An Open Letter To President-Elect Trump

Dear President-Elect Trump,

The election is over, and, because the founders of our nation were fearful of direct democratic power in the hands of the populace, despite a majority of voters having voted for Secretary Clinton, you will be the next President of the United States. A job you never even wanted.  Ironic.

But Mr. President-elect, this is a job. A real job. With real responsibilities. And now you will have real work to do.

Most of the people in this nation didn’t want you to be our President. So you area already starting out in a nation deeply divided. People are scared. You could, as fascists before you have done, play on that fear, and continue to divide and cower the nation for the next four years. You could destroy the economy, entangle us in wars, and make this country, and the world a more dangerous place.  But I don’t think that would be of any benefit to you. You would go down in history as the worst President ever, if not the last President ever, in the history of the United States.

Alternatively, you could rise to the occasion and the office. You could recognize that you now have responsibility to everyone in this country. We do not serve you — you now will serve us. All of us. Not just the rich, but the poor. Not just whites, but blacks, latinos, Asians, and everyone else.  Not just Christians, but Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Sikhs, atheists, and those of every other faith.  Not just straight married people, but lesbian, gay, and bisexual people, married or single. Not just cis-gendered people, but transgendered people.  All of us. Everyone.

Your wife has said she wants to campaign against cyber-bullying.  You have been the biggest cyber-bully of them all.  You will have to lead by example.  The name-calling will have to stop.

Mr. President-elect, people are scared.  If that’s what you wanted, well, you’ve got it.  But how much more would we be able to accomplish if we weren’t frightened of each other and instead worked together?  The ball is in your court.

That’s my mite.  It’s all I’ve got.


The Mite-y Widow


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