Homeland
Living in a fiction in the U.S.A.
The preamble to this essay seems unnecessary, as everyone I know is in the same spot.
I do not want to live like this. When I called my member of Congress today and left a message with his intern, that’s what I said. Trump is threatening the world with the most heinous war crimes. As a result, I feel like I’m being held hostage—by a crazy person.
I’m old enough to remember the Iranian hostage crisis in 1979, and how terrified I was for the Americans held captive. I was fourteen years old and knew nothing about Iran or Islam or anything else.
Now I’m sixty years old and terrorized by my own president as he threatens Iran. Oh, irony. You are especially wicked sometimes.
I know I’m not alone in this feeling, and it pisses me off that my day can be hijacked by a man who stands next to the Bunny on Easter Monday and yammers on about war to a crowd of children and their parents. The absurdity kills me.
When delving into Trump’s mental state, it’s probably best for me to look inward. I’ve been crazy myself. I know the signs.
It’s useless to try and figure out how an entire group of people—aka the GOP led Congress—can support a man so blatantly dangerous to us all. I’m not going to have much luck figuring out Mike Johnson’s or Lindsey Graham’s psyche. I can only guess their point of view comes from enormous privilege and sanctimony, with a large dose of cowardice thrown in.
Please do not get me started on his Cabinet, which, may I remind everyone, was confirmed by the Senate. At least 51 people thought it was harmless to put a Fox News host as head of the Department of Defense. Bobby Kennedy is just indefensible.
But I have an in to Donald Trump’s brain. The scary part is looking to myself to find it.
I watch certain movies or series over and over, never tiring of them. One of them is Homeland.
I’ve been watching it this week and it’s downright eerie.
It’s full of Iran, Hezbollah, the Revolutionary Guard, and the terrorist Abu Nazir. There are line readings I can imagine spoken today in the White House—back-channel talks with Pakistan, Israel bombing Lebanon.
I do notice the anti-Muslim racism in the show a lot more than I did when it initially premiered. I’m surprised certain parts made it into the script. I’ve asked myself if I should keep watching it, but I can never resist the character of Carrie Mathison, played by Claire Danes.
I so enjoy the myth of Carrie, the fantasy. Some women dig romance novels; my jam is being a spy.
When thinking about Donald Trump and trying to sort out the mess in which we find ourselves, it occurred to me that he and I share a trait.
We’d both like to be Carrie.
If you’re unfamiliar with the show, a brief character rundown:
Carrie is a preternaturally talented CIA case officer. What makes her so is also her Achilles heel; she has bipolar disorder, which she initially hides from the agency.
There is a window when Carrie goes off her meds that is like magic. Her mind sharpens, she “does her best work.” Eventually she disintegrates into a horrific breakdown, but before she does, she flies.
Therefore, she’s always going off her meds.
The myth of Carrie is that her mental illness doesn’t cost her the job. She is so talented, so necessary to fighting the enemy that even after the agency knows of her diagnosis, even after she brings home classified material, she’s welcomed back into the CIA.
She’s that good. There’s a contact in Beirut who will only speak to her. There’s a big fish who needs to be caught; only Carrie can be used as bait.
I love imagining I’m Carrie because she’s above all the laws. The regular rules don’t apply to her. She makes life and death calls with absolute authority. She’s a superb actress when trying to recruit an asset.
She always has a backup plan, a golden parachute in the form of a storage facility with tens of thousands of dollars in cash and multiple passports. There’s always a blessed way out.
And she carries a gun, both in the United States and the Middle East.
My fantasy is to go through life like Carrie. To be so smart mental illness is no longer a deal breaker. To live on instinct and guts. To have faith in my unusual brain. To actually like jazz.
Who wouldn’t want to be Carrie?
This is how you know something is wrong with me. There are plenty of you who wouldn’t dream of it. My idea of safety is living on a razor’s edge.
I must confess I was Carrie for a day. It is a highly embarrassing story.
I was around twenty-one. I was supposed to catch a train to visit my mother in Virginia. I woke up late, with twenty minutes to get to Penn Station.
I was still in what I characterize as cocaine psychosis from the night before and wasn’t even in my own apartment.
I got in a cab—people, I swear this is a true story—and convinced the cab driver I worked for the CIA. It was a matter of national security that I make my train, and he was to run every red light. I’d talk to the police if he were pulled over.
He flew down Seventh Avenue. He ran the lights. We evaded the police.
I missed the train.
When I was talking to that cab driver, I believed myself. I was Carrie Mathison when Claire Danes was in first grade.
