Tonight, as I pushed a jogging stroller and my daughter held her butterfly wings and stuffed giraffe with the bell, we came across the neighborhood nightmare I hadn’t known existed:
Five Donald Trump signs on one lawn.
“MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!” they screamed.
I can hold her and rock her and sing to her, but I can’t shield my daughter from Donald Trump supporters.
They exist. They’re everywhere. The polls and votes are not an aberration, and getting snooty about it or exercising our right to denial won’t do anything: Bald hatred is apparently sort-of in.
More distressing was the house itself. This was the house with the woman who had caught me pushing this stroller a year ago. She wanted to chat. She clearly wanted a friend. She has two twin sons about the same age as my daughter.
And now her house is supporting a man who has called for…
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