“I’m for Trump,” the man across the room from me said. We were in the ICU family waiting room, and by that point, given the reach of Boston TV to New Hampshire voters, the television was showing nonstop ads.
The man across from me was a union guy. I told him I worked for Teddy. Oh, he loved Teddy. And then he worked for Kerry, of course. The guy had clearly done more phone banking than I ever had.
So, why Donald Trump? Because he’s sick of politicians. Because Trump isn’t going to win, but he has the establishment on the run, and, frankly, Trump adds a rare note of humor in a somber crowd.
I wonder what my friend is thinking today and, more importantly, how his brother is healing.
The first thing I learned sitting in a waiting room for a few days is what really matters: family; and friends who are like family. We all sat together there — from the former gangbanger who showed us his scars to a middle-aged woman named Crystal, who was waiting for her husband to wake up.
We are at Beth Israel Deaconess in Boston, much less spiffy-looking than the fancy-schmancy new clinic in Scottsdale where a doctor perforated my insides and nicked my spleen trying to get past the scar tissue from the unnecessary surgery she had performed earlier. Thanks to that, I was hospitalized five times, the fifth requiring two and a half hours in intensive care. In Boston, they still write things down for you on paper: not nearly so fancy. But as we kept reminding each other, we were in the best place we could possibly be, surrounded by all the best in medicine, in a culture where the patient has always come first.
The second thing I learned, as if I could ever forget, is that health is everything, that all the money in the world means nothing if you are watching someone you love hooked up to monitors and tubes. When it comes to what really matters, what divides us — age, race, wealth — is meaningless compared to what unites us.
Which brings me back to my friend from the carpenters union, and the droning of the television in the background. If you watch enough political ads, after a while they all sound annoyingly alike: an ugly picture of the opponent; mud flying; some ugly headlines; noise.
Last week, the Donald seemed like a breath of fresh air, a break from the tendency to answer every question in political-speak, a guy who was out to shake up the system. I got it. When you hear those ads hour after hour, the phoniness of the television messages stands in sharp and painful contrast to the life-and-death situations everyone in the room is facing.
This week, the Donald showed that he deserves even less respect than his opponents and their phony ads. If Trump is the “real thing,” then the real thing is a very small man, afraid to face down his nemesis, that terrifying threat to America’s security: the drop-dead gorgeous Megyn Kelly.
Debates matter. They can be noisy and contentious, but it’s the music of freedom you’re hearing. If the Donald won’t play, if he claims to be above the rituals that define politics for a free people, then he is the answer to nothing and the biggest phony of them all.
Susan Estrich is a nationally syndicated columnist. To find out more about her go to www.creators.com.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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