The Trump Man Cometh

He’ll be inaugurated an hour after I begin this piece. I am on a Trumpian-inspired retreat, in the best suite of an off-season hotel in the resort community of Grand Bend, Ontario. There’s an indoor pool across the parking lot and a jacuzzi in the room and a complementary bottle of wine, much of which I consumed last night.

I’ve come to write, to read, to enjoy nature (weather permitting), and to NOT watch Trump’s inauguration or read or hear anything about it.

If I stayed at my mother’s house in Michigan (where I’ve been holed up much of this winter) I know the television/s would be on all day, and I would get sucked into the web that he began to spin in June of 2015 and is just about to complete.

So there!

Already, I’ve had a lapse. The wireless connection on my laptop wasn’t working for some reason, and I turned my cell phone back on and went on-line. I more or less had to check a newspaper to make sure that the connection was working and that the phone’s browser wasn’t displaying a cached website.

I went to The Guardian and there was the Donald with his current wife (and soon-to-be First Lady) on the front page. He had his usual goofy grin and she looked actually happy for a change – not inscrutably, Slavicly distant (as though the mountains of Slovenia are permanently in her thoughts), but happy. A lot of people are, but not nearly as many as are usually happy on this date every four years.

I’m not.

I originally thought of going to Washington today and taking part in the Women’s March tomorrow. It somehow seemed right … I marched around the White House back in 1969 while Richard Nixon watched a football game and kept bombing Southeast Asia. This would be a “bookend” sort of march, proof that I still had it in me.

But when I first looked into the demonstration soon after the election in November, there weren’t many specific plans. I thought about how I’d get there, where I’d stay, and what I’d do if my injured knee flared up again (which it did). I pictured limping around a strange city in the cold with no place to stay. The picture wasn’t appealing so I came up with a new plan. This one.

In the interim, the planning for the Women’s March has proceeded and buses have been organized, along with “sister” demonstrations occurring around the country and even in Canada. But I still have a bum knee and it’s still cold(ish – hasn’t been much of a winter at all, but still nasty).

Lolling around a hotel room, swimming, soaking, and drinking wine isn’t much of a protest (actually sounds like fun!). But that is is only how I’m spending this particular weekend. I have more up my sleeve.

I’ve gotten some inspiration (as have many others) from the following article by Charles Blow in the New York Times.

I’ve also found this one in the Atlantic helpful (despite its denigration of my own “move to Canada solution”):

But you can’t just read yourself into a better political environment in North America (and the world); so, following the advice in both of these pieces, I’ve decided to find a specific cause to support in hopes it will not only survive the Trump-man but even flourish.

For me, I’ve decided it will be reproductive rights for women. It’s not (now) under serious attack in Canada; but if we aren’t vigilant, it will be. And, in any case, I don’t find what Trump and his minions have in store for American women to be just or honourable, and I want to do what I can to stop it.

Plus, another response to the Trump Man and what he stands for: I’m going to write in this blog as much as I can!


Author: Mary Murphy

A Canadian resident since 1972, Mary lives in a small town on the west coast of British Columbia but spends time in both Ontario and Michigan each year.

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