Woe, woe, woe, is me.
Imagine, picture it. I’m a Trump supporter in California, in Los Angeles; I’m of Mexican ancestry. Oh baby, I’m apparently a masochist through and through.
It’s OK. No complaints, no regrets. I somewhat and wickedly bask in the anti-adulation. All my Facebook friends and co-workers and family and acquaintances, even my conservative buddies, can’t stand the Donald.
I’m It, the sole representative of the vestigial California Trump electorate among my circle of cohorts.
It’s lonely, but I love loneliness. It’s unpopular, but I love unpopularity.
I consider it a mark of uniqueness for me to support Donald Trump. I fit so many demographical markers which would indicate I might be the sort to keep Donald Trump, and all things Donald Trump, at least a 10-mile arm’s length from me, at all times. For my own comfort and peace of mind.
But I don’t. Coastal California is no country for avid Trumpsters but still, some of us make our remote stands.
Donald Trump, we yell. We wear t-shirts, bumper stickers, whatever else we can display to add one more drop of self-ostracization to this collection of alienation we have devoted our waking hours to. Because we know, we know: blue collarism is a state of mind, it’s not about where you work, live or the values that dictate your self-image and consuming habits. Rather than wallow in the vapid comforts of accomplished classicism, we realize the American dream can only thrive if it’s allowed to pool quietly beneath the subdued corridors of our nation’s shores, away from the dilution by a swath of global commercialism. The United States is a nation; not a fragment of the world’s conglomeration of strife and poverty.
So this morning, on the way to work, California came knocking.
I’m surrounded by madness, immersed in blindness and feel-good liberal myopia.