For the Globe and Mail, some thoughts on the worst presidential debate in US history:
Who won the debate? Does it matter? When this country has sunk this low – after a year dominated by bigotry and threats and now revelations about sexual assault – is it possible to contemplate anything but loss? Loss of trust, loss of respect, loss of dignity, loss of purpose. Loss of faith in our leaders, loss of faith in each other – in the ability of our media to challenge a candidate’s worst behaviour instead of exploiting it for profit, in the willingness of our leaders to defend the most vulnerable instead of exacerbating their pain.
“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel,” wrote poet Maya Angelou, a St. Louis native. Sunday night, 10 kilometres from Ms. Angelou’s childhood home, Mr. Trump took the stage and stereotyped black Americans, insulted Muslims, threatened to jail his opponent, and lied so blatantly about his past statements that we were forced to remember what exactly the Republican nominee had said about checking out that sex tape.
Ms. Angelou was right: You never forget how someone made you feel. What we felt was gross, and sad, and scared. The campus felt coated in slime. The debate was a lurid soap opera, in which everything unsaid loomed larger than what was spoken.
The stagecraft lent itself to grotesque microdramas of physical exchange. You may not remember what the candidates said, but you’ll remember that they did not shake hands at the start of the debate. You’ll remember how he stood behind Hillary Clinton, hulking and hovering. You’ll remember his strange sniffing, his ceaseless interruptions, and her withering disdain.