By an anonymous White House staffer, 2025
They say if you’re “in the room,” you’re complicit. I’m “in the room” more times than I care to admit.
The Roosevelt Room smells like bad cologne and stale coffee. There’s always someone posturing. Always someone waiting to see which way the boss is leaning before they speak. And the boss—he doesn’t lean. He wobbles like a compass on a magnet.
I took the job in 2024 after the election, while we were still the staff of the President-elect. I told myself it was just to observe. To make sure someone sane was keeping notes. Somebody had to remember. God help me, I never imagined it would get this bad.
One particular incident happened in the Roosevelt Room in late February. Stephen Miller was whispering to a new donor—a logistics guy from Florida—about “reorganizing” FEMA contracts. The word “reorganize” floats around a lot. Sometimes it means firing people. Sometimes it means steering money into someone’s cousin’s company in Tallahassee.
A week later, in a closed-door with DHS, the President pitches something… different.
“What if we bus them all to Canada?”
Someone laughs.
“No, I mean it. Let Trudeau deal with ‘em. He’s always so nice, right?”
Homan nods, then mutters, “Wouldn’t work logistically.”
Trump shrugs. “Then let’s just tell Fox we tried. They’ll love it.”
Every day blurs like that. A mix of absurdity and menace. He says things that make your stomach clench, then laughs, and no one knows if it’s real. Half the time, neither does he.
Once, during a briefing on Iran, the President flips the folder shut halfway through.
“What’s the point? We’ve got bigger problems. We’re losing the culture war.”
He isn’t joking.
The man sees everything through two lenses: ratings and revenge.
We’re not building policy. We’re building segments for primetime.
What scares me most isn’t him. It’s how many people get comfortable. They stop resisting. They rationalize.
“This is fine. This is manageable. We can fix it later.”
I hear that a lot.
The truth is—later never comes.
I keep a log. Names, dates, quotes. I use burner email accounts to send encrypted notes to myself. I don’t know what I’ll do with it. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe I’ll drop it all in a mailbox in Maryland one night and vanish.
But I want someone to know.
Just in case.
Because when they finally ask,
“How did it get this far?”
I want the answer to be:
“Some of us saw. And some of us didn’t forget.”
A work of speculative fiction. MpG
