The Emperor's New Clothes - 'Naked!' Shouted Donald Trump

Myra Blanken grew up in a modest home in Far Rockaway, Long Island, a solidly conservative Jewish community where shabbat and seder were always observed, children went to yeshiva, and where socializing was without goyim. 

 

It was a happy childhood of pot roasts, brisket, and latkes, stories from Isaiah and Kings, dancing school and pinafores.  Adolescence was no more troubled than any other, less rebellious but no less promising.  Thanks to her parents, Myra was encouraged to excel in school, and to take advantage of her quick mind, patience, and intellectual discipline.  'You'll go a long way', said her father.

Myra was never in a Christian community until college, and it was not a happy experience.  While the school was top tier and the scholarship generous, the student body was less so.  She was a 'kike', 'hebe' and 'yid' and not the valedictorian of her class, a ranked chess player, and master of advanced calculus and number theory.  

This was the price of doing business, she knew - another lesson from her father who never made a bad business decision in his life and was able to barter and borrow his way from Seventh Avenue tailor to owner of a chain of Long Island dry cleaners. 

'Put up with it', Shmuel said to his daughter. 'What do they know?' A holocaust survivor, grandson of the the Russian shtetl, and rabbinical scholar, he knew; so Myra kept her own counsel, graduated with honors, went to Harvard Law School and found herself a wealthy trial lawyer before she was thirty. 

A good Jewish liberal - her family had been Socialists, labor organizers, and community activists ever since she could remember - she naturally turned to defending progressive causes and took on corporate interests with the acumen of a Law Review editor and scholar and the principles of a committed Jew.  Once she got her dander up, she was a virtual Genghis Khan in the courtroom, and tore into the greed and subterfuge of the best and the brightest like a harpy.  She won every case she tried and exacted generous corporate penalties for those who settled out of court. 

Despite her rock-solid, Harvard and rabbinical logic, Myra was a convinced liberal, and endorsed every social justice issue that made the news.  Whereas in the early days she took on Southern racists in federal court, challenging state law and enforcing federal civil rights statues, she moved on with the times from Negro to black, changed sides and defended latter day offshoots of the Black Panthers, and from her San Francisco office took on the causes of Castro and Folsom Street gay men. 

California was an epiphanic wake-up call.  Far from the corporate world of Wall Street, it was the nexus of social reform.  Corporations would continue to exist as is, nibbled away at by the SEC and other government regulatory agencies, but the underserved, the underprivileged, and the socially put-upon needed her talents more than the DC Court of Appeals; and so it was that in addition to her courtroom appearances, she spent more and more time in the streets.  Only loud, defiant protest and demonstration would resonate with America's systemic racists. 

 

She became the poster girl for principled progressivism, an attractive, eloquent, and persuasive woman of rectitude and purpose.  Along the way, however, she began to lose her bearings.  The hard, flinty logic which had characterized her early days wobbled and finally sank into presumptive waters.  The black man became not just the victim of discrimination, but a noble savage, denizen of the African forest endowed with a supernal nature and preternatural environmental wisdom who must regain his rightful place atop the human pyramid. 

The gay man and his transgender cousins represented a new world of utopian sexuality, one uninhibited by the fetters, harnesses, and bits of heterosexuality; and women, over the millennia both saints and sinners were finally recognized for the superior sex that they were. 

How Myra Blanken changed from a woman of unchallenged logic and pure reason into a garden variety progressive is a mystery.  How could a child of such parentage, such inestimable intelligence, and such professional brilliance go so far off the rails and wallow in the most pedestrian and obvious social fantasies?

It wasn't love - Myra didn't fall in love with a Berkeley radical or young Noam Chomsky - nor was it indoctrination (she was too inoculated against that by her Hitler era parents), and it certainly was not some dreamy, unexpected shining light.  It had to be circumstance and the heady camaraderie of progressivism - the big tent jamboree of causes, the happy pursuit of ideals together, a perfect storm of Jewish orthodoxy, historical liberalism, and the satisfaction of a very personal, emotional longing for intimacy and camaraderie that had been ignored along the trajectory of her success. 

Whatever it was, she was a woman possessed, ruled by passionate emotion, spiritual ambition, and given to the comforting, embracing arms of her fellows-in-arms.  Liberalism has always been an affair of the heart and not the mind, attracting the credulous and the wishers of good, and Myra's commitment was proof of its evangelical power.  If this steely, bear-trap intellect's hold could be loosened thanks to the blandishments of the Left, then anything was possible. 

Ah, but there's the rub, the elemental truth of genetic pairing and the ineluctability of innate, hardwired being.  Nature always trumps Nurture, and slowly but surely, there was no way she could square The Movement's inchoate, even puerile responses to social issues with their obvious objective solutions.  The ghetto was not the new Garden of Eden, a place of native, God-inspired humanity, but a shithole of dysfunction, dependence, and entitlement.  

 

Transgenders were not the harbinger of final reconfiguration of human sexuality, but freaks, oddball misfits, and emotional infants.  Environmental Armageddon was not on the horizon, for the historical adaptive nature of human society was already taking measures to conform to the new climate reality. 

The Emperor's new clothes were on display.  For years he walked from palace to courtyard as naked as a jaybird, until an interloper called him out.  Donald Trump got elected, shouted 'Bullshit', and within hours the sham, the political con game, the Ponzi scheme extraordinaire began to disappear.  No sooner did the President legislate DEI (Diversity, Equity, Inclusion) out of federal existence, than corporations, businesses, families, and individuals give it up, take down their rainbow, Hate Has No Home Here lawn signs, and once again began to use old, familiar ways of speaking.  In one fell swoop, the whole house of race-gender-ethnicity cards came tumbling down.  The nation was simply waiting for permission. 

And so it was that Donald J Trump became Myra Blanken's personal savior.  She knew deep down that there was something wrong with the fol-de-rol, the fantastical visions, the impossible presumptions, and the outright intellectual fraud of the censoring, cancelling, idolatrous Left; and with that one shout, 'Naked!', all her closeted good sense came out. 

The nature of group-think and mind-fuck has never been more on display than in the last few weeks since Donald Trump's inauguration.  All it took was a few strokes of his pen to shake loose the tethers of faux liberalism and to put every identity-obsessed liberal on notice.  

Myra joined the ranks and transferred her legal skills to the rout of lawfare, a return to legal equilibrium, and the promotion of historic conservatism. 

Her father still was pushing the progressive cart down Orchard Street, and so it took some time for him to absorb and reconcile his beliefs with newspaper photos of his daughter with the President, but the love affair between father and daughter is untouchable.