On the first day of October, the Washington Post carried a portrait of a Trump supporter named Melanie Austin. A middle-aged woman living in a coal town in western Pennsylvania, Austin has a strong hunch, based on some evidence at her disposal, that President Obama is gay, Michelle Obama transgender, and their children had been kidnapped.
All this may be true. But it’s uncurious. And it’s kind of lazy. It admits only one uncertainty: after the election maybe Trump’s supporters will go away; but maybe they won’t.
My heart gave a leap, as we stood up to walk again. “Really?” I chirped. “So . . . does this mean that you’re not a Trump supporter?”
His face fell. “No—I support Trump. Sure I do. What, you–you’re not some kind of left-winger, are you?”
It had never occurred to me that anyone could doubt I was leftish. I’m a cyclist and a Buddhist; I love France; I don’t eat meat, watch TV, or think that the U.S. is the greatest country in the world. “What do you think, after spending an afternoon with me?” I bristled.
He looked at the ground, said, “I don’t know . . . ” and I saw gears of alarm and self-restraint grinding against each other. . . . Then the news hit me, and I started unraveling into unhelpful giggles. “WOW, you’re really a Trump supporter?? You’re the first I’ve met! The very first!!” He looked pained. “Oh my goodness,” I barreled on, “What will my friends say when I tell them?!?” He stopped and turned to face me on the pine-lined path we were strolling. “I hope you’ll tell them I’m a nice guy.”
Which he was. As nice as they come. I reeled myself in, and we walked in silence. I wanted to know everything about him and Trump, but I also couldn’t recall ever enjoying a first date so much, and didn’t trust myself to pursue a Trumpcentric line of questioning without ruining it.
We talked about other things. Later, after dark, as we were cruising among towns in his car, the election cropped up in conversation. He parked and turned to me with a braced-for-bad-news face. “Listen, just tell me this: do you know who you’re voting for?”
“I sure do,” I retorted. “And it’s definitely not Trump. I’m voting Clinton.”
““OK, but are you voting for her because you’re excited about her?”
“No.”
With a rush of relief he squeezed both my hands in his.
“And?” I asked. “Are you excited about Trump?”
“No. I think his campaign’s been disgusting,” he said. “He’s based the whole thing on political incorrectness. But Clinton’s a criminal, and I think she should be in prison.”
It doesn’t have to be that way. I hope they have a second date.
