American voters put immediate threats over long-term risks during 2024 election. 

In the fall of 1962, I took the big leap from junior high to high school. As I walked the halls of that “transition to adulthood,” I couldn’t help but notice that many of the girls were, indeed, “fully grown-up,” and I wondered how I’d be able to concentrate on my classes.

In addition to the distracting romantic notions, suddenly there were a variety of classes that piqued my interest. I found physiology, taught by Mr. Sperry, to be super stimulating and, while old Delbert Bone was particularly dry, plane geometry was logical and fun.

My world history class was taught by Miss Pipkin; I had a hard time concentrating on her Napoleon lectures, simply because I couldn’t detach my mind from her slender legs. I had sophomore English from Miss Hammond, who had taught my own mother 27 years before. And Joseph Erickson, whose washboard head of center-parted hair looked like a carryover from the turn of the century, used the same American History lesson plan he’d developed during the age of dinosaurs.

But the best was to come. Like all kids—and boys in particular—my dream of driving was just around the corner and I got notice, during my first term, that I was scheduled for the driver training program, something that was then part of the regular Salt Lake School District high school curriculum.

A group of five of us were introduced to our instructor, Darrell Jose, who had interesting tales of his championship bouts as a Golden Gloves boxer and was a guy who, though short as I, looked like he probably could “whup his weight in wildcats.”

After some brief class work and a thorough introduction to the Utah driving laws, the five of us climbed into a brand-new, no-frills, sky-blue Mercury Comet sedan. It was definitely the bare-bones model (soft Italian leather seats, not a chance!) with no radio and totally devoid of even a small piece of chrome trim that could have brightened it up a bit.

Mr. Jose stressed three things: 1. Don’t start the car until you’ve adjusted your rear-view mirror; 2. Make sure your foot is on the brake before you put the car into gear, and; 3. When pulling out from a side road, look left, then right, then left a second time before touching the gas. All three are indelibly imprinted on my mind.

Well, I got my license at 15-and-a-half and Mr. Jose’s No. 3 rule has saved my life over and over—simply because the immediate threat, when pulling out from a side road, is the car coming from your left. It will T-bone you, and it will kill you. That second look to the left is a lifesaver.

Actually, that rule says something about what went wrong for Democrats in the 2024 election, wherein voters were focused not on the future damage that another Trump presidency could do to our country, but on the immediate threat of simply being able to pay the family’s bills. It was the urgency of that one concern—the second look to the left for the oncoming hazard—that created a relative landslide for DJT. While there were certainly a fair number of voters who were extremely concerned about the long game and the potential damage a second Trump presidency could do to our country, even more of them were absorbed in the worry that ongoing inflation was going to eat them alive.

Looking to the left, that final moment, alerted voters to the most pressing threat. The election turned out to be more of a desperate rush for survival than an actual endorsement of the uncouth little worm of a man who had already made clear his intentions for establishing himself as an authoritarian king.

That’s the reality, folks. The belief that Trump could save our country from the world-wide inflation that plagued the Biden presidency was the driving force of his win. It wasn’t about the fears of Trump’s pledged retaliation on those who had sought to bring him to justice. It wasn’t about the unfairness that would likely allow Trump to escape justice for his previous crimes. It wasn’t about being done with, once and for all, the pathological lies and potty-talk that characterized the mythical “Wharton School of Business valedictorian” and the “stable genius” of his first run for the White House.

Despite the urgency of dealing with abortion and our precious civil rights, those were not seen as the real emergency. The final glance to the left revealed the imminent threat—that families would be unable to feed and clothe their children and pay the rent. That meant more than a long-term patriotic dedication to upholding the principles of the Founding Fathers. Somehow, a majority of Americans believed that Trump, though a perennial failure in most of his business enterprises, could somehow fix the problems that were emptying the wallets of consumers.

Sad as it may seem to those who had hoped for relief from the ongoing clown show, the median American voter chose the hopeful perception that Trump could fix the problem that was crushing so many families. The election was not about the “us” of our collective future as a country. After that second look to the left, it all came down to one thing: Me.

Only time will tell if the voters guessed correctly. Hopefully, the price they will have to pay for voting for Trump won’t be the destruction of our personal freedoms. But only one thing is absolutely certain: A leopard can’t change its spots.

The author is a retired businessman, novelist, columnist and former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and their adorable and ferocious dog “Poppy.”