MAGA on The Mend: Snapshots From the RNC
MAGA on The Mend: Snapshots From the RNC
Standing a few feet beneath Trump and his family on stage he punches a giant gold ballon my way with a familiar smirk. America in unrest will always be his favorite stage.
To appreciate the full scope of this journey I must, at some point, expand on how I healed from a severe case of TDS. Until then, please enjoy this delayed recap of the RNC.
We headed to Milwaukee without tickets or a plan, which tends to stress out those around me. This is how I approach all of these trips: trusting that I'll find a story no matter what the access looks like. It hasn't failed me yet.
Turns out, tickets were exceptionally hard to come by. There was no squeezing in an extra head — security was tight and access was limited to those already registered with an organization or a vetted media outlet. I was more or less a last-minute addition, but figured I would cover the outer zones or at the very least the afterparties if I couldn't make it inside.
Luck struck on day one. My friend Amy snagged four entry tickets from her local Republican women's gun club, including Thursday night’s finale where Trump was speaking. Denise and I planned on trading off during the week — I'd go in to mingle and take notes, then she’d go in and take photos. But, me being me, I lost the tickets shortly after they were handed to me in the rush of our lobby run-in with Boris Johnson. When we returned from his cocktail party upstairs, a jolt of panic struck when I realized the envelope with our stack of tickets was missing. We searched the lobby frantically. Concerned staff and security joined in on the hunt, our panic punctuated by the drama unfolding on various TV screens surrounding us, forecasting Biden's resignation. Split screens showed live shots of pundits practically salivating, spliced with the image of our hotel tracking a row of black Secret Service SUVs idling, waiting for Trump's exit. The last place I remembered fumbling with the envelope was at our table downstairs, where a man and his teenage son in matching ties were now seated enjoying burgers, rightfully irritated by my repeated suspicious glares towards their table.
“Those passes are gold,” I heard a man say to a woman seated beside him at the bar, shaking his head in dismay.
Denise and I were seconds away from sifting through a dumpster behind the hotel where trash had just been tossed when a security guard approached to tell us he reviewed the lobby footage and saw no sign of any envelope left on the table. Baffled, I checked my bag once again: a tiny quilted Chanel clutch. When I opened my wallet, there it was — squeezed tightly out of sight. Flushed with embarrassment, I lifted the envelope, raising it high enough for everyone to see, and the whole bar audibly exhaled.
“I love what you guys are doing,” an officer in his mid 30s stopped to tell us on our way out. I gave him a hug and thanked him for his support, asking him not to judge us on a hectic first impression. Typically, when a man compliments my coverage, he is quick to credit his wife, mother, or sister for turning him on to a female-centric political perspective. Often there’s humility in the praise; this guy owned it.
The next few days at the convention were a whirlwind of energetic connections: speeches, tears, toasts, and impromptu run-ins with campaign staff, delegates, and attendees. Momentum built as we neared Trump's much-anticipated speech on closing night. He appeared stoic and reserved on the first night with that awkward white bandage covering his ear.
I sat in a row next to his crew, clocking a notably softer edge to his demeanor. On the big screen, he appeared reflective, almost demure, as he watched his endorsers praise him under glaring white spotlights. Had fear transformed him? It was as if the country, in the wake of a failed shooting, was forced to humanize him in a way the media had neglected for the past eight years. The near-tragedy brought to the forefront an unfamiliar sense of vulnerability and the deep bonds he shares with his family as a father and grandfather. Beyond the political arena, we were confronted with another version of him — a man grounded by the love of his close-knit family.
At one point, his granddaughter Carolina crawled onto his lap to cuddle him. Don Jr.’s oldest daughter, Kai, later took the stage to speak affectionately about her relationship with him, recalling how terrifying the phone call was that informed them of the shooting. Tucker Carlson joined the family on the second night, a Cheshire grin permanently etched on his face, as he sat next to J.D. Vance and his wife. Each evening, a new rotation of famous faces claimed seats around him, and he seemed to relish the affection.
