Imagine: we're in a hospital many years ago. A mother has just finished her labor and delivered a healthy son into the world. She's in that hospital bed holding her baby boy for the first time, and just imagining what kind of person he'll be when he grows up. Maybe a police officer, or an astronaut on the ISS, or maybe even the president! She's practically crying as she looks down on her sweet, sweet boy, so innocent, so full of potential.
Now, it's 26 years later. Her little boy has changed his name to "Rachel" and died his hair pink and blue. She hopes it's just a phase. She hopes he'll pull his life together, get a job, meet a nice girl (or boy, she's no prude!) and finally move out of the house, but he keeps saying he can't because of his "anxiety."
As she's leaving for another long shift at the factory, she hears her son swearing and throwing things around his room.
She quickly walks to his door and cracks it open (she won't look inside, not after last time). "Billy, are you okay?"
"MY NAME IS RACHEL YOU FUCKING BITCH! And no, I'm not alright, that fascist monster Trump was unbanned! My life is basically over! Just leave me alone you fucking transphobic cunt!"
She doesn't say a word as she walks away. By the time she hits the front door, she's weeping. "How did this happen?" she thinks. "Where did I go wrong?"
Now, imagine that story playing out several thousand times, with slightly different names and details, all over the nation. It's both sad and, at the same time, really, really fuckin' funny.