Imagine looking in the mirror and seeing the face of Donald J. Trump—stocky body, orange hair, pompous smile, pockets lined with gold. Imagine the shock of being told, like Peter as the cock crowed, that you are “one of them,” and that “you were with him,” yet defiantly denying it as you screamed, “I never knew the man!”
And despite all your protesting, the voice of your accusers only grew louder. Fight as you may, there’s no getting over the fact that you, by virtue of being an American, possess the habits, inclinations, and appearance of our commander-in-chief.
Does this all sound like a bad dream (minus the pockets lined with gold)? As Rod Dreher is wont to say, Trump is not the cause of our present woes, he is a symptom of them—the symptom of something that runs much deeper in the American character. When Alexis de Tocqueville visited American in the 1830s, he met a whole lot of people, Americans like you and me, who acted a whole lot like Donald Trump.
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