Aside from the flashy names and faces, it was the everyday Americans who stood on stage to share their stories that truly sealed the narrative. On the second night of the GOP convention, the brother of a slain Maryland mom delivered an emotional speech that slammed the Biden administration’s lax border control laws.
Rachel Morin, a 37-year-old mother of five, was raped and brutally murdered on a Bel Air, Maryland, hiking trail on August 5, 2023, by Victor Martinez-Hernandez, a migrant from El Salvador. Martinez-Hernandez, 23, had illegally crossed into the U.S. in February 2023 and had ties to Salvadoran street gangs and a violent history.
“Rachel, a joyful and accomplished athlete and mother of five, was raped and murdered by a suspected illegal immigrant,” Michael Morin told a stunned and silent crowd. “This was described as one of the most brutal and violent offenses that has ever occurred in Harford County, Maryland.”
“My sister’s death was preventable. Joe Biden and his designated border czar, Kamala Harris, opened our borders to him and others like him.”
“They never apologized,” Michael continued, speaking of the president and vice president. “But when Rachel was killed, President Trump called my family to offer his condolences.”
“He wanted to meet with us. He cared. That is leadership. We need real leadership back in the White House.”
Anne Fundner, who lost her son to fentanyl poisoning, delivered a heart-wrenching speech about the death of her firstborn.
In 2022, while living in California with her husband and three children, Anne’s life was shattered by the unexpected loss of her 15-year-old son, poisoned by fentanyl-laced pills. Devastated and seeking solace, Anne and her family soon moved to the East Coast to be closer to loved ones, hoping to find a community that could support them. The heartbreak deepened when California authorities refused to pursue prosecution for her son’s overdose.
As Anne spoke, the woman next to me began weeping uncontrollably, her husband gripping her hand as he fought back tears of his own. “We lost our Matthew to the same thing,” he whispered to me. In that moment, I broke down too. We sat there, three strangers bound by parental grief, our shared rage momentarily overwhelmed by the deep sorrow of loss — every parent’s worst fear.
Overall, the atmosphere in the crowd was electric, charged with post-shooting adrenaline and the realization that this was more than just a political rally — it was a cultural event, a pivotal moment in history shifting a faltering country onto a more stable, sensible course. St. Trump was born 48 hours earlier, the moment he turned his head to evade a bullet that could have shattered his skull on live TV. The assassination attempt altered countless facets of this election in ways we might never fully understand.
What emerged was a surge of vengeance within his base. From character assassination to courtroom battles, Trump supporters have endured relentless and brutal attempts by the left, aided by mainstream media, to destroy him by any means necessary over the past eight years.
With every story and tear shed, it became clear that this was not just another convention — it was a watershed moment, a fierce reclamation of a vision for America that many felt had been slipping away. The attempt on Trump's life crystallized the stakes, transforming what could have been just another campaign event into a pivotal turning point.
He dodged the bullet because the hand of God rested on his shoulder that day — or so the theory circulated through MAGA after he survived what was perceived as the last-ditch effort to extinguish him. Alex Jones warned us it was coming, and so did Tucker Carlson. Both predicted that a spiritual war would eventually lead to violent actions. Meanwhile, legacy media instinctively buried the story, ensuring it would quickly fade from the news cycle. Will Smith’s Oscar-night slap received far more commentary and coverage, replayed for weeks on endless repeat. But Trump being shot? It was easily minimized. If you didn’t see it live, you might even believe it was just a stumble on stage. He’s fine. Just a bullet graze. Move on. Forget what you heard. Ignore what you saw. The news will tell you when and how to riot in outrage.
