From Nixon to Trump: An Open Letter

Don.

Don.

Donald.

Are you there, Don?

Oh yes, I’m still here. You thought I died? You thought what I wanted you to think.

What you’re going through right now - I know how it feels, Don. You’re not the first.

You’re the party’s choice. You spanked the lot of them, Bush and Cruz and Rubio, tears on their faces every night in their Lear Jets. You see daylight ahead, nothing between you and the prize but creaky old Hillary and we both know she’s beatable. Too many skeletons and she hasn’t got the touch. Not like you and I do, boy oh boy.

And the press are howling. Everyone wants hear what the next thing out of your mouth is. Every news cycle is Trump’s for the taking. Go low! Say what they’re all thinking! About the immigrants, or the Iran deal. Or abortion. My god, Donald. And out it comes, like a devil at an exorcism.

I know. Remember that time I got drunk and ran out onto the Lincoln Memorial at six in the morning to talk to those hippies? Sure, I got the press talking but you think I feel good about that now? Well, do you?

You’ve always known how to get attention. You have the gift, sitting on your shoulder like a cartoon devil. “Be the loudest voice at the party, Don.” “Put the giant letters on the building, Don.” it tells you. “Bigger! We both know it’s right.”

Oh, Donald. I know that’s not you. There’s a tiny part of you that knows it, too, the calm still place at the center that remembers what self-respect once was. Maybe in the still of the night you find it. Or maybe right in the thick of it, in the midday roaring crowd, the world goes cold and clear and strange, and then you know the simple truth: “I, Donald Trump, am a pitiful clown. A cheap vaudeville galoot. And those who love me for it do not have my best interests at heart.”

Take a minute. I’ll wait.

You think you’re the first lonely man in a crowd? Good intentions, but before you know it you’re on live TV making a really important point about your dog. “The dog line’s a winner,” the voice told me. “A real classic.” If you knew the things I’d seen. What it took the win the Cold War? You would piss yourself. You think I’m not human garbage? I sold my fucking soul. But that’s a story for another time.

There are people with natural grace. All that whirl of confused feelings inside, but their gut steers them to a calm place of dignity. And then there’s you and I, whose inner genius will unfailingly serve up that pie to the face. “You’re not a crook. Go on, Dick, say it out loud. Tell the bastards what they need to hear.” You’re damn right, I thought, let’s do this.

Donald, you’re not going to win. You’re Gingrich without gravitas and the bitch-mother press corps will toy with you and chuck you on the scrap-heap. They’ve got too much on you, and face it you’re not that smart. My God, you’re not even kind. They’ll gut you like a fish. I would have. Hell, I still might.

But there’s hope for all of us. Remember Title IX? I passed that bill, that was me. And the EPA? Dick Nixon. There’s a plaque up there on the Moon with my name on it. It’ll still be there when the cities are dust.

You used to build buildings, didn’t you? Just like your father, way back when. Hotels like great cathedrals; fucking starships in glass.

Never mind about your hair. Forget the hair. You made something beautiful. Think about that, Don, when you’re out there on the road. When they’re all looking up at you. Laughing, sneering. A man can still be proud. Look up at the Moon, and remember.

Yours in friendship,

Richard Milhous Nixon

37th President of the United States of America