Voldemort J. Trump: He Who Shall Not Be Named

My hair was still dripping from a rushed shower as I clambered down the steps to ensure I didn’t miss Donald Trump’s entrance to the rally in Butler, Penn. on July 13. My husband, eagerly perched on the ottoman, was thoroughly engrossed in the live stream from Right Side Broadcasting. As we cheered along to the patriotic anthems and recounted the electric fun we had at the huge Trump rally in Butler back in 2020, we excitedly pointed out all our friends that flitted across the screen as the cameras panned.

There was Emily and Joel (names changed here). It had been exactly two weeks since we were shutting down the dance floor at their wedding. There was also Laura and her soon-to-be sister-in-law, Claire. Laura had delayed her departure to her first physical therapy clinical rotation to make it to her first Trump rally. There were my former sorority sisters and their families. Wow, I didn’t know they had boarded the Trump Train! And then there was Vince, Sue, and Mark — friends we had made at CPAC and the Pennsylvania Leadership Conference; they would never miss this rally. (READ MORE: The Bloodless Coup of Joe Biden Will Not Work Out Well for Democrats)

As we watched our screen, my husband and I chuckled at Trump’s delivery and mannerisms, perpetually bewildered at how critics can resist his entertainment value. But just then, the shots rang out. Our stomachs dropped as quickly as former President Trump did. I begged my typically unflappable yet hysterical husband to turn off the TV. He insisted it was his duty to see this through. I could not bear to watch whatever was unfolding — not just because of Trump but because of the friends we knew were there and possibly others that we thought might be there as well.

We finally collected ourselves and prayed for Trump’s recovery, for the first responders, and for the safety of all rallygoers, our hands still trembling. Later that evening, we were haunted by imagining “what if” the shooter hadn’t missed. And we were still wondering if our friends were okay. Recall that it was not until the day after that we began hearing the names of those hit by bullets. If my husband and I were this rattled by the live stream, imagine the trauma of every witness or those who sat near Corey Comperatore, David Dutch, and James Copenhaver.

Then came the week that followed.

Offices Are Political. But Not When It Comes to Trump.

Preparing for a work week on Sunday evening felt odd. Undeniably, the energy in the country had changed instantly. A monumental event occurred on a weekend. Social media blew up with “The Photo” of Trump’s miraculous vitality. Surely, on Monday morning, the office would be abuzz. After all, at my office, Pennsylvania is our home state and many of my peers hail from the city or county of Butler.

I came to the office on Monday morning ready to “fight, fight, fight” in my most patriotic business professional attire. I was prepared to stand up for the dignity of Corey Comperatore and the baseline morality that even those who champion the Second Amendment do not deserve to die by firearm, contrary to social media’s cesspool of commentary. (READ MORE: Dear Academia: Biden Didn’t Save Us From ‘Trumpian Chaos’)

And yet, the only thing more shocking than the assassination attempt itself was the silence that followed at the office. Five business days passed with zero communication about the history that had unfolded in our backyard. I sensed people intentionally avoiding asking how my weekend was and caught a manager stumbling as he pivoted from asking “How was—” to “What are you doing this coming weekend?”

My office is a very liberal place. I confided my frustration to a closeted conservative colleague, and he lamented that I was the only person in his professional network who mentioned the assassination attempt at all. Perhaps this silence would be more forgivable if corporations did not make a habit of becoming political pundits. CEOs across the country had dawned their best CNN anchor impression to condemn the actions of Jan. 6. Thus, I would expect at least someone to acknowledge an assassination attempt on former President Trump and the death of a heroic community member less than an hour north up Rt. 79.

After all, my colleagues and employer never hesitate to get political. LinkedIn is clogged with Pride Parade photos every June. My peers eagerly virtue-signal their superior compassion. We are now granted an official day off work for Juneteenth, but not for Good Friday.

I cannot say that we resumed business as usual. The fact is that we never paused in the first place. Business carried on as if Donald Trump was not nearly assassinated and as if a husband, father, firefighter, and hero was not killed.

And it wasn’t only in my woke office environment. Even my 95-year-old grandma told me that at her senior living community, “It’s like nothing even happened.”

Donald J. Trump, it seemed, would not be named. At least not the dramatic attempt on his life.

Why is Donald Trump the real-life Voldemort? As if his name alone is so dirty and powerful, that it cannot be uttered?

The silence is offensive. It is offensive to Corey Comperatore’s family and everyone who endured the trauma of the shooting. The silence minimizes evil and gaslights the victims. The victims are the tens of thousands of rallygoers who anticipated a night of patriotism and fun but instead perilously survived an assassination attempt. (READ MORE: Before the Bullet: Was Crooks a Victim of America’s Mental Health Crisis?)

His name is not Voldemort J. Trump. His name is Donald J. Trump. His fans are not monsters; they are humans.

The spirituality of the world became palpable on July 13, 2024. You can feel that the battle is not flesh and blood but of the rulers and authorities of the spiritual realm. Many political issues are no longer Republican versus Democrat. They are goodness versus wickedness. Even so, I take continual comfort in Allie Beth Stuckey’s axiom: “God’s eternal plan of redemption is always going off without a hitch.”

Columnist Gerard Baker urges Christians not to hyper-spiritualize Trump’s survival as a “message from God,” but it is hard not to consider the near-miss a moment of divine providence and possibly the world’s most-viewed miracle.

God is not done with you or me. God is not done with Donald J. Trump. God is certainly not done with America. Let’s fight, fight, fight together.

Emma Peel is a proud Grove City College alumna working in the financial services industry. Ms. Peel enjoys hiking, cooking, and hosting friends and family. When corporate America is too repugnant, she retreats to reading and writing about conservative virtues. You can find her writing at Checkpoint.org.

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