Too Much and Never Enough

Too Much and Never Enough: How My Family Created the World's Most Dangerous Man

I’d always liked my name. As a kid at sailing camp in the 1970s, everybody called me Trump. It was a source of pride, not because the name was associated with power and real estate (back then my family was unknown outside of Brooklyn and Queens) but because something about the sound of it suited me, a tough six-year-old, afraid of nothing. In the 1980s, when I was in college and my uncle Donald had started branding all of his buildings in Manhattan, my feelings about my name became more complicated. 

Thirty years later, on April 4, 2017, I was in the quiet car of an Amtrak train headed to Washington, DC, for a family dinner at the White House. Ten days earlier I had received an email inviting me to a birthday celebration for my aunts Maryanne, turning eighty, and Elizabeth, turning seventy-five. Their younger brother Donald had occupied the Oval Office since January.

 After I emerged into Union Station, with its vaulted ceilings and blackand-white marble floors, I passed a vendor who had set up an easel with buttons for sale: my name in a red circle with a red slash through it, “DEPORT TRUMP,” “DUMP TRUMP,” and “TRUMP IS A WITCH.” I put on my sunglasses and picked up my pace. ..............................

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