I’m going crazy. I’ve lost it. I am on the edge, and I’m about to do something reckless.
According to Newton’s Third Law of Motion, “for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” This law applies to all nature, including human nature in a presidential election cycle.
Living in Europe for the past two months has not made me feel any more European. Wherever I go—whether it be an Irish pub on the banks of the River Liffey or in front of Millennium Monument in the heart of Budapest—I am immediately identified as an American. And as soon as I am identified as an American, one question always follows: “Are you voting for Donald Trump?”
The first time I heard this question, I was at an Irish bar called “Dicey’s,” and I responded, “Hell no.” But then the response I got shook my resolve.
“Good, Donald Trump is Hitler,” said the mascara-drenched Irish twenty-something who had asked me the question.
While I was vehement in my stance that Trump should not be president, I felt the need to come to his defense on this one. I do not think Trump should be president, but he certainly is not Hitler. I opened my mouth, ready to come to Trump’s defense, but ultimately I said nothing, and just switched to the next topic of conversation.
The next morning, I regretted not defending Trump. Although I disagreed with his political viewpoints, of which I firmly believe he has none, but there is a big difference between the dictator who destroyed half of Europe, taking the lives of six million innocents in the process, and a real estate mogul with funny hair. The more I thought about it, I realized how ludicrous the position of this person, who had clearly not taken the equally ludicrous position of supporting Trump, was, and so I vowed that next time, when asked the same question, I would say, “Yes, I am voting for Trump,” in hope of a more reasonable point of contest.
I expected to hear in response valid concerns about Trump’s inexperience, lack of a foreign policy agenda or general incompetence, but instead I got, “You’re mad!” and a salvo of insults hurled my way.
After stating that I would vote for Trump, I received no more enlightening a response than when I had said that I would not support the populist businessman-turned-politician who had against all odds secured the Republican nomination for presidency. Instead of a hysterical attack on the candidate’s character, I was given a hysterical reaction to my own character, and I kind of thought it was funny.
It seemed ironic—in fact, hypocritical— to me that those who opposed Trump largely because of his intolerant viewpoints would express their disapproval in such an intolerant fashion. Equating arguably the most evil man in human history to a brass politician and questioning the sanity of then profanely insulting someone for supporting said politician are both ignorant reactions to the ignorance displayed by Trump.
Despite all his absurdity, Trump has never been guilty of such hypocrisy. He has never pointed his finger at Hillary Clinton or Hillary supporters, and responded to hatred with hatred under the pretense of a supposed moral high-ground. He always starts it. He is the instigator, and in today’s reactionary culture, instigators thrive.
The following day, within the confines of my dorm room at University College Dublin, I question why I am so adamantly against Trump, when the position taken by the alternative is no better. I plug my headphones into my laptop and begin to do some research. Disillusioned by the contemptible state of the race for president, I try to learn more about the candidates. Yet, all I find on the Internet is more reactionary content: Hillary supporters condemning Trump’s morals, but refusing to acknowledge their candidate’s own moral shortcomings and media outlets calling for Trump’s resignation after misconstruing statements he made at a debate populate the search results. Eventually, I come across an article published on the Hillary Clinton official website that condemns the popular Internet meme, Pepe the Frog, as a symbol of white supremacy.
I think to myself: “How can a cartoon frog be a symbol of white supremacy? He’s green!”
I cannot take the absurdity of Trump’s opponents anymore, and so his message begins to sink in. In a world dominated by political correctness, I started to believe that all the criticism surrounding Trump was the reactionary culture, exemplified in the media, clouding my judgment.
Two days later, I receive my absentee ballot in the mail. Surrounded by half-drank Red Bull cans and empty Pringles cylinders, I stare at the ballot. I walk to my window. Balled-up Washington Post articles crumple beneath my feet and the sound of Milo Yiannopoulos blaring from my computer engulfs the room. I haven’t seen the sun in days, but what are “days” other than an arbitrary division of time promoted by the leftist media to ensure that our productivity is limited to the constraints of 24-hour intervals? When I pull back the shades, the light burns my eyes, and I retreat to my desk. I gaze down at the piece of paper with its collated sections—partisan offices, non-partisan offices and referenda— and I pick up the pen.
I’m going crazy. I’ve lost it. I am on the edge, and I’m about to do something reckless.
I am about to vote for Donald J. Trump. But before I fill in the bubble, a thought pops into my head: “I am the disaffected voter.” My presence has been felt throughout the course of history, shaking the balance of society. From Athens’ Sicilian Expedition to “Brexit,” I have voted against better judgment, selecting the bolder of two options, on the basis of what the historian Thucydides refers to as “unfounded hope.”
I drop the pen. The results of “Brexit” are yet to be seen, but the example of Athens is clear. Alcibiades convinced the Athenian assembly to launch an unnecessary offensive against an uninvolved nation while at war with the Spartans for the prospect of silver. The silver was never real, and, over-extended, Athens fell.
The United States will not fall if Trump is elected president; however, his positions are as thought-out as Alcibiades’ position that Athens should invade Sicily. His positions are based on “unfounded hope,” and I worry that such hope—the same hope that drove me to almost vote for a man with no distinct platform other than that he was going to “make America great again”—will set back the United States, just like Alcibiades’ eerily similar quest to preserve what made “ [Athens] greater than [the Greeks] had ever done.” I almost voted for Trump because I hoped that, despite the backwards commentary of his opponents, he might just succeed, exposing their foolishness. But, in reality, there was no reason for such optimism.
The hypocrisy of the reactionary culture had alienated me. It drove me to flirt with the alt-right and almost vote for the instigator, not because I agreed with him, but because, in a world where the ignorance of both sides was on display, I identified more with the ignorance of Trump. Which statement sounds more reasonable to you: “Trump is Hitler,” or “[illegal immigrants are] bringing crime into this country”?
I urge you to resist the laws, which govern all nature. Attack Trump on the unfeasibility of mass deportation, his unknowingness about healthcare or his disastrous tax plan. Let me be a warning. If I could come so close to electing a man so clearly unfit to be president for our nation’s highest office, any other disillusioned voter could, too. Do not fight lunacy with lunacy, especially when there is so much ground to fight on. Don’t make us pull the lever.
Click.
Jacob Weiss is a Trinity junior studying abroad in Dublin. His column, "ulysses," usually runs on alternate Thursdays.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.
Jacob Weiss is a Trinity senior. His column, "not jumping to any conclusions," runs on alternate Fridays.