The passing of a torch, featuring my review of Mary L. Trump’s “Too Much, Never Enough”

 When my mother died in June of 2019, I was twelve years old. I won’t burden you with the extent of my experience, as that is not the point of this blog. However, I was unaware of “Bookbaggin it” until the weeks after she passed. I remember spending several months, pouring through her blog (this one as well as Dr.J Life This Way), hoping I could, at my young age, find solace in her words and carry her grace with me. 

I come to you now, as a college student. I’ve now observed five Christmases, birthdays, and holidays without the presence of my mom, as well as two major elections, and her absence still weighs heavily on my heart. I find myself craving just one more conversation with her, as she always had an uncanny ability to know what to say and when (not to mention how brilliant she was). 

I remember, after my mother’s passing, having nearly everyone in my life compare me to her: telling me that I was her spitting image, not only in appearance, but in spirit. As a preteen, trying to fill the shoes of one of the most exceptional women I had (and have) ever met, was overwhelming, and created a resentment within me that took years to shake. 

Having shed the resentment towards being like my mother, these days I find myself, ironically, becoming more like her than ever before. As my features have grown into a more adult state, I can catch her face in the mirror. While I sit in my college library, late at night, writing papers on topics she introduced me to so many years ago, I can see her voice in my words. 

I love my mom. I adore her writing, and I want to restart this blog, not only to continue her legacy, but to show you all that our lives are more than the sum of their parts. Her passion for knowledge, which I have been delighted to inherit, is something worth displaying. Worth continuing. 

My name is Jay Martin, and I may not be my mother, but dear god, I hope I can capture this part of her. 

As a political science student (minoring in American History), I seldom find myself pouring over fiction the way I did as a child. I still read voraciously, but I now throw myself into journals, dissertations, and autobiographical writings that help to illuminate perspectives on not only this country, but the workings of humanity as a whole. I hope I can entrance you, as I have been entranced, with the reality of this crazy world!

And with that, I’ll spare you anymore of my waxing poetical about my life. I recently finished a book, lent to me by my grandmother. The book is appropriately titled “Too Much, Never Enough- How My Family Created the World’s Most Dangerous Man”. Written by the only niece of now Presidential Elect Donald Trump, Mary shares her devastating insights into her and her uncle’s family history. 

Mary, a PhD holder and certified psychologist is qualified enough that she could have simply rattled off a list of potential diagnoses for her uncle. However, her book goes much deeper than that. She begins the book by describing a terse family celebration that took place shortly after Donald was sworn into office in 2017, taking care to describe both the visible stress her uncle was under, and the casual disregard for the well-being of their family members. She points out that in order to be transported to the white house, the Trump family was awkwardly placed into vans (causing discomfort for her older relatives), when more comfortable options were readily available and accessible. 

This is barely the tip of the iceberg that Mary tackles in her book. Focusing not only on Donald’s blatant cruelty, but the devastating generational trauma he and his siblings were subjected to in order to get to that point. 

Mary spends nearly the first half of the book explaining in-depth about Donald’s father: Fred Trump. Fred, as illustrated by Mary, was a deeply flawed man who held little regard for the emotional well-being of his children. The anecdote opening the first chapter describes Maryanne (one of Donald’s older sisters), finding her mother nearly dead in the bathroom. Fred’s response to the incident was cold, helping his wife as he could, but making no moves to comfort his daughter: sending her to school the next day with only the assurance he would “call her if something happens”. He would call her if her mother died. 

Mary, Fred’s Wife (not to be confused with the author of this book), did not die that night. She did, however, spend the rest of her children’s lives being emotionally and physically absent. Much of the focus of the book is on Fred, and the ways in which he systematically broke down his children, their self-worth, and their ideas of what it meant to be successful. Donald’s mother, however, is worth mentioning, as she and her husband both neglected to fulfill the essential roles of a parent of a young child. Mary (the author), explains that this early childhood neglect likely robbed the Trump children (particularly Donald and Robert, as they were the youngest) of their ability to identity and empathize with the emotions of others.

Mary also spends a significant portion of the book focusing on Fred Sr.’s relationship with his oldest son Freddy (Mary’s father). Freddy spent his whole childhood being told, verbatim, that he was inherently inferior to his brother Donald. Freddy’s interests, emotions, and reactions were under constant ridicule by not only his father, but by extension, his younger brother. Freddy is described as being anxious and sensitive in his youth, and it was devastating to watch his daughter illustrate his transition into abuse and alcoholism due to his father’s manipulation. 

As for Donald, Mary outlines his childhood traits, describing his cruelty towards his younger brother, his defiance, and the unusual favoritism he received from Fred due to the traits they shared. She explains in goosebump-inducing detail the coping mechanisms he developed due to the neglect he faced, and gives us an ominous warning for the future of our country. 

I don’t want to spoil too much of this book, as I feel Mary’s words will sink deeper into you than mine ever could. However, I cannot recommend this book enough. In the wake of the recent election, I fear that her work is more relevant than ever. Mary’s grief is not only reserved for herself and her family, but for all the Americans who have been betrayed and harmed by her uncle’s policies, as well as for those who have (weather directly as a result of his presidency or not) fallen at his hands. Her remorse and pain is tangible, as she laments the cycles that were not broken, and the horror of her family that has now been reflected onto the American constituency. 

I, personally, spent the morning after the election sobbing until I made myself sick. This book captures that feeling of terrifying betrayal with a softness and an accuracy that can barely be described. Mary left me with one haunting question: “What have we done?”

Lastly, in the spirit of giving this blog my own personal touch: I would like to share with you all a couple of songs that have been giving me some much-needed strength in my moments of despair over the state of our world. 

The first is “Flower of Blood” by Big Thief. The song is simultaneously haunting and comforting, and captures the same feeling for me as thinking back to my days of storytelling to myself at recess. If you need to feel like you can breathe, even when your throat is closing, I would advise you to turn this one on, close your eyes, and just be. 

The second is one that I stole from my roomate: “AUS MEIN KOPF” by Yung Hern is a bite-sized song that simply radiates joy. I cannot understand more than a couple words of this song, but it just elicits a need to boogie down in the sunshine. I’d give it a listen :)

Thank you so much for reading, and though I apologize for the darker tone of this article, I hope you know that there is unquantifiable beauty in this world. That’s why I’m here, writing to you under the name of a woman who I loved so dearly, continuing her work. Please do not lose hope, we have faced bigger monsters with less weaponry. The death of complacency calls for a rebirth of unity. 

Until next time,

-J.M