“Fire and Fury” gives an unflinching look at the Trump White House. Wolff’s recounting of his conversations with Trump staffers reinforces several unflattering notions about the President: his inability to focus, he’s hot-headed and short-tempered, his narcissism and ultimately he doesn’t really care about the issues and only cares about being liked. It also sheds new light on the Bannon / “Javanka” rivalry, Trump’s frustration with a revolving door of Cabinet members, and how deep the Russian investigation may go. In the end, Bannon comes off like a genius mastermind — much to the dismay of the President — and the Trump administration is doomed.
The big concern with this book is that Wolff admits in his prologue that some of the content is essentially made up — what the author believes to have been said behind closed doors, rather than actual accounts of what was said. Wolff’s recollections align with popular perception, but is the perception feeding the narrative or the narrative building the perception?
As a journalist, the latter should be the case. But Wolff, a veteran journalist, breaks all journalistic rules by (admittedly) constructing some conversations with which he was not a witness, leaving the reader questioning what is actually true. And as President Trump continues to blur the lines between reality and “fake news,” this book does a disservice to credible journalism.
I was hoping this book would provide unique insight into the 2016 election. It did, but it steered in many different directions, from Hillary’s childhood to her love of her grandchildren. That made the book a little disjointed.
Critics of “What Happened” complain that Hillary shuffles blame for election defeat. That is flat-out wrong. In the book, Hillary is constantly playing the “what if I ….” card and acknowledges her errors. However, she correctly points out the many factors she had no control over — the constant Comey conferences, Russian interference, the continuous “fake news” stories circulating on social media, the endless Benghazi hearings. Criticizing her for pointing out these unprecedented attacks on her character are unfair. They definitely had an impact on the election.
Hillary ends the book with a call to readers to work Onward Together, and promises to keep fighting. This offers members of the “Pantsuit Nation” some inspiration after a devastating defeat. Hopefully, though, it won’t be too late.
When I was growing up, our neighbor had an above-ground swimming pool, a rarity in the tiny backyards of the homes on the Southside of Chicago. We could see the pool from our kitchen window.
I often played with the kids who lived in that house and considered them friends. But come summertime, they naturally spent their days in the pool. On any given day, lots of neighborhood kids could be seen playing in that pool. I wanted to play, too. After all, I was a neighborhood kid. But my parents said it would be impolite to ask — I needed to be invited. I watched them play from our kitchen window, sometimes even wearing my swimming trunks just waiting … but that invitation never came.
That’s the first time I learned that I was different from the neighborhood kids. Chicago was — and in many areas still is — highly segregated. We lived in a white neighborhood. As a half-Filipino, half-white child, I was generally tolerated in my neighborhood, but never fully accepted (outside of my best friend and his family). At my Catholic elementary school, a few of my classmates would call me a “Filipino fart.” In high school, the kid who sat behind me in homeroom would often tell me to “go back to your country, wherever that is.” When I told the teacher about this, he told me to “just ignore it” and asked if I had finished my work. He completely dismissed my concerns, instead of addressing the situation.
Although I brushed off the racist rhetoric and actions, it did significant damage to my soul. I was severely wounded. I would bury myself in writing poetry, listening to heavy metal and dabbling in whatever substance I could get my hands on. One day, I wanted to end it all. And I almost did.
Twenty years later I found myself surrounded by people who accept me — and even celebrate me — for who I am. Of course, I knew there was still hate in the world. I wasn’t naive. I knew many people, especially blacks, Hispanics and gay people, still faced significant discrimination. And I always tried to stand with them. Although an ally against racism, I no longer felt like a victim. The wounds I endured in childhood were permanently healed, I thought.
Then Charlottesville happened, and more specifically, President Trump’s response. Like most Americans, I was shocked and saddened by the events of Saturday. And I was stunned by the tepid response given by the President. But I dug into my diversity training playbook and gave him the benefit of the doubt. As someone who has always been rich, white, straight and male, he cannot possibly understand what racial discrimination feels like. And on Monday, Trump at least made an effort to say the right thing.
Then his press conference on Tuesday happened. And the wounds in my soul that I thought were long healed began to flare up. When President Trump said, “there are bad people on both sides,” that little boy in his swimming trunks staring out the window occupied my mind. When the President said, there are “many fine people” among the neo-Nazis calling for an ethnic cleansing of our nation, the faces of the boys calling me a “Filipino fart” appeared. And when Trump promoted his winery in Charlottesville — “one of the largest wineries in the United States” — that teacher who dismissed my concerns was back.
In my diversity training, I learned there are actually very few racists in the world. Most people are just ignorant. I always thought our President fell into the latter category. But after his passionate statements Tuesday, and his continued unwillingness to consider the hurt his words have caused, it’s difficult not to consider him a racist.
And if you’re willing to overlook this fact and still support him, then you are no better than my high school teacher.
Reunited and on tour with his original band, Soundgarden, Chris Cornell tweeted at 8:06 p.m.:
#Detroit finally back to Rock City!!! @soundgarden #nomorebullshit.
The band roared through a blistering 17-song set, playing the grunge sound they helped invent, including hard rock radio staples like “Outshined,” “Black Hole Sun” and “The Day I Tried to Live.” Much has been made about the telling encore the band performed that night, “Slaves & Bulldozers,” that includes a snippet of Led Zeppelin’s “In My Time of Dying” with Cornell belting the eerie lyrics:
In my time of dying, I want nobody to mourn.
All I want for you to do is take my body home.
However, Soundgarden performed that same song combination two weeks earlier in Concord, North Carolina. And if fans are seeking foreshadowing of his death through song lyrics, several of Cornell’s own songs provided such insight, such as the closing verse of “Searching With My Eyes Closed,” in which he verbalizes the battle inside his mind:
Stop you’re trying to bruise my mind,
I can’t do it on my own.
Stop you’re trying to kill my time,
It’s been my death since I was born.
I don’t remember half the time if I’m hiding or if I’m lost.
But I’m on my way.
Like the many rock lead singers who committed suicide before him, Cornell turned his depression into beautiful music, and his deeply personal lyrics were treasured by fans who were suffering alongside him.
Everyone has internal demons — that voice in the head that is constantly telling a person to take the dishonorable, destructive and/or selfish path when confronted with a dilemma. Most people are able to silence that voice. But for someone suffering from depression — when in a depressed state of mind — that voice can become overbearing. There are multiple ways to deal with this. Drugs and alcohol are highly effective at silencing that voice, albeit temporarily. Another effective way is to somehow dispel that negative energy through activity, whether it be physical or artistic, such as songwriting and performing, as Cornell did beautifully.
But you never know when that voice will come back. And if it comes back when you are mentally susceptible, you never know what you are capable of doing. For Chris Cornell, like thousands of others every year, the permanent solution was suicide.