The first night, Denise and I walked a couple of miles back to the Pfister Hotel, navigating through a maze of security barricades. On another night, we trudged through a rainstorm with lightning crashing above us, slicing a moonless sky with splinters of white, adding a dramatic flair to the convention's atmosphere. Police surrounded all exits, and sirens sounded from every corner of town. The motorcade came and went, bringing the streets to a standstill. Even shielded by tinted windows in swift passing, Donald Trump is a showstopper.
Once we made it to the hotel, I declined to head to the party upstairs, looking like a drowned rat with mascara streaking my cheeks. Instead, I waited out the rain next to a security officer directing guests through a detour entrance. He asked what I did; I gave him the briefest version.
“You've only been doing this two years?” he said. “You must be doing something right. You made all the right connections,” he smiled, patting me on the back.
As a kid, I watched every convention on CNN in my mother’s living room. It was the mainstay hub for news in our house growing up. I was glued to the pageantry, the commentary, the gossip, and the fashion, just as I am today. When it came time for the balloon drop, I always imagined how thrilling it would be to be there on the ground in the center of it all.
It took me a little over 44 years to find out.
Boris Johnson
Before we dive into my unexpected introduction to Boris Johnson, I must ask you to forgive how much we detested him during the lockdowns. This is important because I need to convey just how unexpectedly captivating he is in person and conversation — genuinely engaged and unguarded, with kind, slanting eyes and the kind of unruly hair that suggests he is both carefree at heart and probably a fabulous drunk after hours.
A few days later, I discovered he has a beautiful young wife and two towheaded babies. Although intuition hints at some scandal behind this seemingly perfect domestic bliss, I’m tempted to overlook it for now.
“How is everything going?” Mike asked when I called to tell him I'd found my passes. “I might be in love with Boris Johnson. But other than that, it’s fine.”
On my best behavior, I didn't cave to gossipy inclinations or press him on what interests me more than his affinity for Trump: his Oxford college days as party mate to Ghislaine Maxwell. It was a decadent era for England’s bluebloods, vividly depicted in Dafydd Jones’s books. At that time, Ghislaine was a striking figure — a proclaimed feminist leading a women’s club on campus, known for her flamboyant style of hot pants, fishnet stockings, heeled boots, and black top hats.
In an infamous scene recounted by Boris’s sister, Rachel Johnson, she described her introduction to Ghislaine in an article for The Spectator magazine. Rachel recalls finding the pair “relaxing together in the junior common room of Balliol College, Oxford, where they were contemporaries in the 1980s.” She walked in to see “shiny glamazon Maxwell with her high-heeled boot resting high on my brother Boris’s thigh.”
Rachel faced criticism for her article, and even a subtle defense of Ghislaine drew scorn. In that room, observing Boris interact candidly, I couldn’t help but imagine what he might divulge after a bottle of wine — or two.
We only managed to discuss him complimenting Trump for looking rejuvenated. Boris feels the US media fails to appreciate Trump’s “old-school manners” — refined enough to suit English dignitaries — which he believes are extinct in the States. Above all, he thinks Trump appears more vibrant and healthier than in recent years. While hair envy wasn’t mentioned, it was certainly suspected.
The Afterparties
I’ll say it again: Republicans know how to party. But, in the wake of the assassination attempt, the mood at the afterparties shifted into a more somber tone. Amid toasts and laughter, conversations veered into conspiracies about the shooting. Was it an inside job? Did Trump now harbor new suspicions about his protectors? Who would be leading the investigation into the events of that day?
Denise and I mingled with Trump team members at various rooftop bars, often staying well past midnight. I had expected excessive partying and debauchery, but the reality was more subdued. The team was understandably shaken, still grappling with the horror of Pennsylvania. Don Jr. had lost his temper on live TV when a reporter criticized his father. “You can't even wait two days,” he snapped, calling the reporter a clown.
Amidst this, some liberals were quick to entertain theories that the shooting was staged, perhaps because it was easier to dismiss the incident rather than confront the discomfort of humanizing someone they had been conditioned to hate.
