Reflections from the Donald Trump shooting in Butler, Pennsylvania
by Teresa Mull
Editor’s Note: Gray’s contributor Teresa Mull is assistant editor of The Spectator, and was on assignment, covering the Trump rally.
I remember thinking as I stood in line to get into the Donald Trump rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, how civil everyone was. There were thousands of people ahead of me, and just as many, if not more, behind. We were all doing our best not to succumb to heatstroke, and though I heard at least three calls for “medic!” ring out for those who failed, nobody seemed cranky. They were happy to be there. Eager, even.
It felt more like a rock concert than any political function I’d ever attended (and I’ve been to two other Trump rallies). My drive into town set the tone; a group of kids held up handmade “Trump 2024” signs and hopped up and down outside their farmhouse, waving to the stream of cars traversing their usually quiet road. At the event itself, a blazing sun, 90-degree heat, and suffocating humidity was worth it to support the man these people, sharing their sunscreen and water, were convinced would mitigate a lot of their other sufferings.
Inside the venue, someone said out loud what I had been thinking: “It’s amazing there’s no fighting, with so many people here.” As I moseyed closer to the stage around 3:30, the crowd was already packing in tightly inside the bullpen area in front of the stage; the bleachers behind where Trump would eventually stand at a podium were full, and hundreds stood in orderly lines to buy cheese steaks and hot dogs and French fries from vendors.
As I surveyed the fence for a leaning spot, I looked again to the stage and thought to myself, “This is probably as close to a president as I’ll ever be.” (I did get within selfie-distance of Trump once with a friend who was his fan. But that was years ago at a conference when he was a mere television celebrity.)
Despite how polite the crowd was—getting out of each other’s way, making room in the shade—a feeling of claustrophobia overwhelmed me. The thought of being packed in among so many others in such sweltering weather for two-plus hours (Trump was scheduled to appear at 5:00, but big-name speakers are always late in my experience) was too much. So I retreated to the rear guard, a slightly elevated portion of the big grassy field with fewer people.
Perhaps I picked it up from attending church all these years, but finding a place in the back, especially when a crush of traffic is expected, has been a quick-exit strategy I almost always employ. It certainly came in handy this day, as did my risk-averse, “low-hanging fruit” mindset.
We were told in our confirmation e-mails to be inside the venue no later than 2:30 p.m. I gave myself a generous hour to get parked and pass through security, but my heart sank when I arrived to standstill traffic, far from the designated parking lot. There was no way I’d make it if I waited for the line of cars to move. For 20 bucks, though, a local let me park in his yard, and though it was a long walk all the way around to the entrance, at least I was in control—and it was a mercifully short walk back to my car.
When the shots rang out, I, too, thought they were those “party snap” fireworks my brothers loved—and I abhorred—as kids, and though it sounds silly now, when Trump dropped to the ground, it crossed my mind for a second that maybe he, too, had succumbed to heatstroke (yes, the weather really was that bad!) Many people have claimed, “I own a gun. I knew what it was,” but it sounded to me more muffled than a typical gunshot, as if the shooter had installed a suppressor.
Now that some of what happened that day has been explained, the effect the event has had on me is an increased sense of danger. I was not at all in harm’s way where I was, but it has really hit home how vulnerable Trump and all famous figures must feel when elevated and exposed to thousands, as they so often are, and how difficult it must be not to become paranoid.
I consider myself more aware than the average person (I conceal carry everywhere it’s legal), yet despite living in Washington, D.C., for a couple of years, I’ve never before, to my knowledge, been in the vicinity of a shooting that cost a person his life. I generally don’t go through life neurotically “watching my six,” as the military types say, as I have hitherto assumed most people are not out to get me. I am committed now, though, more than ever, to take a cue from wildlife.
During a calming walk in the woods the day after the shooting, I found myself gazing at a herd of deer happily munching the tall grass in a field. I approached them to get a better look at the spotted twins, but a snapping twig caused mama’s head to go up like a flash, along with a white tail of warning. In an instant, they were all so gracefully gone.
To be always hunted must also mean to be always haunted. And to live in a fallen world is to contend with evil daily. For my part, I’ll stick to planning easy getaways and hanging out in the woods, where the predators are at least pretty predictable.
Teresa Mull finds safety in not very many numbers.