I think this is important to point out. Donald Trump believes himself.
Even worse, way too many people in our government are driving the cab.
I once applied for a job in law enforcement,
It was around 1990, and I was twenty-five years old. I left New York and moved back to Virginia. I got married. Five years later, I was legally separated and moved promptly back to New York. I haven’t left since.
I wasn’t in Virginia long before I noticed there was an ad for a deputy sheriff position in the county.
I wanted to be an actress. There wasn’t a lot of acting work available in the area is the understatement of the century. But being a police officer sounded interesting, and I like interesting.
It’s so easy for me to see now that once living in Virginia again, I desperately needed some power.
I was back at the scene of the crime, where I’d been sexually assaulted and where I’d testified during the trial. My body knew where I was, and it was terrified. This was long before I knew or understood that I was suffering from PTSD.
Authority and a gun sounded just the thing.
I’d always been attracted to the CIA, but back in the eighties it was my understanding they wouldn’t consider anyone with a drug history. I’d been off drugs for several years by then, but as I’d had my nose stuck in a pile of blow when I was fifteen years old I figured the CIA was a no-go for me.
But a sheriff’s deputy? I could work with that.
As I remember, there were about 600 applications for the deputy position. I was one of the people who got an interview.
I knew they were interviewing me because they probably had to fill a quota of speaking to some women about the job. Sexism and job discrimination were so rampant back then I just took it in stride. But I was delighted to get seen and determined to make the most of it.
I was honest with them about my drug history. I told them I thought my experience would be an asset. I know how the underworld works.
Once you’ve been to the underworld, you know the mechanisms.
They were both pressing and demanding when asking if I’d ever sold drugs. They asked the question more than once. I figured this was their deal breaker.
I could honestly say I’d never sold drugs. That was the truth.
But it wasn’t for a lack of trying. I did try to sell cocaine once. Instead, I did it all in a period of two days.
That was a bad weekend. There is no worse feeling than having plenty, then rooting around your bag for another quarter only to find you have nothing but empty glassine envelopes.
I did not mention this story in the interview.
What I remember most from the experience is sitting across the table from three unsmiling men in uniform, trying to convince them I was good enough. I recognized one who I believe had taken my statement after the assault. My breathing was shallow and tight.
I didn’t get the job. I think we can all be grateful for that.
I know there are people in law enforcement who genuinely want to help their community. I imagine there are some in law enforcement who know it’s a job with good benefits and do it well.
However, I can’t help but wonder how many people apply for a job with the police because they’re broken like me. A badge and a gun can do wonders if you’re searching for a way to control something, anything in this life.
Trump is so broken he had to be Commander in Chief.
I doubt drugs are the issue for Trump. But he sure as hell talks like he’s high.
The grandiosity, entitlement, the delusions. The ability to tell endless lies and believe them. He has the traits.
Trump thinks he’s Carrie Mathison. He is above the law, he has the best brain, only he can save America. Trump is special, just like Carrie.
Trump is me in that cab in 1986, barreling down 7th Avenue straight to Iran.
An unnecessary reminder that this man has the nuclear codes.
I may identify with Trump with my history of cocaine psychosis, but at least I know it was psychosis. I do not think I belong in any job with a gun—and I most certainly do not belong in the Oval Office.
Having said that, I think all of you would be safer if I were in the Oval Office instead of Trump. He doesn’t understand he’s deluded. This makes him very, very dangerous.
I’m so furious at the United States Congress. Trump is one man. They have 535 people in the legislative body. You’d think a majority of them would recognize he’s unfit.
It’s not rocket science.
In fairness to Carrie, I would like to point out a glaring difference between she and Trump. There are many (competence, intelligence, beauty) but one is particularly important: intent.
As Saul Berenson says to the young CIA officer Jenna about Carrie,
“I’m not exactly sure of what she did do or didn’t do or what mistakes she made. There’s always some. But everything she does, everything, is because she never loses sight of what’s important. And honestly, she’s the only person I’ve ever known I can say that of.”
That’s the beauty of Carrie. She makes countless decisions that cost her in the name of the mission, in the name of her homeland.
Most presidents understand their job is the homeland. We’re not so lucky with this one. Trump lost the plot.
Paging Carrie Mathison. She and Saul could figure a way out of this mess. But that’s what makes it fiction.
I wish you were in the oval office too.
Love this. We just binged this show this winter. I rewatch for me, but a first for my husband. I’d take Carrie over our current situation any day. But my real wish is Saul.