Why I had to see Trump at the US Open with my own eyes

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When President Donald Trump’s face appeared Sunday on the giant screens inside Arthur Ashe Stadium during the US Open Men’s Singles Final, a woman seated next to me clapped enthusiastically and gave a little shout. A supporter, I figured. I turned to look at her and she caught my eye, then with a big smile and heavily-accented English said to me, “We need to support him so he doesn’t take away my visa.”

I first broke the news on Thursday that Donald Trump would be attending the match, a blockbuster face-off between the two top-ranked male tennis players in the world, Jannik Sinner of Italy and Carlos Alcaraz of Spain. Then on Friday, journalist Ben Rothenberg added another wrinkle: the US Tennis Association (USTA) sent an email to all broadcast media asking them “to refrain from showcasing any disruptions or reactions in response to the President’s attendance in any capacity.” With all the distortion propagated by this administration, on top of some traditional media outlets' willingness to carry water for them, I realized the only way I would know the truth about this event was if I experienced it myself.

At this point Trump has openly mused about being a dictator, so it wasn’t a major logical leap to imagine his presence at the US Open feeling something akin to Adolph Hitler at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. Though World War II hadn’t yet begun, Hitler’s persecution of Jews in Germany was well underway, and jails and concentration camps across the country contained the Führer’s political enemies.

This past Friday while the city of Chicago braced for an invasion of federal immigration officers, Trump posted online "I love the smell of deportations in the morning,” a reference to the film Apocalypse Now. "Chicago [is] about to find out why it's called the Department of WAR.” That same day, 475 workers at a Hyundai plant in Georgia were taken by ICE. By Monday, Trump’s handpicked Supreme Court had lifted restrictions on racial profiling. 

As I approached the TSA and Secret Service checkpoint to get into the Queens, NY stadium and hot rain poured down onto the hoards, a group behind me murmured about Trump’s visit. Moments later, a large jet roared low overhead with “United States of America” written on its side, presumably bound for nearby Laguardia Airport. It was 1:05pm and the match was due to begin at 2. Soon he would be in our midst. 

Once through security, I got on the escalator to head up to my seat and asked a white father and young son riding a few steps up if they’d seen the plane. “No! That’s so cool!” the father exclaimed as I showed him the photo I’d snapped. At that moment I realized I’d have to steel myself to get through the day, because even though I was in the heart of New York, this crowd was anything but representative of my city.

The stadium was at most 10% full when I first walked in, the cavernous space sealed up with a retractable roof to shield players and spectators from the elements. I had the immediate sense that I was somewhere I didn’t belong, despite being a casual tennis fan over the years and the daughter of an exceptional tennis player. After all, I had grabbed a ticket one hour before start time for $530 (thanks in part to generous supporters who sent me a few bucks to go), while most people present had paid at least $1,000, and some many, many times over that. I was there to observe what the presence and reaction to a fascist at a sporting event said about our country; they were there for fun.

Trump, a guest of Swiss luxury watch brand Rolex, first showed his face as early tennis fans were just filing in. He stepped out onto the balcony—with the US Open championship trophy that had been specially moved to the Rolex suite glittering next to him—and waved to the mostly empty seats. Sounds of surprise alerted everyone that something was going on, and soon all eyes were on Trump. Some clapped, others jeered, and at least one person yelled “go home!” Amidst sound coming through the loudspeakers and bad acoustics, it sounded like the boos had the majority—but it wasn’t the definitive roar some had hoped for. The righteous indignation of so many Americans was not in the room with us.

I squatted in a seat much better than the one I’d paid for and directly across the court from the Rolex suite. After 20 or minutes or so, the stands were still nearly empty. Soon the start time was moved to 2:30 and reports were rolling in online that the security lines had swelled while irate ticket holders remained stuck outside. It quickly became obvious that entry hadn’t just slowed—it had stopped almost entirely, even as the new start time approached. This was obviously strategic: Trump was expected to be back out on the balcony for the National Anthem and an emptier stadium would dull the potential negative reaction that USTA had anticipated. 5,000 people couldn’t be nearly as loud as the full capacity of nearly 24k. 

