In the grand pageant of American exceptionalism, where mediocrity wears a red tie and yells about dishwashers, it was perhaps inevitable that we’d hand the nuclear codes to a man whose most impressive résumé item was yelling “You’re fired!” on NBC. Twice now, we’ve watched the electorate (and let’s be honest, the Electoral College’s interpretive dance of democracy) look at a choice between highly competent, qualified women and a man who makes spelling errors in capital letters—and go, “You know what? Let’s give the launch button to the orange guy. He seems like he gets me.”
In 2016, America looked at Hillary Clinton—a woman with decades of public service, a law degree, First Lady experience, a term in the Senate, and a stint as Secretary of State—and said, “She just seems… shrill.” In 2024, we had Kamala Harris: a seasoned prosecutor, U.S. Senator, Vice President, and debatably the only person in the room with both legal acuity and the side-eye strength to bring Mitch McConnell to tears—and we still said, “But what about Trump? Sure, he encouraged a coup and might be a felon, but at least he talks like my uncle who got banned from Applebee’s.”
There’s something particularly American about how we treat powerful women. We ask them to smile, but not too much. Be warm, but not emotional. Be tough, but never angry. Ambitious, but not “thirsty.” And above all, don’t show that you want power, or else you’re “calculating.” We’ll settle for a dude who raw-dogged a Big Mac in a golf cart during a government shutdown over a woman who has the audacity to want the job and be prepared for it.
We’re a country that will defend a man’s “unpolished” charm while demanding a woman perform like she’s simultaneously delivering a TED Talk, hosting a bake sale, and diffusing a hostage situation in heels. If a woman raises her voice, she’s hysterical. If a man screams into a microphone while sweating like a rotisserie chicken, he’s “a fighter.”
Let’s not even get started on race. Black women have to be walking PhDs in diplomacy, decency, fashion, and public safety just to be told they’re “too aggressive.” Women of color are expected to simultaneously represent progress and humility, lead boldly and “know their place,” show up to every fight with receipts, grace, and 70% more credentials than the guy who last ran a juice bar in Tampa and now wants to “restore real American values.”
And the media? Lord, help us. Hillary Clinton’s emails got more coverage than climate change. Kamala Harris was criticized for her laugh, her wardrobe, her cooking, and whether or not she stood close enough to Joe Biden during press briefings. Meanwhile, Trump called foreign nations “shithole countries,” posted classified information online like he was a discount WikiLeaks, and misspelled “hamburgers” as “hamberders”—and somehow people went, “That’s just Trump being Trump.”
The bar is on the floor. And the floor is covered in AstroTurf because we can’t even grow standards anymore.
It’s a marvel, really. We live in a country where a woman can be a Rhodes Scholar, run a billion-dollar initiative, pass ten landmark bills, walk through fire, and still be told she’s “not relatable” because she doesn’t chug Coors Light with one hand while tweeting about how the founding fathers were “lowkey zaddies.” Meanwhile, men can run entire states into the ground, be indicted four times, call soldiers “losers,” and still be seen as strong leaders—because somewhere, a barstool philosopher mistook bigotry for bravery.
Let’s imagine for one brief moment what the headlines would say if Kamala Harris had five children by three partners, was accused of sexual assault by two dozen people, and claimed to know more than generals. Would Fox News even let her speak in full sentences? Would the New York Times still ponder whether her critics were “just asking questions”? Or would she be one step from being blamed for a stock market crash and a plague of locusts?
Women in power must be flawless, unflappable, and forever apologetic. Men in power must simply exist. Actually, scratch that—they just need to show up loud. Even if they don’t know how a bill becomes a law or think the moon is “probably fake.”
This isn’t just sexism. It’s historic, Olympic-level, industrial-strength patriarchy. It’s been fed a diet of Joe Rogan clips and Red Bull, and it drives a lifted truck with a Punisher decal. It’s the same energy that gave us six seasons of Entourage and thinks “locker room talk” is a diplomatic strategy.
We ask ourselves how we got here—as cities burn, rights vanish, and the guy holding the Bible upside down gets re-elected by 38% of the country. But deep down, we know. America fears smart women. It fears women who know the Constitution better than the cops who violated it on January 6. It fears women who can walk into a room, take charge, and not apologize for it. Because we were raised on myths where kings rule and queens are either scheming or dead.
So yeah, of course America picked Trump over Hillary. And again over Kamala. Because Trump doesn’t threaten the order. He reinforces it—with every typo, tantrum, and terrifyingly confident press release written in all caps.
But don’t worry. Someday, we’ll look back and say: “We had the chance to be led by giants in heels and brains—and we chose the guy who sold red hats and turned the presidency into a reality show with nuclear guest stars.”
And that, dear readers, is why we can’t have nice things—or female presidents.