Magazine | February 6, 2017, Issue

From the Archives of the Donald J. Trump Presidential Library

The Collected Diaries of Donald J. Trump, Chapter 7: “Growth Spurt”

Thursday

Dear Kitty:

This morning I stood very tall and straight against the wall while Dad measured my height and drew a line to mark my progress. My height has been a disappointment to him, I know — mostly because after he draws the line on the wall he says, “Once again, your height is a disappointment to me” — but this time he suggested that we also start measuring the growth of my middle-range, what Dad calls my “lady hips,” and Kitty, let me be honest with you, those words hurt. They hurt so much I hid in my room eating slices of plain white bread (my favorite!!!) and reading whatever Nancy Drew book I could get my hands on and NO KITTY Nancy Drew isn’t JUST FOR GIRLS no matter what the so-called experts say.

Oh, Kitty! One day I’ll be tall and powerful and have a proportionally distributed amount of weight, not just directly above and below where my belt cinches. And then I can read whatever I want and I’ll be a famous star!

Monday

Dear Kitty:

Wow. Once again I was the last one chosen for recess games, which didn’t make me feel anything except pity for the boys and girls who unlike me don’t care if their school clothes become soiled or unkempt during games. What I do not understand is why many of the girls in our class do not see me as a really terrific guy to go on dates with, especially since I have someone to drive us around and I’m told I have delicate feet.

Today after school I decided to dress up in my Singing Cowboy costume and sit in the closet and strum the guitar, which I guess irritated Dad because he pulled me out of there and made me scrub the rouge circles from my cheeks and sit down and talk about what I wanted to be when I grew up, which I told him but he only got madder and madder at me because I didn’t know there was a “better” way to say “chorus boy on Broadway.”

Kitty! I just want to be a star! I want to see my name in lights on the Great White Way! (My favorite kind of Way!)

What Dad doesn’t understand is that I’m not like him. I don’t want to build ugly little squat buildings with no pizzazz! I need more than that!

Friday

Dear Kitty:

If you take two dimes and Scotch-tape them to the bottom of nice party shoes, you end up with a pretty good pair of homemade tap shoes.

If Dad won’t buy me the shoes, I’ll make them myself!

I spent Friday night teaching myself some elemental tap-dance combinations until it was time for me to pretend to go to the birthday party of a dopey classmate who didn’t actually invite me to his stupid party but if I told my parents I wasn’t invited they would turn it all into a big deal and I’d have to go see that old Jewish man in the city again and tell him my problems.

I don’t have any problems, Kitty, except THAT I AM NOT A STAR!!!!!

Saturday

Dear Kitty:

Today I went to the movies (alone, natch!) and saw the actress Kim Novak in a movie called “Vertigo” and when the movie was over I paid the boy from my class who was working as the usher (sad!) a quarter to let me keep watching it over and over again until it was time to go home and pretend I had been playing sports all day. When I got home I sat quietly in my bedroom and thought about Kim Novak a lot and wondered if she would ever become my wife when I’m old enough for Dad to let me get married and then I thought about Kim Novak some more but I am not going to write any more about that.

Monday

Dear Kitty:

Today I made some decisions about my life, which do not include Kim Novak due to her age and relatively small bust. Another long conversation with Dad in which he once again refused to either pay for dance lessons or allow me to turn the basement into an Equity-waiver theater. I HATE HIM SO MUCH KITTY!

At school I discovered that someone had written my name on the wall of the downstairs boys’ bathroom and at first I was furious with shame and mortification until I realized that until that moment I didn’t know that anyone knew me, or noticed me, or that anyone would bother to write my name next to a picture of what was supposed to be me with pig-like facial features. Mean! But still. If a lot of people know me, does it matter if they think I’m a fat lonely boy? Is it enough that I’m well-known? AM I ALREADY A STAR?

I need to ponder this, Kitty.

Rob Long — Rob Long, Hollywood writer and producer, started his career as a screenwriter for the TV show Cheers. He is a regular writer for National Review, Newsweek International, and the Los ...

In This Issue

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Poetry

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