Donald Trump is scary to a lot of people, but he has never scared me. I am inoculated against men like him. Most people, decent and good-hearted people, listen to Trump and their stomachs churn. I listen to Trump and hear only a death rattle. I know how men like him end. I already outlasted that kind of toxic masculinity. I had to survive my father, a small-time crook who played at having millions the same way Trump plays at having billions.
I used to look up to my father. His name was Tom Bateman, and he was, for a time, as big as the whole world. He was built like a refrigerator. He was the man, the drake, the alpha. He was an ex-college football star and successful businessman who had all the answers. He flew planes, repossessed cars, and owned scores of firearms. Nobody screwed with him, nobody talked back to him, and nobody told him what to do. He was an irresistible force who won every fight, because he sucker-punched every foe.
Then, in 1994, while attending a convention for auto dealers, he encountered a warm white light in his hotel room. The light suffused his body. A lilting female voice with a Welsh accent assured him he would never have to work again.
When he got home, he assembled me, my mother, and my brother around the dinner table. “I have to show you all something,” he said…
