TRUMPTOPIA

by NEEVA SHAFIIAN

As soon as the clock struck the ripe time of 7:00 a.m. on December 19th, 2019, my alarm disrupted my peaceful sleep with a low voice I knew all too well. “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!” it chanted into my ear. As soon as I woke up, I threw on the mandatory uniform all citizens of Trumptopia are required to wear: a blonde toupee, a cheap suit, and a briefcase meant for important business files (I use it to hold my coloring books).

“Good morning, Trumpette #2637846,” my mother greeted me in a cheerful sing-song.

“Good morning, Trumpette #2637845,” I replied.

After a hearty meal of plastic scraps, I puckered my lips to create the customary “duck-lip” consternation, and headed towards school. Outside, everything was the same. Streets and walls were painted green, yet faded “Feel the Bern” graffiti seeped through. Loudspeakers played Lord Trump’s daily announcement: “Good morning, stupid losers! Just a reminder that I’m better than you!” I heard hectic screams to the left of me, and realized that it was just the local Deportation Police arresting illegal immigrants.

I finally reached my car that I just purchased after I gave up my last one when hybrid and eco-friendly cars were deemed illegal. Needing a break from all the business discussions I hear all around me, I turned on the radio. Taylor Swift. I changed the radio. More Taylor Swift. I turned it off and just dealt with the voices stuck in my head. “YOU’RE FIRED,” they screamed.

But this day would be different. In class, while we were discussing the atrocities of the war with ISIS and the rise of women’s oppression in America, we heard a strong knock on the classroom door. Before I could blink, a squad of men wearing black from head to toe barged in. They grabbed my best friend, Trumpette #153647 (I used to call her Maria), and started dragging her on the ground. “I have documents, I swear,” she cried as the Deportation Police carried her out the classroom door, stuffed her into a truck, and raced away.

With tears in my eyes and a heartbeat trying to race my feet, I entered my house in a rage.  I went to my backyard and gazed at the Great Big Huge Tall Gigantic Wall of Trumptopia, that separated the former United States of America with Mexico.

Just then, a whisper cut off my train of thought.

“Trumpette #2637846, is that you?” asked a familiar voice over the wall.

“Trumpette #153647?”

“Yes!”

“I was so worried that I’d never see you again. Oh Trumpette #153647. Oh Maria. I think I love you!”

Just then, a very long rope was thrown over the wall. I gripped it with both my hands and began climbing. Three days later, I made it over Lord Trump’s great wall, and was finally able to hold Trumpette #153647 in my arms. Freedom never felt so good.

As we walked away from the wall, hand-in-hand, the Mexican winds blew the blonde toupee off my head.

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