“The issues that he bawled about usually meant nothing to him. He was ready to abandon them whenever he could make votes by doing so, and to take up new ones at a moment’s notice … [He] was a vulgar and common man, a cad undiluted. He was ignorant, bigoted, self-seeking, blatant and dishonest. His career brought him into contact with the first men of his time; he preferred the company of rustic ignoramuses…. He seemed only a poor clod like those around him … full of an almost pathological hatred of all learning, all human dignity, all beauty, all fine and noble things. He was a peasant come home to the dung-pile. Imagine a gentleman, and you have imagined everything that he was not.”
— H.L. Mencken in an obit of William Jennings Bryan, 1925
•••
Even though I live here in Orange County, I am a New Yorker.
I will always be a New Yorker.
I was born and raised in a town, Mahopac, located about an hour north of Manhattan, and after graduating college and spending 2 1/2 years as a writer in Nashville, I moved to the Big Apple to work for Sports Illustrated and eat an endless supply of bagels (with whitefish and tomato) and late-night slices of pizza. It is no exaggeration to say I love New York City. The buzz. The passion. The ‘Fuck you’ and ‘Your mom’ and potholes and summer piss stench and asphalt hoops and Nas and Biggie and Billy Joel and … I love everything about it. In many ways, it’s who I am.
I repeat: It is who I am.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was in the rear seat of a car driving across Manhattan and heading toward the Holland Tunnel. It was me and three Sports Illustrated co-workers, with an ultimate destination of New Jersey to attend a golf tournament (unusual for me, because I loathe golf). As we cruised west, one of us noticed a bunch of people standing on an upcoming corner, gazing upward. Within a few seconds, we saw what they saw: A gaping, burning hole in Tower 1 of the World Trade Center.
This was my introduction to … The Worst.
What followed remains borderline indescribable. We reached our destination, sat in a room and—together—watched on TV as buildings smoldered and planes crashed and people (who began their days presuming it was just another Tuesday) faced the unfathomable decision of whether to leap to their deaths or burn to their deaths. I couldn’t believe it. Could. Not. Believe. It. Upon somehow finding a way to return to my apartment late that night, I hugged my fiance and just … I dunno. Absorbed. Crumbled. Paced and moaned and failed to understand the enormity of what had occurred. This was impossible, right? It had to be …
The days that followed … I mean, people talk about New Yorkers never being more united, and it’s the truth. But what I remember most are the flyers. Flyers here, flyers there. Flyers on doors and windows and platforms. HAVE YOU SEEN and IF YOU SEE. A friend and I shuffled over to a midtown armory, where loved ones looking for the lost gathered. With everyone aspiring to help (but little actual need), I stood, cupped my hands and announced, “IF YOU HAVE A FLYER, MY FRIEND AND I WILL MAKE COPIES OF IT AND POST ALL OVER THE CITY!” Dozens of people handed us pieces up paper, including one woman—the wife of a man named Robert Pugliese—who said, glumly, “I know he’s dead.” We spent the next six or seven hours posting flyers. Knowing, as Robert Pugliese’s wife did, the people pictured were most certainly gone.
I also recall the smell. Even though our place was about a mile north of Ground Zero, the stench was inescapable. Metallic, burning rubber, wood, fleshy. Up your nostrils. On your skin.
God, I fucking hate 9.11.
Anyone in New York City at the time hates 9.11.
•••
Wait.
I want to correct that last sentence, because it’s not true.
Donald Trump, a born-and-raised New Yorker who was in the city on the worst-ever day, seems to love 9.11. Or at least love lying about it. And using it to make himself some sort of hero.
Which he most certainly was not.
And before I delve into this, I want to scream one point, because it pisses me the fuck off. So … here I go: EVEN THOUGH EVERYTHING I’M ABOUT TO WRITE IS VERIFIABLY TRUE, THE MAINSTREAM NEWS MEDIA RARELY (AKA: ALMOST NEVER) BRINGS THIS UP. EVERY YEAR WE HAVE A 9.11 ANNIVERSARY, EVERY YEAR DONALD TRUMP SPEWS SOME BULLSHIT, EVERY YEAR WE ALL PRETEND THERE’S NO HISTORY HERE! IT’S INFURIATING!
