So like millions and millions of people, I watched what at the time we thought might very well may go down in history as the only time Donald J. Trump and Kamala Harris will be in the same room, let alone speak to the American voters on why they are most qualified to run the country. (UPDATE: According to this morning’s BULWARK newsletter, it was noted that Harris and Trump, along with Joe Biden, all attended a service at Ground Zero in Manhattan observing the 23rd anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks).
It was quite clear that Harris had far more at stake last night than Trump, particularly as numerous polls showing a statistical dead heat indicated that a significant number of those not fully committed to their choices still felt they needed to know more about Harris, both as a person and as a politician.
As a person, and as a debater, she was an unqualified success. THE INDEPENDENT’s Richard Hall summed up in detail how Harris’ prosecutorial expertise and her recent cram sessions paid off in a most disarming manner:
Kamala Harris laid the bait for Donald Trump by attacking the most precious thing to him in the world – his rallies.
“He talks about fictional characters like Hannibal Lecter. He will talk about how windmills cause cancer. What you will also notice is that people start leaving his rallies early out of exhaustion and boredom. The one thing you will not hear him talk about is you,” she said, in a moment that was likely rehearsed for days.
Trump’s eyes widened and his face dropped. He could no longer hear the moderators above the ringing in his ears.
“Let me respond just to the rallies,” he said, ignoring a question about the border. “People don’t leave my rallies. We have the biggest rallies, the most incredible rallies in the history of politics,” he went on.
From that moment on, his voice rarely fell below a shout. His sentences were disjointed. His syntax was confused. His face was red. His brow was furrowed. He leaned forward towards the empty space in front of him.
The worst was still yet to come.
In perhaps the strangest moment of the debate, or of any presidential debate in US history, Trump stumbled from a defense of his rallies to the sharing of an online conspiracy theory about Haitian migrants eating cats in Springfield, Ohio.
“In Springfield, they’re eating the dogs — the people that came in — they are eating the cats. They’re eating … they’re eating the pets of the people that live there,” he said.
When the moderator, ABC’s David Muir, said there had been no credible reports of pets being harmed, the former president responded with an answer that might have prompted a wellness check if it had been uttered anywhere but the debate stage: “The people on television say my dog was taken and used for food.”
And on a day where my best friend suffered a far more natural loss of one of her most cherished pets, any shred of remaining respect that I might have had for Trump as a human being–and mind you, I’ve relished having given him the mocking pseudonym Fat Orange Jesus–was forever removed from my list of possible revisitings.
From that point on, whatever hope any one of Trump’s few objective advisers had for him to be nuanced and calm was taken off the table. He repeatedly devolved and became exactly what Harris’ supporters would have hoped he would–a rambling, incoherent, maniacal nut case that Bill Kristol so tacitly summed up in that aforementioned BULWARK newsletter:
(W)e can’t unsee what we saw last night. And what we all saw is how radically unfit Donald Trump is to be president again.
Indeed, media focus groups and private dial tests alike showed not merely that Harris won the debate; it also seems to be the case that the debate pushed a number of undecided voters, and even some soft Trump supporters, to shift towards Harris. And so I think we can now say that it’s no longer a 50-50 proposition that Donald Trump will be our next president.
But while the giddiness of far outperforming her current boss’ awfully low debate bar from June 27th is still fresh is our minds, I know I’m not tbe only non red-pilled observer who is grappling with this burning question:
What does Harris want to do differently as a president that directly affects me, and how in the world are we gonna be able to pay for it?
Releasing a position paper online mere hours ahead of this confrontation and citing a few wish list items as asides while laying into Trump’s flimsy character just doesn’t cut it for me. Not when I struggle to afford gas for my car or rely upon donations at my local Starbuck’s and at my place of business to have enough meals (such as canned beans and low-grade pasta dinners are) to help me make it to the end of the month, when oft times my bank account is in the negative.
When I see references to helping first-time homeowners and new parents getting financial help, I’m indifferent.
When I see administrations bragging about drops in unemployment rates, I ask what industries are driving it, and what demographics are filling those voids. I know damn well the ones I fall into are disproportionately underrepresented.
And since I live in a state that Jon Stewart represented as part of something akin to “whogivesashitistan” that will undoubtedly turn blue as it has for decades, my vote in particular is one that I’m darn sure the Harris team isn’t going out their way to pursue.
Maybe I’m overly selfish and not as focused on the bigger picture as I should be. But at this point in the election process, does anyone objective think the remaining undecideds don’t have similar mindsets?
So, sorry Mamala, you indeed won the battle, but you haven’t yet won the war.
Heck, even Kristol conceded that in the same breadth he at least swung the pendulum in your favor:
Could Trump recover from the disaster? Sure. It’s possible. His support seems immovable, meaning he’ll probably never be very far behind.
Could Harris still falter? Perhaps. Does winning the debate mean winning the election? Of course not. There are eight long weeks left. There will still be plenty of moments in this campaign that will make us—or at least that will make me!—nervous.
Madame Vice President, you’ve got 55 days to at least try and convince me that you’re worth my vote, assuming you care enough to do so. Rest assured it’s not going to Despicable Ye. But now you’re on the clock.
Until next time…