Trump is Called Lots of Things.
But What Do His Grandchildren Call Him?
The most powerful man on earth goes by many names — even a few that can be spoken in mixed company — like, Mister President. Sir. Commander in Chief. Leader of the free world.
Even his Secret Service minders, when they murmur important orders into their cuffs, use a unique tag: MOGUL, as in, MOGUL left the nuclear launch key he uses as a ball marker on the last green. Pick it up.
Not only does “The Donald” have lots of cool names, he is also blessed with veritable ballclub of grandchildren.
But with POTUS having so many aka’s what on earth do his nine little angels shout out when they want to grab onto the hem of his paper-thin attention span?
Most new grandparents are likely to spend a fair amount of time and energy trying to bond with their tiny family addition. And during that intoxicating fantasy period of early grand-parenting lurks the all-important question — No, not the, How on earth can I fund a 529 college savings plan thing — but rather, What will the little joy-toy call me for the rest of my life thing.
In many families the more traditional grandparent names assume the default position — passed on, from generation to generation. They tend to fall into the intersection of ho-hum and humdrum. Grandfather and Grandmother are the chocolate and vanilla of grandparent names. Titles that will always sound appropriate, right up to and including the far off day when some high-priced lawyer might read aloud from your Last Will and Testament: “And your grandfather has left you a blah, blah, blah and a small blah, blah…etc.”
And, even if there happens to be strains of ethnicity in one’s family, one might choose to substitute the more exotic sounding renderings, of the same, safe chocolate and vanilla designations.
Names like grand-mere and grand-pere for the French.
Anyoka and Apoka if you had a hint of Hungarian in your genes.
Mammo and Daddo for a touch of Gaelic Irish.
Bubbe and Zeydeh for those of the Hebrew persuasion. And possibly Ugogo and Ubabamkhulu if you had a bit of South Africa in your bloodline.
In America’s deep south, for some unrecorded reason, names for grandparents tend to be rather down-to-earth and frankly, a bit mystifying. Names like Hank, Big Mamma, Rooster, Big Daddy and J-Bird are not only prevalent and easy to remember but can smoothly multi-task as names for say, a hunting dog, or a Sheriff’s deputy.
More recently — at least in the historical sense — thanks to multiple divorces and multiple marriages, the number of grandparents a child can end up with has increased exponentially. But still, the more traditional chocolate and vanilla designations prevail. Modified in many cases by the addition of verbal sprinkles, as in: “This is grandmother Joan and grandfather Richard. Unlike grandmother Tammy and grandfather Mark, they’re your sister’s father’s second husband and wife….” Well you get the general idea.
But what if tradition is not the way you roll? What if you are among the more adventurous grandparents and opt to take the road less traveled — jump the shark, ignore the vanilla and go for the guava rum raisin? Be willing and welcoming to whatever nonsensical jumble of alphabetic slobber that belches forth from your grandchild’s little heart-shape lips?
Admittedly it’s chancy and unpredictable. But not more so than the odds your little precious will grow into a money-sucking ne’er-do-well who wouldn’t know a job if it hit him in the face.
And whatever “word” your young munchkin is able to wrap its little pink gums around — it will be as if a white-hot iron has branded it on your forehead. And what you will be called by that child, from that moment, until forever, will have been decided by a little J&J powder-smelling drool-meister.
Even if you keel over at 103, after eighteen holes, or face plant into a bowl of Farina following a hand of hearts, you will forever be known by that jumbled mouthful of vowels and consonants bestowed on you with the little tyke’s very best intentions.
Here’s how it works. Around the time junior begins to make sounds beyond your basic BLAAARTZ or GAAGAAAS, and you’ve asked her for the umpteenth time to give you her interpretation of grandmother or grandfather, eventually the kid will burp out their very own rendition of the nouns they’re hearing from you. So the kid’s translation of grandmother might come out as “GLABOOC.” or “RAGUM” or some other nonsensical handle. And there will follow the kid’s satisfied smile. (Okay, so it’s possibly a touch of gas…but nevertheless you will interpret it as a celestial confirmation.)
And you will hear it and it will be good.
In years to come, your friends may laugh when they hear your now teenage grandperson address you by some foreign sounding name, like, “How are you feeling FAFA?” Or, “Will TOWSMA be coming to dinner with you on Friday?”
Let them laugh. You are on a higher plane of grandparent enlightenment.
But back to POTUS.
It goes without saying that no crap-shoot system would ever be acceptable to The Donald. Absolutely anything having to do with his precious name must pass through his ultra-fine ego filter — whether an International Golf Club in Dubai, the Square surrounding the new U.S. Embassy in Jerusalem or the brand name of his various consumer products. In the mental miasma that is his mind, the name Trump is to some degree worth its weight in gold. (In the case of his many less than successful projects, more like fool’s gold, but that’s another story.)
Bottom line: The use of his name is never left to chance.
First of all, it is no secret that in true Trumpian style the Donald detests the thought of being a grandparent. (Google it if you don’t believe me)
Clearly, he would simply ignore any little rug-rat blather and decide what he wants to be called, nay, demand, to be called. He would then instruct his flunky-de jour to scribble an Executive Order so that the name he chose would be forever used by all his grandchildren, regardless of age, gender, religion or ethnicity, without exception, for the rest of his life, or eternity, whichever comes first.
So if President Trump is not on the any of the usual grandparent naming tracks — the hum-drum or the crap-shoot, what do the nine members of his personal Heir Club call him?
To be honest, given his stratospherically high ego level, I would have guessed he’d pick something along the lines of, Your Majesty, Your Wealthiness, or Your Brilliantness. On second thought, it would never happen. Too conspicuous, even for Trump.
According to my research, his grandchildren, relieved of the burden of making up names, which even if they had, he would have ignored; and since he abhorred the idea of being a grandfather, let along being called grandfather, he settled on a simple proper noun.
Yes, according to POTUS himself, his nine grandchildren call him just plain…Donald.
As in, some day, when one of them looks up at him adoringly and says, “My history teacher said you were president because you were elected by the Russians? Is that true, Donald? Is it, huh? Is it?”
