A Wrinkle In Time

For families with memories of segregation, the Trump era is stirring up a painful sense of déjàvu.

- Brit Bennett

When we look back on the first year of Donald Trump’s presidency, we’ll recall the xenophobic policies, the perpetual shuffling of White House staffers, the rise of unabashed white supremacists, the intensifying Russia investigation. We’ll think of NFL athletes taking the knee, and the misery of Puerto Ricans, only belatedly recognized by the president after Hurricane Maria. What we are unlikely to remember—what is, to me, the most disorienting feature of this year and thus the most difficult to describe—is how time itself has been altered. I cannot believe, for example, that as I write this, the violence in Charlottesville happened only six weeks ago, that Trump fired FBI Director James Comey only 137 days ago, or that 59 days ago, Trump announced, over Twitter, that he was banning transgender service members from the military. Certainly, between drafting this essay and its publication, other scandals will briefly arrest national attention, soon to be forgotten by even newer controversies. And yet it’s been only a year since Donald Trump was elected. In Trump Time, a week feels like a year; a year feels like a week.

Last November on election night, I boarded a cross-country plane from my hometown, Los Angeles, to Boston. Up in the air, I disappeared inside two novels on my iPad, happy to be free of all distractions. That is my favorite thing about air travel: For a few hours, at least, you can exist outside of time.

When I landed, I turned on my phone and discovered that while I was floating through the sky, the country had entered a new reality. I rode to my hotel, stepped into my room, and called my mother. It was late in Massachusetts, maybe one in the morning. I felt childish for making the call, as if my mother could fix anything. But I was lonely and distraught, and besides, hadn’t she lived through worse times than this new presidency could possibly bring?