I have been very forgiving of Donald Trump’s political incorrectness because it is fresh after all the canned politics we’ve been exposed to in the modern era. He treated my family and me so well during the six weeks of Celebrity Apprentice. He’s blunt and out-spoken, and unconventional and a great family man. His kids are great. My kid goes to school with one of his grandkids. He’s a New Yorker. I’m a New Yorker.
And so I treated him like an old friend and didn’t get mad when he said that outrageous comment about Mexican drug dealers and rapists. I begged him to apologize and said I couldn’t vote for him until he changed his position, but I didn’t lose hope that he would see the error of his ways.
I was saddened at what he said about John McCain, I figured our Megyn Kelly and Carly Fiorina were easily strong enough to stand up for themselves and call out his bad manners, and even his obviously exaggerated claims about Muslims cheering in Jersey City when the towers came down, I figured was just his confusing Jersey City with something he saw on TV from East Jerusalem or Karachi.
I cut him a lot of slack because he’s around my age, raised in the era of casual intolerance. He became a man in the time when insulting people for what they looked like or what race or what ethnic group they came from was still ok, at least with your best buds in private.
So I dutifully criticized but didn’t lead the chorus of condemnation and still love him despite everything. But I don’t believe he’s being honest when he denies knowing that the New York Times reporter has a disability. If I stand for anything in this life, it is that people with disabilities can no longer be mocked or marginalized. That is what sets the stage for abuse and neglect. And for this I don’t forgive him.