There is literally no place left for Donald Trump to hide. On Thursday, the president canceled his weekend rallies in Kansas and Iowa, a Saturday stop in Salina and a Sunday stop in Dubuque, with his allies saying he would phone in to rallies across the country instead. The official explanation came from a White House official who said Trump would keep “connecting directly with Americans nationwide through more than 20 telerallies.” Trump’s own explanation was that he didn’t “feel like I have to go to Kansas,” a state where Roger Marshall is stuck in an unexpectedly competitive Senate race against Adam Hamilton. Evidently, Kansas had become optional, which is a fascinating position to take when your party is fighting to keep control of Congress.
But let’s keep it real for a second. The man has spent the last week getting heckled everywhere he goes, and some Republican operatives in Kansas and Iowa quietly breathed a sigh of relief when he called it off. One GOP official told CNN he “hasn’t moved the needle anywhere.” Imagine being president of the United States and having members of your own party react to your canceled appearance like somebody just told them their mother-in-law wasn’t coming for Thanksgiving. You would think the leader of the Republican Party showing up to campaign would be a welcome development. Instead, these people were probably checking the cancellation policy on the catering.
Then, less than a day later, the rallies were suddenly “BACK ON!” According to the White House, Trump “loves his supporters” and will now hold back-to-back rallies in Kansas and Iowa on Sunday, on top of the tele-rallies. So in the span of approximately 24 hours, Trump went from not needing to go to Kansas to needing to go to Kansas and Iowa on the same day. This fool cannot make up his damn mind. He’s running a presidential travel schedule like somebody standing in front of the refrigerator at three in the morning, opening the door, closing it, walking away, and coming back because maybe something new materialized behind the orange juice. At this rate, I expect him to cancel both rallies again, announce a third rally in Nebraska, and somehow end up at Mar-a-Lago complaining that nobody told him where he was supposed to be.
What happened in between explains some of the commotion. On Thursday, Reuters White House correspondent Jacob Bogage asked Trump how he was doing health-wise and whether the cancellations had anything to do with being tired of all the travel. That is standard fare. An 80-year-old president cancels events days before an election, and a reporter asks if he’s feeling okay. Any competent reporter on that beat would ask any president the same thing. Trump could have said, “Hey, thanks for asking, I feel great,” and moved on to the next question. Interview over. Nobody needs to investigate anything. Everybody goes home.
I am always amazed by the inability of MAGA Republicans to answer a perfectly normal question with a perfectly normal answer. These people could be asked whether they enjoyed their breakfast and somehow turn it into a congressional investigation of the waffle industry. Trump had the easiest question imaginable. Are you feeling okay, Mr. President? All he had to do was say yes. Instead, he answered in the one way guaranteed to make people wonder whether there was something wrong in the first place. Now the conversation is about his health, his temperament, and why a basic question about fatigue caused him to react like somebody had just served him a subpoena with his Egg McMuffin. Congratulations, Donald. You took a routine question that could have disappeared in ten seconds and turned it into a story with legs.
Instead, he met the reporter with anger and vitriol. “Oh, you’re sick to ask that question. You are sick,” Trump said. “You’ve been following me for two weeks. I feel perfect. You are disgusting. Put yourself in shape. You look like hell.” One round wasn’t enough, so on Saturday he posted Bogage’s photo to Truth Social stamped with “Put yourself in shape. You look like hell!” and labeled him a “Reuters (One of the Worst!) Reporter.” For the record, by Trump’s own numbers, 238 pounds at six-foot-three, he has a BMI of 29.7, less than two pounds from the obesity line. This is a man who should probably keep his medical commentary confined to asking whether the White House physician has any more of those little breath mints.
And his performance at Thursday’s rally in Rock Hill, South Carolina, deserves its own psychological examination. While attacking Michigan Democratic Senate nominee Abdul El-Sayed, Trump claimed without evidence that El-Sayed was affiliated with the Muslim Brotherhood. Then he addressed Black and Jewish voters directly: “If you’re black or if you’re Jewish, and if you vote for Abdul, you’re crazy, OK? You’re crazy. You’re crazy anyway.” Yes, he actually said that. He told Black and Jewish voters they were crazy for supporting El-Sayed, then threw in a complimentary insult suggesting they were crazy regardless. The man managed to insult two entire communities while supposedly trying to convince them to vote Republican. Somebody in that campaign needs to explain to him that voter outreach generally works better when you don’t insult the voters before they make it to the polling booth.
And the political scientist in me doesn’t think that little “you’re crazy anyway” addition was an accident. Now, I don’t necessarily think Trump intended to say it out loud. I think his brain supplied the thought and his mouth released it to the general public before anybody had a chance to intervene. The line was racist, inappropriate, and revealing. He had just been telling Black and Jewish people how they ought to vote, and suddenly the insult expanded to include them regardless of their political choices. The man managed to turn a campaign appeal into a two-for-one racial insult. Somebody ought to explain that you’re supposed to win voters over, not make them wonder whether the candidate thinks they’re mentally defective. By Friday in Daytona Beach, he was back at it, calling El-Sayed a “jihadist” and telling Black and Jewish voters who supported him, “You’re not smart. I’m being nice.” What a charming outreach strategy. Vote for us, you idiots. We love you people.
Now, I ain’t a neurologist, and I don’t have the medical equipment or professional credentials to diagnose Donald Trump with dementia. I did, however, take enough psychology classes to know that the prefrontal cortex plays an important role in executive functioning, impulse regulation, and inhibitory control. In everyday language, it’s part of the machinery that helps keep every ridiculous thought in your head from becoming a public announcement. You might think something offensive, stupid, or wildly inappropriate, but a functioning filter gives you an opportunity to reconsider before opening your mouth. Trump seems to have a remarkably casual relationship with that process. Whatever pops into his head gets immediate clearance for departure, with no security screening, no baggage inspection, and absolutely nobody checking whether the pilot is awake.
And before anybody starts accusing me of diagnosing the president from my living room, relax. I know the difference between a political scientist and a neurologist. I also know the difference between a private thought and a public statement, although I’m increasingly curious whether Trump does. I’m not issuing a medical diagnosis. I’m watching an 80-year-old president struggle to answer ordinary questions, lash out at reporters, reverse his own campaign schedule within 24 hours, and insult the very voters he’s supposedly trying to recruit. Make of that collection of behaviors what you will. I have made of it what I will, and I don’t need a medical degree to recognize that this is one hell of a spectacle. As I’ve said before, I always have to call a thing a thing.
