What to do about a dictator. I was in New Jersey with my family when I got the first text. My sister sent her kids to the other room to play, out of earshot of the television, and we watched the mainstream channels with my mom and dad while I scrolled X for updates. Donald Trump was shot. When he got up, and we saw the blood, my mom cried. Americans were furious, frightened, confused. It’s been fifty years since a presidential candidate has come so close to being killed, and among folks less obsessively plugged into the news (“sane, well-adjusted humans” we typically call these people) there was a general sense of disbelief. How could something like this happen? But how could it not? Our political climate is total cancer. An attack like this was probably inevitable. I’m just grateful we escaped the darker timeline — by about an inch.
Now, how do we stop this from happening again?
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