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As a few of you know, on March 3, 2016 I wrote on a small piece of paper, “Trump will be our next president,” put it in an envelope in my file cabinet and thought of it occasionally as the campaign proceeded. Just in case you think I’m clairvoyant, have a crystal ball, possess above average intuition, or am just terribly astute, I should tell you that in 2008 I wrote on a similar piece of paper headed for the file cabinet, “America will never elect an African-American president.” So, I’m batting .500.

Why did I predict what I did about Trump? For one thing, I truly believe that some things are just destined to happen. My husband thinks I’m full of hot air, but I really do believe in destiny.

Although I’m pretty sick of the word narrative, you’ll be reading it several times in the following paragraphs.

When Hillary Clinton lost to Obama in 2008, a narrative was begun that after Obama had completed a term or two, Hillary would automatically run for president and win. Who thought that? And why? Was it her birthright to become president? Was it her reward for being defeated by Obama? There was something automatic about this thinking that gave me pause.

On July 5 I wrote in this space:

Nothing is happening right now that gives me hope. We have a choice between two painfully flawed candidates. Many months ago I asked my husband, “Don’t the Democrats have anybody else to run for president?”

Evidently they didn’t, and we’re seeing the results now. I’m not a Hillary hater, but it seems to me that someone with less baggage and more charm might have come to the fore. Hillary is brittle and unspontaneous. Nothing about her makes me think, “I like that woman.” My husband says, “She’s competent.” I say, “Competent is boring.”

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