I know, there is really too much talk about Donald Trump these days, but I have a more personal story to offer than everything else that I am hearing in the media.
In the early 1990s, I was living in Boston. My place was “party central” so I met new and unusual people all of the time. At our house one day, a friend introduced me to Joe, an exuberant young Irish guy who was new to town. The account Joe gave of how he ended up in Boston was that Trump had come to his town in Ireland, offering a sweet deal to anybody who would emigrate with him to the US to work as cheap labor at his affiliated hotels. Those who agreed were given a sum of money and rushed through a US citizenship process. Since these people were not established in the country, it seemed like safe bet that they would be loyal enough to The Trump Organization for it to be profitable. But Joe said that many of those brought over felt that Trump had misrepresented the deal. Joe himself said that he was assured to be moving to Atlantic City, which appealed to him because of its proximity to NYC. But they were sending him elsewhere, and reneged on other details. So he went AWOL and found himself in Boston, where there was more work and a huge Irish population. He had a place and was trying to get steady work.
One day, a few days later, I had come home and was alarmed to find that my stash was gone. Asking about, I found that Joe had returned to the house earlier. So it seemed a safe guess that he had helped himself to it.
Yet a few more days later, I was asleep one night and gradually awakened to my window scraping open, somebody climbing through it, muffled giggling, and a goofy voice saying “Oim Satan, an Oive come ta kill you”. To which I mumbled “Aaaaah - fuck you Joe”. I asked him what brought him back in the wee hours. He said that he wanted to give my stash back to me, but I’d need to go to his place, which was far away from my area. I indulged him and went out there. It turned out that he had actually consumed all of my stash, and was tripping balls and had become obsessed with the problem of recycling the world’s waste plastics. Since he thought I was clever he decided he’d pick my brain for solutions. I am afraid that I was not very helpful, since mine was really only a simplistic understanding. But it was an interesting conversation. Eventually he came down and fell asleep, and I had to find my way back home at dawn with no money. I never did see this character again. He might have been too embarrassed when he remembered bringing me out there, or chewed out by our mutual friend for having stolen from me.
The moral of the story? It’s personal experience that Trump does not walk his talk on anti-immigration rhetoric. Not that I’d want him to, I am not anti-immigration. But just to point out that he’s a lying weasel who was directly responsible for putting a wanna-be Satan in my bedroom, after he was cheated out of the job he was promised.