After some years inland we moved to the coast and there was an island for day trips from the harbour via a tugboat. For school kids most got a yearly visit and on some you might be lucky to catch sight of a whale
Our teacher asked us to draw a picture of the day and I still have it. There's me, the tugboat, other kids, and my dad in an orange shirt at the prow shooting whales.
He wasn't there that day and whilst he did at the time to me seemingly wear that one orange shirt he didn't own a gun (or use them).
But I fucking loved guns and I loved my dad, likely because he was away a lot and I didn't get on with my mum who was experiencing reverse post-natal with my younger brother.
On another illustrated adventure for school we went to the butchers and they showed us adding sausage to their casings. To the side my dead-eyed dad with his rifle which may or may not have been fired on students, teachers, staff, butchers and or sausages.
He wasn't there that day; I put him in packing steely heat.
That was the '70s and now I'd have been packed off for counseling about my obsession.
It's just that I loved guns and I loved my big, strong orange dad. He could do no wrong—he even cut out a rifle shape in a bit of wood, painted it black and gave it to me and I tooled around with it everywhere; guns!
It was the demented love of a sad child for an emotionally distant (slash) abusive parent who I obsessively drew in his orange shirt shooting a bunch of shit that didn't need to be shot: whales, meat-lovers, birds, gravy, small rocks etc.
I had no agency; as a small, broken child I had no agency. No wonder I was attracted to guns (a kill wand that makes big people fall down) or my dad. That crap you did as a child, bragging about how your dad could beat up some other kid's dad like it was ever going to happen. My love for my orange clad, whale-shooting dad was a basic need because even though they both made me feel sad because he wasn't around as much he made me the saddest the least. My reaction was to laud him in pics, blazing away like no tomorrow.
We moved across the country, back to the inland, out in the boondocks where it's so dry the crows cry weak despair and the air cracks..
They left my black gun behind.
That place was the place where my parents one day, mad at my antics in the backseat, put me out of the car in the middle of fuck, dry grass and flat with nothing on any horizon and tried to drive off. They only relented because I was holding onto the door handle and being dragged along the road.
I never felt safe again; never. I have abandonment issues now because of all the times they attempted it or threatened to inflict—from as long as I can remember through to my final days in my home town before my adult time put paid to their parental failings so acute if dueling were legal I'd demand satisfaction.
So love for Trump is like my child love for my dad, also orange, trust and faith invested in a menacing figure who looms large and projects menace. People draw pics of Trump as Rambo the way a six-year-old me crayoned out my dad with the one rifle to rule them all if the all were Southern Ocean cetaceans.
Love for Trump is my dad shooting whales off a tugboat; don't get trapped in love for an abusive fuck who gleans joy from your misery.
Also, Trump would not only put you out of the car to leave you to die he'd back the fuck over and laugh while he did it.