 |
Donald Trump bizarrely claims 'I RAN ten feet to the
ground' after video shows him unsteady on his feet and struggling to drink a
glass of water at West Point graduation as psychiatrist says he needs a brain-scan
|
Twitter is reacting to images of Trump giving West
Point graduation speech
Trump used two hands to sip from a cup of water, as he
has done before
President also appeared to have trouble descending
steps after speech
Trump mentioned the 'evils of slavery' in his speech
to new officers
|
2020
Why Trump Is Right To Worry About That Glass of
Water
Even if it’s baseless and unfair, few things stick to
a modern president like images of physical frailty.
By JEFF
GREENFIELD
06/14/2020
06:17 PM EDT
Jeff
Greenfield is a five-time Emmy-winning network television analyst and author.
What to
call it—“Photo-oops”? “Glass of Watergate?”
Whatever
the label, when the videos appeared on Saturday of President Trump shuffling
down that ramp at West Point, a general walking attentively by his side, and
using two hands to guide a water glass to his lips, the response on liberal
Twitter threatened to deplete America’s Strategic Schadenfreude Reserve.
The same
man who ran for office by mocking the height and stamina of his rivals, who
celebrates dominance as the cardinal virtue of leadership, whose 2016 campaign
compiled similar slips by Hillary Clinton into a dark TV commercial accusing
her of lacking the strength to serve as president, found himself looking like a
longtime resident of Shady Grove Home For the Weary.
The images
led to some elaborate online speculations and diagnoses, and for Trump, the
attention clearly struck a nerve. Why else would the president take to Twitter
to offer the excuse that the ramp was “very slippery” (a claim that a New York
Times story labeled highly dubious)?
He might
well be revealing his own insecurities. But he’s also right about one important
thing: just how damaging such a picture of weakness can be. It may sound
trivial, and it’s often unfair, but when a modern president, or even a
candidate, exhibits physical weakness, it comes with a political cost.
It helped
sink President Gerald Ford—perhaps the most athletic of our recent presidents;
football star at the University of Michigan, skilled skier. But a couple of
stumbles down the steps of Air Force One, a tumble on the ski slopes, and the
relentless mockery of Chevy Chase on “Saturday Night Live” cemented a new image
of Ford that stuck: A fumbling character barely able to put one foot in front
of the other.
After him
came President Jimmy Carter, who, in the midst of declining polls and a looming
primary challenge from Ted Kennedy, sought to demonstrate his energy by
entering a challenging six-mile race in the Catoctin Mountains in
mid-September, 1979. Midway through the race, he all but collapsed into the
arms of a Secret Service agent; pictures of the open-mouthed, utterly drained
Carter became the symbol of an exhausted presidency.
Or think
back to George H.W. Bush, whose appetite for recreation was on frequent display
on golf courses, tennis courts and the water. But on January 8, 1992, in the
middle of a state dinner in Japan, was struck by a flu bug and vomited. It
became grist for the “SNL” mill, and helped underline the age difference
between Bush and the much-younger Bill Clinton.
Without
overstating the impact of these moments, it’s interesting to note that in each
instance, the president lost his next election. And in 2016, so did challenger
Hillary Clinton, whose coughing fits and use of back pillows became tropes in
conservative media, fueling rumors circulated by the National Enquirer and
others that she was virtually at death’s door.
We have, of
course, had presidents hampered by genuine disability—none of whom suffered any
kind of political damage for it. Franklin Roosevelt was struck by polio in
August of 1921, leaving him unable to walk under his own power. His political
career seemed doomed. But he was able to demonstrate enough mobility to
maneuver himself to the rostrum of the Democratic convention in 1924 to put Al
Smith’s name in nomination, and to demonstrate energy in other ways (he flew to
Chicago in 1932 to accept the presidential nomination in person—a political
first for a major party nominee). And while FDR’s condition was well known to
the public, he was protected by a sympathetic press from any photographic
evidence of his disability.
In the
television age, John F. Kennedy provides a particularly illuminating case
study. He was the living symbol of the “new generation” of leaders, the war
hero who promised to “get America moving again,” the avatar of “vigor” who
sponsored 50-mile hikes and whose family was associated with hardy outdoor
pursuits like sailing, tennis and backyard football games. In reality JFK was
afflicted by all manner of ills—Addison’s disease, colitis, ulcers, urinary
tract infection and a back that kept him in chronic pain. But Kennedy and his
enablers knew that any visible demonstration of physical weakness would
undercut a major source of his appeal. (His doctors helped shield Kennedy’s
condition from the press.)
Is this
simply a demonstration of how the image has replaced reality in modern days?
The preoccupation with physical vigor certainly isn’t new; in flogging his
strength and stamina, Trump is drawing on a public fixation that has been part
of our politics since, literally, the beginning. Of course George Washington
would be our first president; he not only commanded the winning army, but was
one of the tallest of public figures at the time. The U.S. has consistently
turned to military heroes as presidential nominees, from Andrew Jackson to
Zachary Taylor to Ulysses Grant to Benjamin Harrison to Theodore Roosevelt to
Dwight Eisenhower to JFK. (It doesn’t always work, of course, or John Kerry, a
tall military vet, pilot and impressive athlete, would have walked off with the
2004 election.)
The wish
for vigor, surely, is in part a holdover from ancient times, when we wanted a
leader who could fight off marauders from over the hill, but it still plays a
role in the less rational part of our decision-making. Since 1900, two-thirds
of presidential races have been won by the taller candidate; this may explain
why, during the 2016 town hall debate, Donald Trump kept looming behind
Clinton, as if to dramatize his stature.
