He looked miserable.
While 5 million people filled the streets to protest against him, the crowd at his military birthday party was thin and subdued. He not only looked bored and depressed—he writhed, as if in physical pain.
I watched the video and then hit replay, zooming in with my thumb and pointer finger to get a closeup of his face. I showed it to my husband. We laughed.
I wondered what my Buddhist teachers would say about this. No doubt they would kindly inform me that cackling over the unhappiness of another being, no matter how cruel or destructive he might be, was not good for my soul. I’m sure they’re right. My heart is mean and impure, light years away from enlightenment.
But, of course, what I also felt was relief, like I’d witnessed a small moment of moral justice in a world that has been shockingly devoid of it.
We want to believe that greed and cruelty are losing games. You can evade the law, become extraordinarily wealthy, and get the top job. But if you’re selfish and unkind, you’ll still come up empty. Novels, movies and fairy tales offer this story repeatedly, and we love it.
Reality keeps frustrating the story. Ten years ago today, he announced his candidacy on an escalator, and the story has been garbage ever since. We keep approaching what looks like a resolution, the third-act denouement, but no. The story just gets crueler and stupider.
Protests are anti-climactic. You go, you chant, you wave your sign, and you go home. You scroll social media to see pictures from other people’s rallies, liking and hearting along the way. You vaguely wait for something to happen and then realize … that was it.
But this time the contrast between the clogged city streets at the “No Kings” rallies and the empty bleachers at the birthday parade sucked me in. Maybe, maybe the story is really changing this time.
I won’t deny the cruelty inside me that relished that man’s anguished face. But the moment also had a storybook quality. In a classic tale, pain precedes redemption. It’s what triggers the moment when Ebenezer Scrooge sees the light, when the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes. It’s fiction, but there's a reason why these stories are beloved classics. We want Scrooge to see that generosity makes him happier than hoarding. We want the Grinch’s heart to grow. We love the moment when he stands on the cliff with the sleigh full of presents and watches with deep confusion as the Whos in Whoville gather outside, clasp hands and sing together. And then, the beautiful moment where he finally understands.
Yeah, I know. Real life doesn’t work like this. People with personality disorders don’t see the error of their ways. And, anyway, most of us don’t want his redemption. We just want him gone.
The scoundrels are still in power. The headlines about the record-shattering protest crowds have sunk below the digital fold.
Leaders failed us. Georgia state prosecutors botched the election interference case. The U.S. Justice Department under Merrick Garland had four years to prosecute the January 6 case, but they couldn’t get it done.
But you know who did hold him accountable? Twelve jurors in Manhattan. Ordinary people.
This is the sad lesson we keep learning each day: The cavalry isn’t coming.
We’re not as pure as the Whos in Whoville. We’re mad about what’s being stolen from us, and we can be cruel ourselves.
But still: We drop what we’re doing, make funny signs, and gather in the commons. We fold into the crowd and chant “Hey hey, ho ho.” Sometimes it feels like a silly waste of time.
We do it anyway. We do something that many people in power—the politicians and public intellectuals—cannot fathom. We dedicate ourselves to the task of being drops in the ocean.
We know we can’t individually make a difference, and maybe we can’t make a difference collectively, either. We protest because it’s the only thing we can do, and because we haven’t yet lost faith that we can turn the story around.
Who knows, maybe we can. As Paul Krugman writes, most Trump loyalists are cowards and opportunists:
They’re willing to participate in the destruction of America as we know it because they believe that many others will do the same. As a result, they believe that they are unlikely to face any personal consequences for their actions and may even be rewarded for their lawbreaking.
And what of those who oppose Trumpism? While there are heroes willing to take a stand against tyranny whatever the personal cost, most anti-Trumpists are reluctant to stick their necks out unless they believe that they are part of a widespread resistance that will grant them some measure of safety in numbers.
In other words, the victory or defeat of competitive authoritarianism will depend to a large extent on which side ordinary people believe will win. If Trump looks unstoppable, resistance will wither away and democracy will be lost. On the other hand, if he appears weak and stymied, resistance will grow and — just maybe — American democracy will survive.
I have a lot of fear about the future. One way I’ve dealt with it is to call every good day a win. A good walk with my dog, a good meal with friends, a good night’s sleep. I clock these things, because once they’ve happened they can’t be taken away.
Saturday was a good day, despite the terrible things that happened in Minnesota and, well, everywhere.
People gathered together to join hands and sing in unison. We had a better day than the most powerful man in the world, who is doomed to a heart that will never, ever expand. We had a better day than the cool kids who sniff that protests don’t work.
We’re all grab bags of contradictions, petty grievances and insecurities. But every person who protested on Saturday has a quality they should cherish: the willingness to be an anonymous face in the crowd, to show up not because you’re convinced it will make a difference but because the alternative is not showing up.
An ocean needs drops.
Your words reminded me of Habakkuk—a prophet who also cried out, “How long?” as he wrestled with injustice and suffering. That raw, unsettled feeling you described is ancient—and deeply human.
What helped me in his story was how God didn’t dismiss his questions but reminded him of His presence and justice, even when things still looked bleak. That changed something in Habakkuk. His circumstances didn’t improve, but his hope deepened: “Though the fig tree does not blossom… yet I will rejoice in the Lord.”
That’s been true for me, too. When despair creeps in, what helps isn’t denial—it’s remembering that God hasn’t left me alone.
Thank you for writing with such honesty. It reminded me why faith still matters.
This is lovely and heartening, thank you!