Caffeinated Politics

Last week we witnessed two examples of tin-ear politics when Donald Trump commented on sailors aboard the U.S.S. Lincoln and the pain of higher gas prices in America.

When he was asked about being concerned about the crew’s mental health after being at sea for over 260 days and whether it was too long for a deployment, he stated, “No. No. No. Not nearly long enough.”

At a New York rally, Trump said his war in Iran was worth it, telling Americans, in essence, to buck it up. Stop complaining because all Americans are being asked is, “For you to pay a tiny little bit more for your gasoline.”

This weekend, I read that James Buchanan, while serving as the U.S. Minister to Great Britain in the mid-1850s, kept his powder dry and never commented on the raging anger over the Kansas-Nebraska issue and the controversial idea of popular sovereignty that had blown up nationwide. He took the presidential oath of office in 1857 and clearly understood that a politician’s tongue can be a loaded weapon.

Trump’s rhetorical carelessness is how he goes about life. Saying, “I do” is perhaps the clearest example showcasing his problem. But when it comes to speaking about service members, what he said was strategically sloppy. Others who have sat in the Oval Office traditionally emphasize gratitude, sacrifice, and unity. Suggesting sailors haven’t served “long enough” to merit recognition breaks that norm. Telling Americans not to complain about gas prices is the kind of rhetoric that falls squarely into the category of self‑inflicted wounds. Unnecessary and politically damaging. Such absurdity stands in stark contrast to presidents who understood that sometimes the most powerful thing a leader can do is not say the first thing that comes to mind.

I believe the most obvious example of this ability is how President John Kennedy acted during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Kennedy’s refusal to bluster publicly about Soviet aggression was masterful. His careful, measured address to the nation and his avoidance of inflammatory rhetoric helped prevent escalation. And the world noticed.

Consider, too, President Franklin Roosevelt’s ability to master the art of calming a nation without promising too much. His language was deliberate, reassuring, and strategically vague. He knew that a president’s words could stabilize a country teetering on economic collapse.

What we heard last week from Trump was pure tin-ear blather. With his mental health in decline, I realize that it is useless to prescribe White House staff to sit him down and press that verbal restraint can be a strategic asset and that the bully pulpit is not a public barstool.

For now, sadly, the verbal chaos will continue.