Just before the anthem began, Trump stepped back out accompanied by his son-in-law Jared Kushner, Attorney General Pam Bondi and their entourage of fascists. As the song began, he moved his hand into a salute, even though civilians aren’t supposed to do that. As a giant American flag was unfurled on the court and a saluting Trump was shown on the stadium screens, boos filled the space once more, along with an unsettling smattering of claps. Alcaraz and Sinner took center court and then, with more than half of the stadium still empty, the match began.

I continued to zoom in on Trump with my camera, and in one image I captured, it looks like he’s staring directly at me. It was surreal to just be sitting in the same space as him, breathing the same air, and seeing how, despite his many crimes and injustices inflicted, he’s able to live in relative peace. No signs or shirts of protest. No rogue yelling outside the safety of the crowd. Insofar as Trump is able to really enjoy anything, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

After an hour of seat jumping, all the wealthy people had finally gotten in and my luck in the fancy seats ran out. In a last ditch effort to stay, I went to sit in an empty seat on the aisle, only to be physically swatted away by an older man who was deep in conversation and didn’t even bother to look up. I took my bruised ego to the pizza line where a young-ish man wearing a white MAGA hat joined behind me.

While waiting in line for a drink (Yes, I got a Honey Deuce, I’m only human) I overheard two men in front of me complaining about the massive delays getting in. One, a white man in 50s, said he was stuck outside for two hours and that it was “the most disgusting thing” he’d ever experienced at a sporting event. Naturally I chimed in, and learned that he spent $6,000 per ticket only to be forced to miss the first four games of the match because of Trump. “You’re going to read about this tomorrow,” he said, ostensibly referring to other rich people bitching to the media about their harrowing inconvenience. But maybe he has a blog. 

Incorrigible as ever, I asked if he was a Trump fan. “I’m conservative, but I don’t like Trump.” In his agitated state, he kept going. “I actually agree with a lot of his policies, but I just really don’t like him personally. He made this day all about him.” I nodded with faux sympathy, amazed by how unaware one person could be of their own hypocrisy. 

I stood by a nearby rail to scarf down my pizza, and happened to be overlooking the back entrance where the presidential motorcade was waiting for Trump to eventually come back. Dozens of humans paid with our tax dollars to make sure he gets to a tennis match safe and sound, while his goon squad occupies American cities and makes people simply vanish.

Once I climbed up to my nosebleed seat to watch the remainder of the match, the disappointment set in. I’m not stupid: I knew the exceedingly wealthy crowd, which included many international attendees, wasn’t going to be the one to hold a full-length mirror up to Trump and show him how much he’s loathed by the city of his birth. But the tepid boos mixed with cheers of support created an unsettling atmosphere which reinforced the fact that there are people for whom it is tolerable to live this way. People for whom the torment of others is immaterial to their charmed lives. Celebrities like Bruce Springsteen, Martha Stewart, and Jon Hamm sat respectfully and enjoyed the match.

Alcaraz won while Trump looked on, his red tie beaming like a flare. The presentation of the trophies came and went without a single acknowledgment of Trump’s presence. Once it was over, he left. 

As I headed towards the exit to catch the subway home, I passed through the food court and one vendor name caught my eye: Migrant Kitchen. An outpost of an Upper West Side restaurant, Migrant Kitchen’s website says “our menu pays homage to the culinary roots of our chefs and is rooted in the belief that food mirrors humanity: creative, collaborative...and a little nonconformist. Portions of every meal purchased go towards providing meals to New Yorkers in need.” Digesting the irony, I sighed and kept walking.

Once on board the 7 train, things started to feel normal again. Each subway car is filled with such a diverse cocktail of people, one that the Trump administration seeks to eradicate. I was reminded that our city is so much bigger than any one sporting event. And also that one man can never be bigger than us all.