The Seduction of Certainty: Why Don’t Trump Supporters Ever Feel Bad?
Quiet Part Out Loud | Opinion Essay
In 1995, after Seven hit theaters, a friend told me it gave her an icky feeling that lingered for days. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t just shake it off like other horror thrillers. She liked the movie—but it made her feel really bad about herself.
Curious, I went to see what all the fuss was about. I thought it was a masterpiece.
It made me feel bad, too.
Not because of the constant darkness and foreboding narration. Not because of the gruesome murders, the torture, or the religious framing. Not even because of that ending (What’s in the BOXXXX!? 😱).
I felt bad because of something the killer, John Doe, says while riding in the back of the police car:
“Only in a world this shitty could you even try to say these were innocent people and keep a straight face. But that's the point. We see a deadly sin on every street corner, in every home, and we tolerate it. We tolerate it because it's common, it's trivial. We tolerate it morning, noon, and night.”
I felt that in my bones. And I agreed with him.
And that made me feel terrible.
The words of a murderous psycho weren’t far from thoughts I had once held. The film gave me what all great stories offer—a mirror. It allowed me to step outside the certainty that I was a spiritual, compassionate, moral person and take a hard look at my own heart and mind. Uncomfortable? Yes. But necessary.
This isn’t the only time I’ve had that moment—hearing a fictional character say something troubling and realizing it’s not far from my own human thoughts. It usually hits when I’ve been cruising on compassion autopilot, not seeing how the world has seeped in through the cracks. Sometimes those corrupted thoughts even sound factual.
“What do you get when you cross a mentally ill loner with a society that abandons him and treats him like trash? You get what you fucking deserve!”
—Joker (2019)
My mind: Oh. Hell yeah.
My heart: Um… no.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about this as I watch Donald Trump—his behavior, his words, his complete disregard for law, decency, or truth.
The racism and demonization of dissenters
The name-calling
The way he talks about women
His ignorance of the Constitution
His gold-plated audacity while telling working families they only need 5 pencils
His cruelty toward transgender people simply because they’re vulnerable
His disrespect for anyone who won’t or can’t fight back
Through it all, I watch Trump supporters still waving their flags, still clapping, still singing his praise, and I wonder:
Why don’t they ever stop and feel bad? Or at least... concerned?
It’s the seduction of certainty.
It feels good to be right. It feels great to know what you know without question or concern. If ignorance is bliss, then certainty is an LSD high. On that wire, you can see everything—and you don’t need a net because you’re not going to fall.
Who wouldn’t want that?
But the cost of that drug is so... damn... high.
It requires daily and constant self-delusion:
“That’s not disrespect, it’s just a joke.”
“Sure, he’s wrecking the economy, but kids these days have too much stuff anyway.”
“He broke the law, but sometimes that’s what change takes.”
It requires betraying long-held beliefs.
A man raised in a conservative church where writing in the Bible was frowned upon is now buying a copy with Trump’s signature on it.
A woman taught that God’s love is offered to everyone and faith sees no borders is now cheering when people are deported to prisons and Black employees are fired and mocked as “DEI hires.”
It means turning your back on everything this country is supposed to stand for.
A nation built on freedom now censors books, arrests protestors, dictates women’s healthcare, and punishes entire communities just for existing. A country that values freedom has lost the freedom to disagree.
The seduction of certainty is easier.
It asks nothing of you but loyalty.
You don’t have to ask hard questions.
You don’t have to confront your fear of being left behind in a culture moving faster than your comfort.
You don’t have to face a future that requires listening more, loving harder, and giving deeper.
For many Trump supporters, that seems to be the path they choose—the path of least resistance, most certainty, and no reflection.
So they sit in the backseat with John Doe.
They ride with the Joker.
Not questioning—just confident. Just certain.
They forget that John Doe and the Joker weren’t meant to be heroes.
By the time they realize it, the last scraps of democracy will be gone—along with the things they once claimed to value.
And John Doe will turn to them and say:
“Only in a world this shitty could you even try to say Trump is good for America and keep a straight face.”
I want to believe I’ll feel compassion for their suffering—their fear, their judgment, their lost moral compass.
I want to believe I’ll sit with them on the shredded remnants of the rule of law and weep.
But I’ve chosen to reject the seduction of certainty.
I question.
I doubt.
I reflect.
I remain accountable to my own humanity.
So I can’t promise what I’ll say when the coffin lid slams shut on democracy.
I might weep.
But I might just whisper:
“What do you get when you cross a narcissistic felon with a society that abandoned every principle but self-assurance and treats other people like trash?
You get what you fucking deserve.”
