The Attic of American Shame

Years from now… actually, maybe not even years, maybe just a couple of months, there will be a moment of awkwardness in a sunbeam-lined suburban attic somewhere in Ohio. Or Florida. Or Texas. (Ok, honestly, pick a red state, spin a globe, shut an eye, and toss a dart. I’m sure it'll stick somewhere shameful.)

A teenage kid, out of curiosity, maybe doing a school project on "The Fall of American Democracy: A Case Study," will navigate through stacks of Christmas decorations and a deflated flamingo pool raft. And then they'll see it: the trunk. Worn leather straps. Brass lock. Grandpa's legacy.

They'll pry it open with the earnest excitement of a kid who wants to fill in the blank spaces of his family history. And history, oh, will not let them down. Inside: a worn-out MAGA hat. A Trump tee with his bloated smirking face that’s been photoshopped onto Rambo's body. A "Let's Go Brandon" sign. A CPAC 2024 souvenir coin. A coffee cup that reads "Trump: Still My President."

Cut to record scratch.

"Wait. Your grandpa was one of those?

Suddenly, this teenager's TikTok followers (in the unlikely event that TikTok has not been closed down by President Taylor Swift) are losing their minds in the comments:

"Yikes. My great-uncle was involved in QAnon too. Total family shame."
"We found a 'Stop the Steal' sign in our garage. We burned it in a ritual cleansing."
"Did he think JFK Jr. was coming back too?"

It's the modern-day equivalent of finding out your great-grandfather belonged to the Klan. Or that embarrassing family story about "how we used to own a plantation." You know, the sort of thing one whispers over the turkey at Thanksgiving but won't verbalize until someone's had three drinks of wine.

Because that's what this age is becoming: America's latest entry in the Encyclopedia of National Shame. We've got slavery, internment camps, McCarthyism, Vietnam, and the blatant support of genocide. Now we have a slick page on Trumpism. Tiki torch full-page spreads in Charlottesville. January 6 cosplay coups. Kanye at Mar-a-Lago. Giuliani melting. A dystopian circus of authoritarian cosplay and Q-soaked conspiracy fever dreams watched and cheered on by individuals whose only form of literature is Facebook comments.

This isn't politics. This is pathology.

So let's get real: Trumpism isn't policy. No one's out here on the mic arguing for trade deficits or nuanced positions on border control. Trumpism is a mood. A hyper-insecure, grievance-based, personality cult-driven phenomenon that worships cruelty, sneers at empathy, and yearns for some version of America that never actually existed beyond a 1950s-era segregated diner.

It is the Confederate nostalgia of the 21st century, draped in Chinese-manufactured stars and stripes.

And just like how no one these days brags about their uncle’s “authentic Nazi memorabilia” (unless you’re on an FBI watchlist), the day is fast approaching when having a MAGA flag in your attic will be viewed as a scarlet hat—a family curse, whispered about and hidden away.

“Why didn’t they stop him?” the kids will ask.

"Why did they defend a man who mocked disabled people, embraced dictators, urged insurrection, bragged about sexual assault, flopped democracy, and sold $99 NFTs of himself in superhero garb?"

And the answer, of course, will remain the same as it always has: ignorance, fear, tribalism … and Facebook.

But don't forget one of the darkest, most quietly entombed skeletons rattling in that attic: Trump's extended, slimy relationship with Jeffrey Epstein.

His name didn’t appear once or twice on flight logs. It appeared dozens, maybe hundreds, of times. From Manhattan parties to clandestine Palm Beach meetings at Mar-a-Lago, Trump's proximity to Epstein was no accident. He even boasted once that Epstein had a penchant for "beautiful women, on the younger side," as if that were party prowess and not an invitation to sex trafficking.

And distraction is now here. We have the 24/7 bombast, the fear-mongering, the Hunter Biden fever dreams. Anything to get the headlines away from the fact that Trump has more skeletons in his closet than a Spirit Halloween pop-up has at your local strip mall. There are rumors, low-key but persistent, of a potential pardon offered to Ghislaine Maxwell if she keeps her testimony on lock with Trump loyalist talking points. Loyalty is the currency of the realm in Trump's broken court, and silence buys immunity.

But the walls are closing in. Depositions are stacking up. Papers are surfacing. And the salacious puzzle of Trump's ties to Epstein is beginning to take shape as something indomitable. Not simply salacious by association, but perhaps, and more than likely, complicit.

The Trump era, with his broken promises, his black hole of empathy, his kids' plaything of authoritarian cosplay, is coming undone. The bluff is called. And under the bluster and grievance lies a man without center, without strategy, without heart.

The shame will echo. Not just in attics, but in resume-scrubbed job applications, in grandchildren disowning heritage, in family trees with disclaimers whispered in: "Yes, your great-grandfather was a 3-time donor to the Save America PAC, and no, we can't make that go away."

There will be "MAGA to Mensch" support groups. Self-help literature called De-Programming Grandpa: Recovery from Generational Cultism. Scholarly conferences on "Post-Trumpist Reconciliation Techniques." University courses in "Authoritarian Studies." Sedona retreats for former Trumpies who are finally willing to say, "I was wrong."

But the silver lining is this: history does not bury shame. It offers means of atonement.

If you're reading this and you ever waved your hands in the air and shouted "Build the wall!" with enthusiasm, it's not too late. (Though, I’m fairly certain all my friends and family members who’ve fallen into the MAGA cult stopped reading anything I write years ago. Some because they don’t like being called out with truth, others because they can’t read.) But if you are a MAGA looking for redemption, begin by apologizing. Not defensively, not with "both sides," not with that half-hearted "I liked his policies" dodge (which ones? The bleach injection one?). A genuine apology. Taking accountability is something I value almost more than anything else in a person. I admit I’m wrong all the time, and instead of bringing shame, it provides me freedom.

Then do something. Donate to organizations that fight voter suppression, white nationalism, and disinformation. Talk to your kids, not at them, about what you believed, why you were wrong, and how you're trying to improve. Burn the flag. Recycle the hat. Cancel your Truth Social subscription.

And for the love of whatever god you claim to worship, stop sharing Babylon Bee headlines like they're holy writ. (You might want to turn off Fox News, too, and move toward a genuinely fair and balanced news source like the AP.)

We don't have to endure it again if we can learn from it. But that takes confronting the attic first, before the children manage to stumble upon it and start asking questions you're not yet ready to answer.

Because in the end, legacies are built not of slogans or rallies or t-shirts with prices too low to mention. They're built out of choices. And silence, like a moth-eaten flag stuck in a trunk, speaks louder than you know.