Put different …
Donald Trump’s first awful act in regard to 9.11 came within a few hours of the disaster, when he went on TV (his favorite place) and bragged about now having Manhattan’s tallest building. If you’re thinking, “No way someone does that”—yes, way.
Here’s the clip …
It’s funny. Before he became president, and was just a reality TV bozo, I sorta gave the dude the benefit of the doubt. Like, maybe he misspoke or had a different idea in mind. But—no. We know Donald Trump far too well, and this is precisely who he is. He cannot not brag, even if the subject involves ruination and destruction.
Don’t believe me? Twelve years before the Sept. 11 attacks a trio of Trump-employed casino executives died in a helicopter crash in New Jersey. Initially, Trump pretended to care about the lost ones, and tried wearing the Mr. Compassionate mask he wears from time to time …
Alas, he couldn’t do it. Before long, Trump shifted from expressing grief to … telling the news media he had narrowly escaped the disaster. In fact, not only did he say so in conversations—he made it part of his bio. Escaped near death. Almost died. Only, cough, it was a lie. A 100-percent lie.
Think about that for a moment. Think about the type of broken brain that even considers this an option.
Step 1: My employees die.
Step 2: They leave behind families and friends.
Step 3: Everyone seems sad.
Step 4: They’re not paying attention to me.
Step 5: I’ll lie and say I was supposed to be on the chopper, too.
•••
Through the months, years and decades that followed 9.11, Trump’s lies grew as does his love for teenage girls.
In no particular order:
• Trump has said time and time again he saw one of the planes hit the Towers from his window at Trump Tower.
His quote:
One problem: The building is located on 5th Avenue between 56th and 57th Streets, a little more than four miles away from Ground Zero. Unless Donald Trump is Superman, the view literally does not exist.
• Trump has insisted, in the immediate aftermath, he sent a more than 100 workers to help with the on-sight recovery. There is, literally, no record of this, and nary a single Trump “worker” has said they were dispatched to Ground Zero. More to the point, tight records were kept of anyone/everyone allowed at the site. There is not a single notation of Trump employees on the scene.
• Trump has insisted he went to Ground Zero and the recovery zone—“Soon after, I went down to Ground Zero with men who worked for me to try to help in any little way that we could.”
And …
There is, again, literally no record of this. No log entry, no photography, no memories of others. Zip, zero.
Supporters will point to this image …
… but that’s Trump blocks away, where he was doing TV interviews.
Because, of course he did.
• Trump has said, in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy, he made a $10,000 to the 9.11 Foundation. Only, there’s literally no record of it. And if a public figure like Donald Trump makes a donation, there would most certainly be a record.
• The worst of the worst of the worst might be Trump at his apex xenophobic self. Trump has repeatedly insisted he saw Muslims celebrating atop buildings in Jersey City as the Twin Towers fell.
Don’t believe me? Roll the tape …
Of course, it was just a lie. Because why wouldn’t you use an unspeakable tragedy to spread hate? Just as he did with the Central Park Five? Just as he’s done with immigrants eating pets. Just as he always does, because he’s a spiteful, hateful, disgusting, small, petty piece of shit.
•••
And I always think about this—how disqualifying it should have been (and still be) for the president of the United States to have used our greatest tragedy to lie and lie and lie and lie. How gross it is. How evil it is. How inhumane it is. The man is remarkable, in that he has, literally, no empathy or compassion. He is a succubus, here to use and take and absorb.
He is evil, and his reaction to September 11, 2001 should have ended any chance of leadership.
Alas, 25 years after The Worst, we are here.
Led by the worst.
He represents the worst of us. And half of "us" voted for him. I. Just. Don't. F*ckin. Get. It.
I was in Westchester on 9/11. I was in Manhattan the next day. The flyers everywhere, crossing Sixth Avenue *against the light* at five in the evening, the plume hanging halfway up the sky, the hush, the horror, the shock, and the smell. I'll never forget that smell.
There are a thousand things that should have disqualified Donald Trump from ever getting anywhere close to the position he's currently in, but bragging about the height of his building before the sun had even set on the destruction is exceptionally high on the list.