Scorched Earth

If Donald Trump’s name were Adam, we might as well call him scorched earth. Like Adam in biblical stories, who is often associated with the fall of man and the introduction of suffering into the world, Trump represents a destructive, primal force—tearing down the very foundations of truth, decency, and democracy. His actions have left a trail of devastation, much like the original sin left its mark on humanity. Vice President Kamala Harris took his pile of phobias, racism, bigotry, and dishonesty to task with precision.

Across the globe, the bells are ringing—the siren sounds of celebration—that someone, at last, has cast a shadow over his sheen of bluster, dulling the mask of confusion. Now, I find myself pleading, plotting, and practically begging the Democratic coalition to reimagine the rhetorical frameworks needed to combat the absurd, the obtuse, and the abhorrent with unconventional brilliance. Trump’s word salads are no small matter—they are potential landmines that demand imagination, innovation, and wit to disarm.

It’s not that the signs of Trump’s deception are subtle—they are loud, clear, and cacophonous. His sniffles, those sudden, abrasive gasps for breath, reek of desperation—like a man drowning, gasping for life. It’s as though anger alone isn’t driving him; it’s survival instinct, sheer panic to stay afloat. The press missed this—maybe deliberately, maybe naively—but had they caught on sooner, they could have intervened long ago.

Then there’s the matter of his hands—the accordion hands—moving back and forth with an erratic, almost hypnotic rhythm. He gestures wildly, drawing attention away from his incoherent rhetoric, hoping to mesmerize with motion where meaning is absent. His aim is simple: make you see something unimpeachable in his words, even when they carry nothing but noise. It’s a distraction, a performance paired with the hypnotic cadence of double-talk.

When Trump moves into unhinged repetition—phrases incomplete and erratic—you might think you’re hearing a new form of political onomatopoeia. But no. This is far from sound symbolism. His ramblings are incoherent, illogical, and incohesive. And here’s the trick: he never intended to make sense. His goal has always been to get away with not making sense. The key is to know this, to understand it, and to refuse to take the bait. His rhetoric is a form of hypnosis, and for those not trained to watch his hands and listen closely, sight overwhelms hearing, and soon, they slip into a trance-like stupor. His speech is not far from a chant—a chaotic, cultish chant designed to confuse.

But this debate was different. Here, for the first time, we saw someone who wasn’t spellbound by distraction. Harris distilled his rhetoric in real time—responding, not reacting; pivoting, not punting; stinging, not stalling. She showed us all what it looks like to stand toe-to-toe with absurdity and come out sharper, smarter, and stronger. This was not merely a rebuttal—it was a dismantling.

Democrats, take note: down-ballot candidates need to learn from this moment. In red districts where Republicans have coasted on Trump’s charisma, you can now see the path forward. No more euphemisms—go for elegant exactness, deliberate clarity, and truth.

Yet, let’s be clear: this debate, though victorious for Harris, does not mean she has the election wrapped up. Even post-debate, she remains the underdog. Despite moderators Muir and Davis stepping in to fact-check Trump’s lies and dishonesty in real-time, Harris had to fight for time and respect—fighting not only against Trump’s delusions but against the implicit biases woven into the debate itself. Trump spoke for 42 minutes and 52 seconds, Harris for 37 minutes and 41 seconds. These extra minutes are not just numbers—they reflect the favor granted to Trump, even when his statements crumbled under scrutiny.

And while many will obscure Trump’s dishonesty with false equivalencies, don’t let them. The rules were clear—each candidate was allotted two minutes, yet Trump bargained, argued, and successfully bullied the moderators into granting him extra rebuttals and airtime. Meanwhile, when Harris attempted to speak, the Black female moderator, Linsey Davis, adhered strictly to the schedule, insisting she move on to the next question. It’s not just favoritism—it’s systemic.

In truth, Harris exposed Trump as the petulant adult-child he is, holding him accountable for his delusions about the 2020 election. She pushed back—inviting the American people to bear witness to his fantasies, his obsessions over windmills and wild conspiracies. She didn’t shy away; she told them to look, listen, and decide for themselves. She welcomed them to be the jury in Trump’s trial for fitness to lead.

In these final moments that sometimes feels like “these last days”, she stood, heels and all, against a man towering over her. She didn’t falter. She walked up, offered her hand, and met his dismissive glance with an unflinching “Don’t lie.” It was a masterful, deliberate command of the room—and the country. And while some still question her strength, they can no longer deny her resolve. She is sharper, steadier, and stronger than Trump—without question.

It’s clear to me, the scorched earth Trump has left behind—ravaging truth, decency, and democracy—stands in contrast to the seeds of hope, truth, and resilience Harris has planted. Where Trump leaves destruction, she leaves the promise of renewal. It leaves me wondering, “Why is this even still a contest?”