There was a lingering disbelief that undercut any attempts at celebration. Some staff members made light of the oversized bandage on Trump, humorously comparing its size and design to a maxi pad strapped to the side of his face. “Let him have it!” someone retorted when the jokes went too far.
At the Blu Bar in the Pfister, we encountered Savannah Chrisley, towering in 8-inch acrylic heels, fresh from giving a speech onstage. Also present was Trump’s communication director, the statuesque beauty, Margo Martin. In recent months, Margo’s role in the campaign has become more prominent, partly due to the Daily Mail’s obsessive coverage of her. They’ve taken an interest in tracking her wardrobe and reporting on her appearances at rallies and court trials.
In a quiet corner of the bar, with a view of the cityscape bathed in sparkling lights, we caught up on life behind the scenes. Margo asked about our kids and home life, while we inquired about her being constantly on the road and the rally she was present for during the shooting. She shared a newly unearthed video from another angle, captured by someone at the rally. The footage revealed her walking across a grassy field on a phone call, with the shooter visible pacing on a rooftop in the distance. As the shots rang out, she dropped to the ground and scrambled for cover behind a parked car. She didn’t even realize the president had been shot until the car they were in veered toward an ER instead of the airport.
Late one night, at the top of another hotel rooftop bar, we found Lynne Patton, Senior Advisor to Trump, playing hostess to a room filled with campaign staff and donors. “You just missed Don and Kimberly,” she told us as she handed us drinks and introduced us to unfamiliar faces. My first impression of Lynne was that she is the ultimate connector, always working behind and in front of the scenes to ensure all those around her are content and engaged.
She was the first on the team to pull me aside next to the stage at Mar-A-Lago on my first visit. At that point, I was considered a risky addition—unsure if a former liberal might be there to sabotage or mock MAGA. When doubt proved a brief obstacle, it was Lynne who lobbied for me, and Lynne who led me to the rooftop where I was introduced to Donald Trump under a full moon on a breezy terrace one lovely evening in December. She was also the one who sat up past midnight in the lobby one night, telling me how the Trump family saved her life years ago by staging an intervention that ultimately changed the course of her life. His compassion, she explained, is what cemented her loyalty to him and his family for over 16 years.
It was Lynne who invited me to the gala for the Black Conservatives Foundation, where each conversation deepened my empathy for a portion of voters that are often (ruthlessly) degraded in the press. Over the past year, she has acted as an advocate, allowing me access into spaces I never dreamed I’d be part of.
At the bar, just before last call, we toasted 10 months on this shared journey. Weeks later, when I included a tweet by Simone Biles in my stories stating, “I Love my Black Job,” Lynne responded in DMs, “#METOO.”
QAnon Kennedy Strikes (Again)
Vince Fusca first caught the spotlight during the early QAnon days, with some speculating he was the late John F. Kennedy Jr. returning from a faked death to bolster Trump’s mission. The truth? Fusca is a fervent campaign groupie. I’ve spotted him at numerous RFK events, too. Recently, he was seen standing behind Trump on stage in Pennsylvania, unmoving amid the shooting, sparking fresh online conspiracies. I urged against it — we've already endured the 2021 theories of him being an aged JFK Jr. with a fondness for velvet fedoras. With all that’s happening, we don’t need that storyline resurrected.
HIH RNC VIDEO RECAP
Trolled by James O’Keefe
James O'Keefe caught me walking into the CNN headquarters trailing Olivia Nuzzi. He stopped to interview/troll me. It took me a minute to realize he wasn't kidding. He literally thought I was a prime time agent to harass. After he realized who I was, I invited him in with us, unaware that he and Olivia are not exactly media kin (hence, the clip below). I am always guilty of this — the over-invite. To a degree I was flattered though, thinking I must look together enough to be a mainstream facet. Once he realized who I was, we both had a good laugh. I guess he forgot he once tried to recruit me as an undercover agent for Project Veritas way back when.
“Oh, Olivia. She hates me.”
