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*Editor’s Note: Elephant Journal articles represent the personal views of the authors, and can not possibly reflect Elephant Journal as a whole. Disagree with an Op-Ed or opinion? We’re happy to share your experience here.
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I didn’t sit down to write an op‑ed.
I wrote because something inside me tightened when I saw the racist post he made recently—a post depicting the Obamas as apes, left up for hours before being blamed on an unnamed staffer and quietly removed.
I felt that familiar jolt in my chest, the one that comes when something is both shocking and not shocking at all.
What unsettled me even more was not the people who always defend and justify his behavior, because I have come to expect them to excuse and deflect. No, it was listening to the people who, like me, know exactly who he is, explaining it away as sundowning due to dementia, as if the ugliness of the post could only be understood through the lens of decline. As if it couldn’t possibly be consistent with the person he has always shown himself to be.
That’s the part that sits heavy in my soul and spirit. It’s what drove me not only to write down my thoughts as I usually do when I need to realign with my center, but also to take the step of publishing my writing for the first time on this site, because I know I can’t be the only one who was filled with incredulity.
When we blame dementia, we rewrite the story. We turn deliberate choices into accidents. We turn long‑standing patterns into momentary lapses. We turn accountability into something softer, something easier to swallow.
I refuse to pay no heed to the reality that we have all witnessed for decades; his record is firmly entrenched in our shared national memory.
What I’m about to share isn’t my opinion. These are documented events—public statements, legal findings, jury verdicts, and in several cases, criminal convictions. I want to clarify that my intention is not to rehash every action he has taken in the past. I’m recounting them because they create a cohesive thread that renders that recent post both unsurprising and familiar. They demonstrate that the post was not an indication of decline.
It was a continuation of a pattern that has been in plain sight all along.
Dementia didn’t drive the conduct described in the Epstein files, nor did it compel the alleged offenses against minors.
It wasn’t dementia that led him, in 1989, to take out full‑page ads calling for the death penalty and targeting the Central Park Five—five teenagers later proven innocent. Even after DNA evidence cleared them and the real perpetrator confessed, he refused to acknowledge their innocence. That wasn’t confusion. That was a choice.
Dementia didn’t make him boast on tape about grabbing women by the genitals. It didn’t lead him to arrange a hush‑money payment to Ms. Daniels. It wasn’t the reason a jury found him liable for the sexual abuse allegations brought by Ms. Carroll, awarding millions in damages and later tens of millions more for defamation.
Dementia didn’t cloud his judgment when he orchestrated financial fraud within his company. And it certainly didn’t cause his felony conviction on 34 counts of falsifying business records.
I understand why people reach for explanations that make the world feel less harsh. It’s easier to believe that something this harmful must be the result of decline rather than intention. It’s easier to imagine that he “changed” rather than accept that this is who he has always shown himself to be.
The despicable post about the Obamas wasn’t a slip of the mind, nor was it a symptom.
It was a Continuation.
And when we call it dementia, we’re not calling him out—we’re protecting ourselves from the discomfort of naming what we’ve seen for decades.
We’re living in a moment when people are afraid to speak—when expressing an opinion can feel risky, when hesitation hangs in the air like static. I’m not trying to be loud or provocative. I’m not trying to shout anyone down. I’m simply choosing to use my voice in the one way that feels honest and safe for me: through writing.
This isn’t about diagnosing anyone.
It’s about recognizing a pattern that has been in plain sight, even when it’s easier to look away.
And if we can’t bring ourselves to name what’s right in front of us, then the question we need to ask isn’t about him at all.
It’s about what we’re willing to pretend not to see—and what it costs us when we do.
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