Don’t make fun of Donald Trump’s hair. Don’t make fun of his complexion or his weight or the size of his hands. When you do, he does not hear you.
But the people who do hear you learn, for the umpteenth time, that all that matters is physical appearance. The people who hear you feel insecure and question their own bodies. They think about the shape of their nose or the size of their feet or the pounds they’d like to lose. So don’t put that energy out there.
Instead, bash his politics. Speak out about the threats he poses to all of the most vulnerable people. Express concern for his mental health, which appears not to be in good repair. (But please don’t mock it, because unbeknownst to you, many of your loved ones are quietly battling demons of their own.)
Don’t be petty. Be angry. And if you can muster it, be sad.
Feel sad for the country.
Feel sad about the progress train we used to be on, shed some tears, and let it spur you to action. Feel sad about the daily news stories that shed light on agendas that seem unbelievable. Feel sad about the glass ceiling women face, the stagnation of important causes, and the way things could have been.
But also, if you can find the empathy, feel sad for him.
Think about him, 71 years old, the manufacturer of his own disconnection. Think about him, wandering around the West Wing in a bathrobe alone at night, not a single personal effect in the Oval Office except for one picture of his deceased father. Think about his father’s voice in his mind, saying to him, “no, Donald, you are still not enough. You are still a weakling, a failure.”
Think of these things, and understand that this is what shame looks like. This powerlessness is what happens when you endlessly seek external validation, when you compare yourself to others, when you need to be the “winner” by making everyone else “losers”. This epitomizes the adage, “hurt people hurt people”.
Be angry as hell because these are infuriating times. And if you can find it in yourself, shed a few tears for Donald Trump, in over his head, and still craving his father’s approval.
But for goodness sake, don’t make fun of his hair.