CNN + Politico Headquarters
The Grille takeover was a highlight: great lighting, comfy couches, and a well-stocked bar. We gathered there during breaks; convention days are long, and my blistered feet needed rest. One morning at the Grille, I overheard Sarah Huckabee Sanders advising new parents on sleep training. She was adamant that babies shouldn’t nap in unnaturally quiet environments — and I silently agreed. Having raised four children, I know the sanity-saving value of sleep flexibility.
The Young Hot Influential Conservatives
On the second day, we spent time in the Pfister café with Emily, CJ Pearson, and Xaviaer, the fresh faces of young, controversial conservatism. I shared one of Emily’s highlights on my stories — and at least 20% of my followers lost their temper. Emily is a hardcore Alex Jones fan. Not everyone appreciated the video I shared, in which she called Jones “daddy.”
The Movie Star
Dennis Quaid and his girlfriend passed us in the Pfister lobby, but I was too preoccupied with missing tickets to notice. I introduced myself the next day when he stopped to thank Tim Ballard. In a good mood, I’ll refrain from reviewing his Reagan movie.
Republican Armor
MAGA knows how to party and how to merch, though Reagan red might now belong to Tulsi Gabbard. The hats and t-shirts were great, but I could do without the Trump leggings. Matt Gaetz’s remark about liberals being miserable and fun-challenged rings true. The heart of MAGA is passion, camaraderie, and unapologetic pride. As a former critic, I find myself drawn to it. Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate those who love Trump enough to wear his name embroidered across their bodies. But I never imagined I’d be standing outside a Milwaukee hotel in a red MAGA hat, waiting for an Uber driver who showed up in the same one.
Ill Sightedness
My poor vision is literally becoming a liability. Without corrective lenses, I constantly mistake regular people for celebrities and overlook actual celebrities. The mistaken sightings are often more amusing than the real encounters. When a Bill Clinton look-alike walked into the lobby, I nearly fainted. From 20 feet away, after two martinis, I was convinced it was him. He’s used to it, though — the real man is a right-leaning heart surgeon, not the famous Democrat I’m always waiting to run into.
The Well-Paid Pundits
We passed Sean Hannity and other familiar Fox faces in the hallway. I spotted Mark Halperin on the streets later, weaving through the crowd. Anderson Cooper and Jake Tapper stayed tucked away, likely for safety reasons.
The Poetics of Donald J. Trump
I met these guys through the Daily Wire crew. What a genius idea: self-publishing a book of Trump's tweets, but arranged as classic poetry. They gifted me a first edition. Volume 2, they tell me, is forthcoming. The chapter breakdowns are brilliantly categorized. A month later, I still have my youngest son read me one at the end of every night. “Covfefe” is smartly framed as a classic.
Chasing Kellyanne
Like Bill Clinton, fate has yet to connect me with another favorite political powerhouse: Kellyanne Conway. Maybe because she’s always on the move — fast-paced and quick-witted. But that doesn’t mean I won’t catch up with her one day to secure our pre-election slumber party plans. I need to know everything about George and Claudia’s recent betrayal. And I must tell her how much her family drama comforted me during the cruel summer of 2020. Trump’s thoughts are at the bottom of my list. What I really want to know is how she kept her cool during all those scandalous TikTok lives. Also, she should know I defended her kneeling on the couch to take that group photo — dedication, babe. If you shape the campaign that derailed Hillary Clinton, you’ve earned the right to do whatever you want in the Oval Office.
The bottom photo? Taken by Denise when she caught Kellyanne entering the CNN afterparty. I narrowly missed her grand entrance. One day.
