – but this is no time for idle hope.
This is no time for simply hoping Donald Trump will suddenly become moderate and responsible and sober and less vicious when he slithers onto the American throne this winter.
Don’t be fooled, folks. Trump doesn’t only believe he WON on Tuesday, bullwhipping the Democratic party and Hillary Clinton into whimpering hippies, he also believes he BOUGHT the presidency. He dumped millions of his own thuggish cash into his sleazy campaign. Eo ipso, he doesn’t’ see this as just a win, but a turn on investment. Indeed. Because when you’re that rich and that orange and that privileged, nothing is off the menu.
The biggest mistake any of us can make going forward into the bleak unknown would be to think ‘the Donald’ won’t be the racist, fleecing shill and sham he was all along the campaign trail. He’s a snake. And snakes bite, and this fanged fucker has venom, jack. Watch your ankles. You heard it here.
I was at Denver International Airport a few hours after news broke that Trump will don the crown. The place had all the feeling of a baseball game that just let out, the hour when drunken sports fanatics pour onto streets, stumbling, pissing on their tires. Fans of the Trump tailgate were completely jubilant throughout, all of them wiggy, high-fiving and grab-assing. Fans of the losing team, however, shuffled quietly, solemnly, staying close by to one another or at least out of the way. A tear here and there. “Better luck next time, kid. It wasn’t in the cards. Your pitcher just didn’t have the arm.”
I had just ordered an omelet at Elway’s – a swank place with good-not-great fare – when I heard these three fat white men sitting at the bar to my right revel in Trump’s plan to “build the wall.”
“The wall’s not racist,” one said. “It’s about protecting your borders.”
“We should’ve built a wall in 1492,” I barked, jumping in, no patience in me. To hell with it all.
“You’re probably right,” one chubby bigot responded after a momentary, albeit awkward, pause. The volatile scene was interrupted by a waiter. The corpulent jackal who addressed me went on to order a “smothered burrito con chorizo.” On any other occasion, this kind of irony would be funny, but not today, I thought to myself. Things have gotten rotten and real and really rotten really fast. Really.
I left the bar and the big bellied brutes behind, headed for my gate, when I got to texting with actor Tinsel Korey. We were pondering time, particularly about the time we have left before the levees break and the pigheaded putrescence rushes in, ruining lives, land, drinking water, your carpet, your kids playing on it, and everything in between.
Two months, folks. That’s it. Two months before President Barack Obama zips off in a helli’, calling it eight years and a presidency. Two months before the Orange creature lockjaws on your rights and freedoms. Two months of semi-sanity (all has changed now, overnight). Obama has just a little more than eight weeks to kill the Dakota Access Pipeline and free political prisoner Leonard Peltier. In the meantime, water protectors mend and ready themselves for the next rabid attack by Morton County Sheriffs – the REAL foaming dogs of Energy Transfer Partners – and then there’s Leonard. He sits in his cell more than four decades later waiting for good people doing nothing to do something good and release him from his political shackles.
But back to Obama.
Yes. He’s got to feel like a kid readying to watch a bully stomp and piss all over his art project. Completely helpless. And how does Obama feel about the waning hour glass now that Trump has transmogrified into President-elect Trump? How does he feel about these two months before he’s dunzo?
I imagine Obama’s in a mad dash, demanding more caffeine from staffers, sneaking a smoke, as he scrambles to maintain any evidence that he even resided at the White House for eight years. And that can be an immensely overwhelming task when your successor, Mr. Small Hands, demolishes and renovates and marks his territory for a living.
So it is. Two months, and then it begins. Round 1 in a four-round bout. It could be an eight rounder. Whose to say? This is, after all, the nation that elected George Dubya two times. Frightened yet? Awake yet? Well you damn well should be. Either way, put on your gloves. Spar with friends. Toughen your core. Because there’s no question now – a battle’s coming.
Of course, I’m not surprised by all of this. Nope. Not surprised in the least.
I am, though, awake.
I am, though, ready.
How about you?
Simon Moya-Smith, Oglala Lakota, is the Culture Editor at Indian Country Today. Follow him on Twitter @SimonMoyaSmith.