Yes, it may
seem absurd to argue that in a time of pandemic, economic catastrophe, demands
for racial justice, and a president often at war with the norms of a
Constitutional republic, that a couple of video images should really preoccupy
either the president or his critics. But Donald Trump has a native instinct for
knowing what matters—not what the pundits say, or what civics classes tell you,
but what really sticks with people. And history says he’s right to be concerned
about this one.
Even if it’s baseless and unfair, few things stick to
a modern president like images of physical frailty.
By JEFF
GREENFIELD
06/14/2020
06:17 PM EDT
Jeff
Greenfield is a five-time Emmy-winning network television analyst and author.
What to
call it—“Photo-oops”? “Glass of Watergate?”
Whatever
the label, when the videos appeared on Saturday of President Trump shuffling
down that ramp at West Point, a general walking attentively by his side, and
using two hands to guide a water glass to his lips, the response on liberal
Twitter threatened to deplete America’s Strategic Schadenfreude Reserve.
The same
man who ran for office by mocking the height and stamina of his rivals, who
celebrates dominance as the cardinal virtue of leadership, whose 2016 campaign
compiled similar slips by Hillary Clinton into a dark TV commercial accusing
her of lacking the strength to serve as president, found himself looking like a
longtime resident of Shady Grove Home For the Weary.
The images
led to some elaborate online speculations and diagnoses, and for Trump, the
attention clearly struck a nerve. Why else would the president take to Twitter
to offer the excuse that the ramp was “very slippery” (a claim that a New York
Times story labeled highly dubious)?
He might
well be revealing his own insecurities. But he’s also right about one important
thing: just how damaging such a picture of weakness can be. It may sound
trivial, and it’s often unfair, but when a modern president, or even a
candidate, exhibits physical weakness, it comes with a political cost.
It helped
sink President Gerald Ford—perhaps the most athletic of our recent presidents;
football star at the University of Michigan, skilled skier. But a couple of
stumbles down the steps of Air Force One, a tumble on the ski slopes, and the
relentless mockery of Chevy Chase on “Saturday Night Live” cemented a new image
of Ford that stuck: A fumbling character barely able to put one foot in front
of the other.
After him
came President Jimmy Carter, who, in the midst of declining polls and a looming
primary challenge from Ted Kennedy, sought to demonstrate his energy by
entering a challenging six-mile race in the Catoctin Mountains in
mid-September, 1979. Midway through the race, he all but collapsed into the
arms of a Secret Service agent; pictures of the open-mouthed, utterly drained
Carter became the symbol of an exhausted presidency.
Or think
back to George H.W. Bush, whose appetite for recreation was on frequent display
on golf courses, tennis courts and the water. But on January 8, 1992, in the
middle of a state dinner in Japan, was struck by a flu bug and vomited. It
became grist for the “SNL” mill, and helped underline the age difference
between Bush and the much-younger Bill Clinton.
Without
overstating the impact of these moments, it’s interesting to note that in each
instance, the president lost his next election. And in 2016, so did challenger
Hillary Clinton, whose coughing fits and use of back pillows became tropes in
conservative media, fueling rumors circulated by the National Enquirer and
others that she was virtually at death’s door.
We have, of
course, had presidents hampered by genuine disability—none of whom suffered any
kind of political damage for it. Franklin Roosevelt was struck by polio in
August of 1921, leaving him unable to walk under his own power. His political
career seemed doomed. But he was able to demonstrate enough mobility to
maneuver himself to the rostrum of the Democratic convention in 1924 to put Al
Smith’s name in nomination, and to demonstrate energy in other ways (he flew to
Chicago in 1932 to accept the presidential nomination in person—a political
first for a major party nominee). And while FDR’s condition was well known to
the public, he was protected by a sympathetic press from any photographic
evidence of his disability.
In the
television age, John F. Kennedy provides a particularly illuminating case
study. He was the living symbol of the “new generation” of leaders, the war
hero who promised to “get America moving again,” the avatar of “vigor” who
sponsored 50-mile hikes and whose family was associated with hardy outdoor
pursuits like sailing, tennis and backyard football games. In reality JFK was
afflicted by all manner of ills—Addison’s disease, colitis, ulcers, urinary
tract infection and a back that kept him in chronic pain. But Kennedy and his
enablers knew that any visible demonstration of physical weakness would
undercut a major source of his appeal. (His doctors helped shield Kennedy’s
condition from the press.)
Is this
simply a demonstration of how the image has replaced reality in modern days?
The preoccupation with physical vigor certainly isn’t new; in flogging his
strength and stamina, Trump is drawing on a public fixation that has been part
of our politics since, literally, the beginning. Of course George Washington
would be our first president; he not only commanded the winning army, but was
one of the tallest of public figures at the time. The U.S. has consistently
turned to military heroes as presidential nominees, from Andrew Jackson to
Zachary Taylor to Ulysses Grant to Benjamin Harrison to Theodore Roosevelt to
Dwight Eisenhower to JFK. (It doesn’t always work, of course, or John Kerry, a
tall military vet, pilot and impressive athlete, would have walked off with the
2004 election.)
The wish
for vigor, surely, is in part a holdover from ancient times, when we wanted a
leader who could fight off marauders from over the hill, but it still plays a
role in the less rational part of our decision-making. Since 1900, two-thirds
of presidential races have been won by the taller candidate; this may explain
why, during the 2016 town hall debate, Donald Trump kept looming behind
Clinton, as if to dramatize his stature.
Yes, it may
seem absurd to argue that in a time of pandemic, economic catastrophe, demands
for racial justice, and a president often at war with the norms of a
Constitutional republic, that a couple of video images should really preoccupy
either the president or his critics. But Donald Trump has a native instinct for
knowing what matters—not what the pundits say, or what civics classes tell you,
but what really sticks with people. And history says he’s right to be concerned
about this one.
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