The Man, The Myth, The Mayhem
The convention entrance was a spectacle. Supporters arrived in sequined dresses, American flag suits, and all manner of MAGA gear. One man preached with off-key folk songs about salvation, while another called for street baptisms outside an Irish pub. The celebratory mood clashed with riled-up protesters, poorly dressed and yelling through megaphones. Main Street became a theater of political passion, with heated exchanges almost turning into fistfights. Officers on foot and horseback kept a watchful eye. One man had to be pulled away from attacking another who carried a poster of a failed assassin, captioned “American Hero.” Denise and I spent an hour watching the mayhem from a restaurant, ordering salmon and salted pretzels. YouTube views seemed to be the primary goal: “Do it for the camera!” they kept shouting.
Law and Order
Between Convention runs, I made it a point to talk to law enforcement officers, many of whom had been brought in from other states for added protection. One day, I watched as they chased a manic homeless man who was ranting violent threats. Later, I asked another group of officers what they thought about the recent shooting. They told me that, according to their sources, the local police would have reacted much faster, but they were given higher orders that prevented them from doing so.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“It means those above them, the FBI told them to stand down,” one of the officers replied. “The delay wasn’t due to ground patrol.”
Balloon Drop
You should know that on the final night, just as Hulk Hogan was tearing apart a tank top to reveal a Trump-Vance alliance and Dana White was stepping onto the stage to introduce his old friend, divine intervention drew us into the heart of the action. Denise and I had resigned ourselves to the fact that getting onto the floor for the finale was impossible. But suddenly, a short Italian man in a suit with an earpiece appeared, informing us that “arrangements had been made” for us to join the floor crowd.
Without questioning, we followed him through a whirlwind of hallway chaos, down elevators, and into a restricted lower area. There, two tall, bald security guards blocked our way, saying all access had just been cut off. Our suited guide disappeared briefly into a side door and reemerged with two passes that scanned us right through.
It turns out Denise's chance encounter with a Republican strategist — part of Trump’s expansive legal team — two nights earlier had paid off. His reputation for “making things happen” was confirmed when we emerged front and center for Trump’s speech.
Trump’s appearance on the final night was met with raucous applause. “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” chants echoed throughout the arena. As the lights dimmed and the music swelled, the crowd erupted, waving flags and chanting in unison. Trump, at his core, is a showman who thrives on stage, even in his long-winded speeches, knowing how to ignite and inspire a crowd. Before speaking, he paused to kiss a uniform draped on stage, honoring a fallen patriot, and then delivered his usual blunt, unapologetic sentiments. The message resonated deeply, even as it dragged on well past the scheduled hour. My feet ached, my back stiffened, and I noticed Olivia Nuzzi across the stage, looking equally pained by the duration. I swear, all politicians have yet to realize the power of a brief speech.
Still, the crowd hung on his every word, fully invested in witnessing history. When the balloons dropped, the Trump family emerged on stage beside him. The floor transformed into a playground of flying balloons. Amidst the chaos, I worked my way to the front, standing just feet beneath Trump and his family. For a moment, he locked eyes with me, sending a giant gold balloon my way with a familiar smirk. Even in unrest, America remains his favorite stage.
As it all concluded, the arena erupted in laughter, tears, cheers, and clapping as the last balloons rained down. In the streets, tired Republicans poured out of bars, waving flags and chanting Trump’s name. Every TV screen in town bore variations of his visage. The city vibrated with the collective emotion of thousands of newly revived patriots who had just shared an unforgettable experience.
As the night wound down and the festivities tapered off, it felt as if the story wasn’t over. Perhaps it was the beginning of something bigger, a ripple from Milwaukee that could alter the country’s course. Walking back to the hotel for the last time, there was a sense that we’d been part of something extraordinary — bigger, brighter, and better than 12-year-old me could have imagined.
What a story! Made me feel like I was there. Go Trump!
Epic photos. The best speeches were Kai Trump and the families who have lost loved ones due to the Biden Harris open border. Can’t wait to hear about how you recovered from TDS, glad it wasn’t a terminal disease for you as it is for too many people: https://yuribezmenov.substack.com/p/trump-derangement-syndrome-diagnosis-dsm-v