Trump Groceries Quotes

I stock the fridge with healthy snacks (thanks to my awesome mother-in-law, who does grocery runs for us!). I

Lance is Donald Trump. He might own all of Manhattan, but if there’s one tiny corner grocery store out there without his name on it, it drives him crazy.

It would be grotesque to compare what has happened to workers in the West to what has happened to the Native peoples of the Americas, who have survived a genocide and more than a century of persecution. But while I researched this book, I spent some time in the Rust Belt. A few weeks before the U.S. presidential election in 2016, I went to Cleveland to try to get the vote out to stop Donald Trump from being elected. One afternoon I walked down a street in the southwest of the city where a third of the houses had been demolished by the authorities, a third were abandoned, and third still had people living in them, cowering, with steel guards on their windows. I knocked on a door, and a woman answered who, from looking at her, I would have guessed was fifty-five. She began to rage—how terrified she was of her neighbors, how the kids in the area “have got to go,” how she was desperate for anyone who would make things better, how there wasn’t even a grocery store anywhere nearby any more and she had to take three buses just to get food. She mentioned in passing that she was thirty-seven years old, which took me aback. And then she said something that stayed with me long after the election. She described what the area was like when her grandparents lived there, and you could work in a factory and have a middle-class life—and she made a verbal slip. She meant to say “when I was young.” What she actually said was “when I was alive.

But when I was growing up, food stamps were actual colored stamps in multiple denominations. I remember circling the store and trying to wait until the other shoppers cleared out of the grocery store so they wouldn’t see me putting the stamps on the counter to pay. The looks were withering, and the stigma was real.

Since I left the United States in 1998, I've cast absentee ballots. Americans overseas vote from the last state they lived in, which for me was New York. Then we got the house on Emerald Isle and I changed my location to North Carolina, where I'm more inclined to feel hopeless. In 1996, in line at the grocery store in lower Manhattan, I'd look at the people in front of me, thinking, Bill Clinton voter, Bill Clinton voter, convicted felon, Bill Clinton voter, foreign tourist, felon, felon, Bill Clinton voter, felon. At the Emerald Isle supermarket that I stomp off to after the fight with my father, it's Trump, Trump, Trump, Trump, and then the cashier, who also voted for him. Of course, these are just my assumptions. The guy in the T-shirt that pictures a semiautomatic rifle above the message COME AND TAKE IT, the one in fatigues buying two twelve-packs of beer and a tub of rice pudding, didn't necessarily vote Republican. He could have just stayed home on Election Day and force-fed the women he holds captive in the crawl space beneath his living room. The morning after our argument, I come downstairs to find my father in the kitchen. 'Are you still talking to me?' he asks. I look at him as if he were single-handedly responsible for the election of Donald Trump, as if he had knowingly cast the tiebreaking vote and all of what is to come is entirely his fault. Then I say, 'Yes. Of course I'm still talking to you.' He turns and plods into the living room. 'Horse's ass.

As the Rich family and I made our way around the neighborhood, my heart filled up with some hope that our country would survive this. Despite the cold weather, people on the street who saw what we were doing wanted to help. When the tape we were using proved to be too weak to get the flyers to stick to the light poles in the wind, people went home and brought us duct tape. They took handfuls of flyers to put up in their grocery stores and cafés. When we finished our work that day I was reminded of the fundamental decency of most Americans, how they want the best for each other and that most of us are more human than we are Republican or Democrat. That was the country I wanted back.

I realized I was actually in some Hilton Garden Inn somewhere in the middle of America, and I had to remind myself of what I had been doing for the last ten months. Literally, step by step, campaign stop by campaign stop, I had to rebuild my memory. Think about that for a second. I had to remind myself of breaking up with my boyfriend, leaving my home, and following a man some call a maniac around, trying to keep up with the daily lies and outrages. He lies a lot. That sounds overly negative. But you have to understand something. Most people, even those who would qualify as political junkies, have other things going on in their lives. They follow politics—but they also go to work, pick up their kids, exercise, shop for groceries, daydream, and live a full life. I do not. I live the Trump campaign. That means I live every lie. And I live every controversy. And they pile up daily. Every time Trump opens his mouth in public, I get a verbatim log of it sent to my e-mail.

Donald Trump’s mind is that tabloid you see at the checkout counter of the grocery store claiming that aliens impregnated Chelsea Clinton so the offspring could become president and turn the United States over to the Federation.

Donald Trump’s mind is that tabloid you see at the checkout counter of the grocery store claiming that aliens impregnated Chelsea Clinton so the offspring could become president and turn the United States over to the Federation. Few Republicans challenge Trump on his conspiracy obsessions, treating him like an addled senior citizen who calls his congressman’s office demanding to know why the CIA is talking to him through his dentures.