How Donald Trump’s Schtick Finally Lost Its Bite

& Why I'm Not Afraid Anymore

When the story of immigrants eating family pets in Ohio came across my newsfeed, my first feelings were not outrage or disgust but perfect insouciance, the kind of dull indifference that comes from enduring a near decade of batshit crazy conspiracy theories from Donald Trump, his surrogates and supporters. 

From Pizza Gate to John F. Kennedy Jr.’s supposed Christ-like resurrection on July 4^th to executing babies after birth and gender reassignment surgeries in schools or prisons (take your pick)—this was just one more. 

Ahead of the Presidential debate, the pet story was meant to center race negatively and cause the media and the public to debate the plausibility of such an outrageous claim, even without evidence. Might my pet be next?

On the debate stage in Philadelphia with Kamala Harris, Donald Trump was sure he would dominate, referring to himself as the world’s greatest debater. It was his seventh Presidential debate, but it was her first. She was prepared. He was not. 

When it came time to turn on the hate spigot, Trump couldn’t keep track of his conspiracy theories or his hate targets.

Who was he supposed to be going after? Was it immigrants, the incarcerated, trans people, women, or people of color? In a fluster or perhaps for expediency, he conflated them all to argue that Kamala Harris wants to perform transgender operations on illegal aliens in prison. He also claimed people were eating the pets. What?!

Instead of gasping, I laughed out loud. Harris looked on with a mix of pity and disbelief. 

If Trump were a cassette, this would be when the tape got stuck and became indecipherable. He was undone, and his schtick was finally revealed—a schtick that had lost its bite. 

 

The issue is that many of us never thought of it as a schtick.

By schtick, I mean a repeated circus-like performance of the absurd. The racism (shit hole countries) and sexism (childless cat ladies) from Donald Trump and his supporters were so over the top that it felt criminal or neglectful not to respond. How could they say or believe such things? 

Once roped in, we all became part of the circus—engaging, disputing, justifying, arguing—failing to realize we were being played the entire time. The bit was clear: Say something outrageous, repeat it, and double down on it, then argue, dismiss, and distract—rinse and repeat.  

 The point was never to arrive at the truth or reach a common understanding but to sow chaos and division. For the most part, it has worked.  

That was until last night. During the debate, Trump was a clown of his own making. On the stage, although towering, he looked small and weathered. He was the one in need of lifts. His tricks no longer worked, and his magic hat produced no rabbit. He might as well have been wearing floppy shoes and a bright red nose. 

Why I’m not afraid anymore

When Kamala Harris declined to answer questions about her racial identity and dismissed the inquiry as the same old (racist) playbook, she was right. As a woman used to answering and explaining, I felt the weight of her no. Would she be OK? Would she be labeled difficult? I wondered. 

In her refusal, and on the debate stage, she gave all of us permission to laugh at the absurd and to pity the people who spin racist and sexist tales meant to dehumanize us or make us feel lesser than others. 

We don’t have to answer. We don’t have to engage or convince. We can just be, and apparently, that’s enough to piss people off and cause them to lose a debate.