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Why The Personal Is Always Political
Three years ago I attended President Donald Trump’s inaugural ball — decked out in a black funeral veil — and the night still haunts me.
“Are you really going to wear a black veil to the ball?” my mother asked. “You’re going to a ball, but I’m going to a funeral,” I replied.
Here’s what it was like inside one of the most dystopian events of the decade.
Doors were to open at 5pm. As we stood waiting in the long entry line in our evening wear, I overheard an elderly woman in a wheelchair say, “Trump’s the first person to tell it like it is. He’s the toughest guy I’ve ever known.” I pulled a piece of beef jerky from my bag and listened to the women talk, wondering whether or not there would be food at this thing. Nearly an hour later, marching police officers formed a blockade to shield the line from the street as we made our procession through security. Protesters gathered on the other side of the street, chanting, “No Trump, No KKK, No Fascist USA.”
“We can’t help it if we’re white,” remarked a woman standing next to me.
“Shame, shame, shame,” the protesters chanted.
Despite my anger about the election and inauguration — I’m not a fan — I decided to go to Trump’s inaugural ball. When I told my then editor-in-chief I had a ticket (via my mother) to attend…
