The shock to me was the way Trump called out Carryn Owens, widow of the Navy SEAL, Ryan Owens, who died in the raid in Yemen that Trump authorized during his first week in office. He spoke of her husband’s bravery and sacrifice; she naturally broke down in tears; and the camera stayed on her as the Congress stood and gave a prolonged ovation.
The pundits I saw on TV were calling the moment “powerful” and “presidential.” I disagree. For Ryan Owens’s own commitment and sacrifice, I feel only respect, honor, and admiration. His wife’s grief must be bottomless—like that of Ryan Owens’s father, who is so bitter about the raid that he refused to acknowledge Trump or shake his hand when Ryan Owens’s body was returned to Dover Air Force base.
But the public use of a widow’s grief in this ceremony seemed all too close to the spectacle that was the heart of Ben Fountain’s unforgettable novel Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk, or the phenomenon I called “Chickenhawk Nation” in my cover story two years ago. In that piece I defined a chickenhawk nation as one “willing to do anything for its military except take it seriously.” Raise military budgets, sure. “Salute the heroes” at sporting events—and big presidential speeches—yes, as well. But thinking seriously about where and how Americans will be asked to risk their lives? About exactly how the defense budget will be spent? About how the burdens of service can be more fairly shared? These topics are not so interesting.
On the very same day in which Trump had tried to deflect blame for Ryan’s death and other problems of the Yemen raid, saying (incredibly) of military leaders “they lost Ryan”; on the very day after he said publicly that the nation’s military “doesn’t win any more” and “we don’t fight to win”—at that moment, Donald Trump thought it suitable to use a grieving widow in this way. And then to say, as the applause finally died down, that the cheers had “set a record.”
If you thought this “presidential,” fine.
For me, it was too easy.
--James Fallows
