From a dinner of pho and vermicelli, I was walking to my Hyundai with a friend when she posed again the question of the day, the month, the past three years. Daubing a bit fiercely at a spot of hoisin on a button of her shirt, she asked how a man like Donald Trump could have become president. It had been a particularly trying few days. We relayed the president’s weekly offal about Vladimir, about the miracles of tariffs, how again he insulted black and brown people, the latest quid pro quo.
And again my friend, daubing, daubing, asked with an ire and yet with a resignation: how could he have become president?… [FULL ARTICLE]
