The young tyke sitting before her was unlike any kindergartner Mrs. Nixon, a veteran of 35 years in the classroom, had ever dealt with before. Once again, Donald was accused of causing serious trouble. Sometimes problems exploded in the lunchroom. He tripped, shoved and insulted other little children on playground. In class the boy was often disruptive and disrespectful.
She had seen and heard him insult and bully others during math and science and reading. Yet, when she cautioned him for his behavior, it was never his fault. He said those who complained about him were “liars” and “losers.”
“Donald,” she now said to the boy, “Juan says you made called him a wetback at lunch yesterday.”
“Who are you going to believe,” the little fellow responded. “Me? Or that Mexican? You know all Mexicans are criminals. His mother probably sells drugs.”
The teacher took a deep breathe. “Donald, you know it isn’t nice to mock Juan or anyone else. Remember the time you made Carli cry?”
Donald shrugged. “I told the truth. Can you imagine looking at that face of hers in the mirror every morning?” Then he shuddered in theatrical fashion. Apparently, he thought he was being cute.
“Donald…You know, several students say yesterday at recess you grabbed Brandi in a place where no little boy should ever grab a little girl.”
“One hundred percent fabricated! That’s a word my Daddy taught me. Besides, we’re rich. That means I can do whatever I want. Daddy says I can get away with anything I do. Because, we are really rich!”
“I’ve also been told you made fun of Serge during art class,” Mrs. Nixon tried. “You know Serge has a serious handicap.”
“He’s a stupid spastic. He can’t even finger paint,” Donald laughed,mimicking Serge’s flailing hand gestures. “Pretty good imitation, huh?” Donald asked with a smirk.
For a moment, Mrs. Nixon rubbed her forehead gently with her right hand. She had been trying for months to help Donald see how cruel his behavior was. She thought back to the day he tripped Megyn on an asphalt playground and she tore up her skirt and both knees. When accosted by the playground monitor, Donald replied, “She tripped me first. And if someone trips me, I trip them back ten times harder. He had laughed at the time over the monitor’s concern, saying of Megyn, “You could see blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her wherever…”
The playground lady had simply pointed out that several children had watched Donald attack Megyn without reason. James watched him push her. “He’s a liar,” Donald had said, “and a nut job.” Ted also told the monitor Megyn was the innocent victim. “Lyin’ Ted,” the Trump boy had replied.
Now, Mrs. Nixon found herself at a loss for words. “Donald,” she offered, “how about if I mention some of your classmates by name and you think of something nice to say about each one? Could you try?”
The little boy narrowed his eyes and a scowl formed on his face.
“Barack,” Mrs. Nixon began.
“Not even born in this country! He’s a Muslim. And all Muslims are bad. And we should torture them. After 9/11, I saw a tape of thousands of Muslims celebrating in New Jersey when this country was attacked.”
An observer might have noticed that Mrs. Nixon blanched. “Donald,” she replied calmly, “no one else has ever seen the tape you claim you saw…”
She stopped short. She tried again: “Mika?”
“Dumb as a box of rocks.”
“Joe?”
“Arianna?”
“Rosie?”
“A fat pig.”
“Frank?”
“A total clown. Low-class slob.”
“Glenn?”
“A wacko.”
“John?”
“He’s no hero.”
“Donald,” Mrs. Nixon felt almost compelled to interject, “you know he told you not to insult the lunch lady when you mocked her after her son was killed in an accident. You backed down and wouldn’t fight. You said you couldn’t because your feet hurt.”
“He’s still no hero,” Donald fumed. He hated to be reminded of his own cowardly actions.
“Bernie?” Mrs. Nixon began again.
“Crazy.”
“Mitt?”
“A total joke.”
“Meryl?”
“Overrated. The other kids think she was so great in the Christmas play! She’ll never be a real actress.”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Nixon said softly. “Donald,” she tried again, “you have insulted almost the entire kindergarten class. You said we needed a wall around the playground to keep immigrants out. You said the other children would have to give up their lunch money to pay for it. Or you hoped they’d be deported.”
“I never cause trouble,” Donald whined. “Everyone hates me. They’re jealous. The other kids are losers. Scum. Animals. Thugs. They’re sick, biased, stupid, pathetic and sad! They are weak. They are weak and sad!!! I don’t need to apologize for anything. Everyone else is wrong.”
Mrs. Nixon groaned, as if in pain.
She wasn’t sure what to do—except maybe retire as soon as possible. She couldn’t be sure what would become of Donald in years to come but she worried about what he’d be like as an adult. If he didn’t change his ways, he’d be absolutely insufferable. She blinked once, twice, and told him he could go outside for the remainder of recess.
Just as he reached the door, little fellow wheeled and said, “You know, you’re not a very good teacher. You’re old and your hair is unstylish. My father is rich. He can get you fired and you’ll lose your crappy job. You’re another loser.”
And with that the little shit vanished down the hall.
Outside, on the playground, he studied the situation with a certain sly ability. He was looking for a fresh target, someone new and weak to attack.
Ah, why not knock down that kid with cerebral palsy! “Hey, you gimpy cripple,” little Donald shouted.
Yeah, he thought to himself.
Nobody tells little Donald J. Trump what he can and can’t do.
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