The President of the United States, Donald Trump, turns 80 this week.
I’ve been sitting with that sentence, trying to figure out what to do with it. A birthday is supposed to be a joyous reckoning with time; here’s what you built, here’s who loves you, here’s a celebration of a good life lived by a good person. It’s one of the few occasions our culture reserves for mostly uncomplicated celebrations of a single person’s existence.
And yet.
This particular birthday for this particular person, the President of the United States, comes as he escalates military strikes against Iran, separates children from their parents at the border again, and sics his joke of a Justice Department on E. Jean Carroll, the woman a jury found he sexually abused. At Delaney Hall, a Newark ICE facility run by a for-profit prison company, nearly 300 detained people on hunger strike described medical neglect and spoiled food; ICE pepper-sprayed them and barred the governor from entering. The border czar toured and told CBS “the spaghetti was good.” This weekend, he celebrates on the Southern lawn of the People’s house—YOUR house—with a UFC fight nobody asked for.
And this is just the last year of his 80 on this earth.
New Yorkers have known this man for decades. The grifter-in-chief landlord who coded rental applications with a “C” for “colored” until the DOJ sued him, the one who spent $85,000 on newspaper ads calling for the execution of five innocent Black teenagers, the one who scammed more than 6,000 people out of their savings with a fake university.
None of this is worth celebrating. But perhaps it is still worth addressing, directly to the man himself, on just such an occasion.
This week, write him a letter. Not the one full of rage—fury he can dismiss easily— though that one is still valid and fair. Write the other one. The one that speaks to the possibility, however slim, that a person can still be reached. That something in him might yet be capable of hearing what this has done to the rest of us. Send it if you want, or don’t, but write it anyway. Think of this as a community exercise in strength and breadth of our own empathy and humanity.
By Mail:
President Donald Trump for his Birthday
The White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC 20500
Or online:
Send the letter through a contact form page on the White House Website.
Of course it’s impossible to say whether he will ever actually read it. But who knows? And what if? What if some sympathetic staffer at the White House sees it and decides to get it to him, somehow? Presidents have a long history of being reached and impacted by the letters that come their way. So why not try it.
As always, you can also share your letter in the form of a Substack post/essay, note, or on any social media platform. Make sure to tag me so I can share it!
Substack Lives coming up:
June 15th @ 2pm: What we can (and should) learn from the sex lives of animals with the great granddaughter of Eleanor Roosevelt herself, Perrin Roosevelt Ireland
July 9th @ 2pm ET: How to wield artistry in a weaponized world with multi-hyphenate and award-winning poet, Mahogany Browne.
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✨June 21-27: I’m heading to the mountains—and I’d love for you to come with me. Idyllwild Arts’ Writer’s Week runs June 21–27, 2026, nestled in the San Jacinto Mountains of California, and it’s exactly the kind of immersive experience writers dream about. I’ll be joining Joy Harjo, Janet Fitch, Lynne Thompson, and Brendan Constantine for craft talks, readings, and receptions throughout the week. Workshops span poetry, fiction, memoir, and creative nonfiction—whether you’re deepening your practice or finally making time for the writing life you’ve always wanted. Full details and registration at idyllwildarts.org.
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