I know we are all being inundated nearly to the point of incontinence by commentaries and analyses of last night's presidential debate between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump. You almost can't fling a dead cat and not hit someone explaining in infinite detail how one candidate or the other demolished their opponent and won or lost the whole election with a single rejoinder or sneer. (Although, in all candor, pretty much anyone without an open head wound realizes that the event was essentially a nationally televised colonoscopy of Donald Trump's political alimentary canal conducted by that plucky amateur proctologist, Hillary Clinton, aided by her trusty wingman, Lester Holt.)
Certainly, there were gibes and bon mots aplenty by Hillary directed at Donald Tweezerhands that I genuinely enjoyed. But what matters most to me is the fact that an audience in excess of 80 million saw a 70-year old man who wants to join the presidential lineage that runs back to George Washington, lose his shit because one woman in a dumpy pantsuit goaded him about his tax returns, loans from his father and the fact that he's a not so latent racist and misogynist.
Donald Trump's demeanor was on trial last night, even more than his intellectual capacity or his understanding of statecraft or world affairs. Let's face facts, no one is fully prepared for the presidency. In one form or another almost every hard question in our society now finds its way to the Oval Office. In many cases, there are no right answers to those questions, only nearly-impossible choices between alternatives in which some people are hurt and other people benefited by the president's decisions. I believe this is why a candidate's countenance is what most people are really judging when they choose who they want as their president.
Even if a voter decides on a candidate based on how they stand on one or two issues, or on one or two parts of his or her past performance in public or private situations, I think what they are really trying to divine is how – and by what standards and values - will that potential office holder decide matters once they are in office. They want a sense of whether they will panic if tragedy strikes or if the best laid plans of the best and brightest go awry. They try to suss out how well the power seeker will balance empathy for those who lose (or die) with phlegmatic leadership and unwavering determination to carry forward through whatever the crisis at hand may be. I think each person, in the final analysis, wants a president who appears to be equal to the task of carrying that person’s fate and the fates of their loved ones, safely in their presidential hands.
And that’s where Donald Trump screwed the proverbial pooch in last night’s debate. He started out calm and leaderly, but quickly lost his composure when Hillary said, in effect, that Trump began his business with nothing but a song in his heart, a glint in his eye and a $14 million loan from his father. She dangled the taunt in front of him like a catnip mouse on a string and he dove after it without a nanosecond’s hesitation. After that, the debate was little more than a game of dodgeball, with Donald as the slow, fat kid on the business end of the flying balls being rifled by Lester and Hillary. By the end of the 90 minutes, it was almost too painful to watch. Almost, but not quite. (Full disclosure, I hold chiggers and head lice in higher regard than I do the namesake of Trump Tower.)
(No kidding, it got so bad I expected Donald to ask to use one of his lifelines. If Lester had asked him the “What would you do about Aleppo,” question Gary Johnson had been posed to such disastrous effect on MSNBC’s “Morning Joe,” I would bet anything that Donald would have responded, “I love Aleppo! He was my favorite Marx Brother!”)
Beyond the Tourette's-like outbursts dressed as debate answers, past the whines about Hillary’s ads not being “nice,” to him, underneath all of the harrumphs and sniffle-facial tick interruptions while Hillary was speaking, Donald presented America with a case study of a man with a complete dearth of emotional control. His rational mind travels no farther then the borders of his momentary, emotional reactions to whatever someone is saying about him. If someone is complimentary to him, he returns the favor. If they’re not, he’s not. Whether there might be larger considerations at play in dealing with the other person is irrelevant and not even on his mental radar. If someone says something, “not nice,” about him, he attacks, whether doing so is ultimately in his own best interests or not. Trump’s message agenda is forever at the mercy of the person or institution carrying the next real or imagined insult to Trump. Fortunately, so far, Trump’s agenda hasn’t been the nation’s agenda, so the impact of his addlepation seldom extends beyond his own sphere of influence. But November 8th could change that. To borrow a Trumpism, It could change it bigly.
I suspect that the thought process underway in the minds of many Americans right now, as they are subjected to the pundit-storm of reaction blogs, commentaries and videos, boils down to a simple question. Can you trust Donald Trump to have a steady hand on the tiller of the ship of state? In a crisis, will he keep his eye on the far horizon of the greater national good, or will he steer toward the nearest phantom provocation or perceived slight? Will he put his own emotions before our collective well-being?
Will he, in short, be the president we need when we need him at his best? Last night didn’t suggest he would.