The "Ides of Trump" Facebook page explains it like this: "Just as the Romans did for Julius Caesar, you and I will now do for Donald J. Trump--only with postcards." The idea is that, on March 15, progressive-minded folk from around the world will mail postcards to the sitting President of the United States, informing him that his ideas, his policies, his words, his actions are not okay. The goal is 1 million postcards, which would set a new record. Hank Aaron once received 900,000 pieces of fan mail in a single year; Trump will ideally receive considerably more pieces of not-a-fan mail in a few days.
I hate everything Trump stands for, and I love to write. The Ides of Trump were made for me. At the last meeting of our local peace group, my friend Susan distributed, by the handful, one thousand postcards that she had designed herself. They feature an iconic Yosemite Valley scene rippled through with translucent stars and stripes. The postcards are pre-addressed to the So-called President. The blank left side beckons: "Come on. What do you really want to say to him? This is your chance. Let your voice be heard."
I brought home ten postcards that night. Later, I called Susan up for twenty more. I've been working on them everyday. It's a nutritious, delicious activity.
I started off with earnest comments about policy. I used polite, in-bounds language like, "I feel strongly that our federal lands belong to all Americans," and "Planned Parenthood is about a lot more than abortions." I talked to him like he would 1) listen, 2) have a conscience, and 3) consider strategies not directly conducive to hoarding power and dollars. I talked to him like he would be there at all, and not off at Mar-a-Lago while bulky Secret Service agents scanned thousands of postcards for death threats, clues to imminent acts of terror, and the like.
That lasted for three postcards. Then I thought, "who am I kidding?" I mean, it was an empowering exercise to imagine my opinions would be aired in the Oval Office, but it wasn't realistic. He's a schmuck, and now he's also a politician. Schmuck politicians don't care what the people that didn't vote for them think. Schmuck politicians don't even care much what their voting base thinks, provided they suspect they can get re-elected and get rich doing it.
So instead, I started writing poems. The first one came really quickly, so cathartic was it to be doing something worthwhile with my postcards. It went like this:
What happened to you?Childhood trauma?
Some sick soup of genes, some medical malfunction,
some calamity of the soul?
You know you're a mess of a man,
barely human in your regard for others,
superhuman in your obsession with self.
Like a circus freak,
you draw us in. Some adore you
(unrequited).
Many despise you.And some, like me,Ponder the joke that swallowed us whole.I bank my laughter for better days.
After that came a darker poem, about Jane Doe of ephemeral, pre-election day notoriety:
What of the girl?
Do you know the one I mean?
She was just 13, my son's age,
when she was lured
into the fancy penthouse
She was only a baby, not full grown
when you got inside her
She carried you around after that
like a brick in the gut
like a puck in the throat
There was no sloughing you off--
your jeering face
your greedy fingers
pricking the backs of her eyelids
for many thousands of nights
She tried to tell us--once, twice
She almost saved us all
But you grabbed her by the neck
pulled her down again
She's back on the bed, back in her cell
Story untold; forever Ms. Doe
From there, I entered my haiku phase. These were quick and fun. I only had to commit to 17 syllables. Our President, with his predilection for 140-character rants, would surely appreciate my brevity, if not my subject matter.
All hail Donald Chump
Executor of Steve's will
World's biggest yes man
You surfed your way up
Riding the backs that were bent
by your great fortune
What if your mouth hole
blew smoke rings, not invective?
That would be nicer.
The Ides of Trump called to my son, too. Here's what he came up with:
Much as we may wish otherwise, you are the president of America--not the first lady of Russia. I would recommend severing ties with Putin to shatter this illusion, assuming you aren't too much under it yourself to hear this message.
At this point, I have about a dozen postcards left to write. It won't be hard. Although I am loath to admit it, Donald Trump has become my muse. He and the people- and planet-eating machine he serves are why I have become politically active. He and his ilk have rekindled my creativity at the keyboard; no longer am I just a producer of technical reports for my job. He and the other red caps have put me in touch with a host of beautiful, like-minded souls right here in my community--people I probably wouldn't have found otherwise. And, in a larger sense, Donald Trump has inspired a whole movement, one that I am proud to be be part of.
So, on March 15, one of the postcards I mail will be a thank-you note:
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