Dwain Northey (Gen X)
We Didn’t Lose
There is a particular kind of ridiculousness that has developed around Donald Trump that I have never quite seen in my 59 years. It is the political equivalent of standing in the middle of a football field after the scoreboard has gone dark, the officials have left, the other team has taken the trophy home, and somebody is still standing there insisting, “We didn’t lose.”
This isn’t even about whether you liked the outcome.
It isn’t about whether you thought the referees made bad calls. It isn’t about whether you believe your team was better. It isn’t about whether you think the other team cheated, the weather was unfair, the field was crooked, or the concession stand gave you a stale hot dog.
The final score was 36–27.
You lost.
And yet, apparently, saying those two words has become a loyalty test in the Republican Party: Donald Trump lost the 2020 election.
You can say Joe Biden was sworn in as the 46th president. You can acknowledge that Biden occupied the White House for four years. You can acknowledge that Trump left Washington and Biden entered it. You can even acknowledge every physical reality surrounding the transfer of power.
But apparently there is something radioactive about actually saying the words:
Donald Trump lost the election.
Instead, we get linguistic gymnastics worthy of an Olympic event.
“Well, Joe Biden was declared the winner.”
“Joe Biden became president.”
“The election was certified.”
“Biden served four years.”
“I’m not going to comment on something that hasn’t been determined.”
Haven’t been determined?
At some point, refusing to acknowledge something doesn’t make it unresolved. It simply makes the person refusing to acknowledge it look ridiculous.
Imagine asking the quarterback of the team that just lost 36–27, “Why do you think you lost the game?”
And the quarterback responds:
“We didn’t lose.”
“Um… the scoreboard says 36–27.”
“Yes, but the other team was awarded the victory.”
“So… you lost.”
“No. We didn’t lose. There were circumstances.”
“But the game is over.”
“I won’t comment on whether we lost.”
“But you’re not the winner.”
“That has not been sufficiently determined.”
At that point, you wouldn’t think the quarterback was making a sophisticated legal argument. You would probably wonder if somebody needed to escort him back to the locker room.
Yet this is essentially the intellectual contortion that has been demanded of people who want to remain in Trump’s orbit.
And that is what makes it so troubling.
A political party is supposed to be able to survive losing an election. In fact, losing elections is part of democracy. Republicans have lost elections. Democrats have lost elections. Presidents have lost reelection campaigns. Senators have lost. Governors have lost. Mayors have lost.
They go home.
They lick their wounds.
They figure out what went wrong.
They come back four years later and try again.
That’s how the system is supposed to work.
The extraordinary thing about Trump isn’t simply that he refused to accept the 2020 result. Politicians have complained about elections forever. The extraordinary thing is how refusing to acknowledge the loss has become a kind of initiation ritual.
If you want a position in the administration, apparently you have to understand the choreography.
You don’t necessarily have to say Joe Biden wasn’t president.
You just can’t quite bring yourself to say Donald Trump lost.
There is a linguistic distinction without a meaningful difference.
And it reminds me of something toddlers eventually figure out.
Give a four-year-old a game and let them lose, and you’ll probably hear:
“I didn’t lose!”
Then comes the list of excuses.
“He cheated.”
“You didn’t explain the rules.”
“I wasn’t ready.”
“My shoe was untied.”
“He got more turns.”
But eventually, even the toddler usually reaches the inevitable conclusion:
I lost.
It isn’t psychologically devastating to acknowledge reality. It is actually part of growing up.
You lose games.
You lose elections.
You don’t get the job.
Somebody else gets the promotion.
Your favorite team gets eliminated.
Your candidate doesn’t win.
And you learn that losing doesn’t erase your worth.
You learn that you can lose today and try again tomorrow.
What seems profoundly unhealthy is the insistence that acknowledging a loss is itself an act of betrayal.
Because once you make acknowledgment of reality a loyalty test, you’re no longer asking people to demonstrate political agreement. You’re asking them to demonstrate obedience.
And those are two very different things.
I don’t expect politicians to be unbiased. I don’t expect them to praise their opponents. I don’t expect them to suddenly become enthusiastic supporters of the other party.
But I do expect adults—particularly people entrusted with enormous governmental power—to be capable of recognizing an observable fact.
The election happened.
Votes were counted.
The states certified their results.
The Electoral College voted.
Joe Biden was inaugurated.
He served four years as president.
Donald Trump did not.
You can write a thousand footnotes explaining why you don’t like any of those facts.
The facts remain.
And that’s the part I find so bizarre.
There is nothing humiliating about losing an election.
There is something deeply humiliating about being so terrified of admitting that you lost that you have to invent an entirely new vocabulary in which losing doesn’t exist.
Because eventually you have to wonder what happens when the same people who cannot admit they lost an election are confronted with something else they don’t like.
Do they acknowledge reality then?
Or do they simply redefine reality until it agrees with them?
That’s not strength.
That’s not leadership.
And it certainly isn’t patriotism.
Democracy requires something much simpler and much harder:
Sometimes your team wins.
Sometimes your team loses.
And when the scoreboard says 36–27, a grown adult should be able to look at it and say:
“We lost. We’ll try again next time.”
Apparently, in Trump’s America, even that has become a loyalty test.
