It seemed the President needed to feel a bit more at ease.
He was in the east room of the White House. The White House was packed with volatile children, conservative activists, influencers and six Republican governors from Florida, Texas, Virginia, Indiana, Ohio and Iowa. Everyone came to see him sign an executive order that would gush the education department. The other presidents hadn't done that, but this was not even the first time he took office.
Now he was back, having an order, sitting on a small desk in front of that magnificent room, waiting for his signature.
Around his desk there were many other small desks of the kind that he sat in the grade. Children of various ages in school uniforms sat under desks with their legs shaking. They looked up in anticipation as Trump approached.
He turned to one little boy and said, “Should I do this?” The boy nodded enthusiastically. The president went round and saw the young girl. “Should I do it?” he asked. She nodded already.
Encouraged, he sat down, pulled out his power pen and scribbled. The governor, the child and his parents plunged into applause.
In a way, signing Thursday's executive order was a brand for Trump. Whether he is releasing files related to the assassination of John F. Kennedy, appointing his own head to the Kennedy Center board or carving out the education division, the president is proud to say no one else will dare.
But, as he had to admit otherwise, this signing session was a strange session. He lacked the fiery beliefs he normally brings to such problems.
He said, “It sounds strange, isn't it? Education Department. We're going to eliminate that.”
In fact, only Congress can abolish cabinet bodies, but Trump's order essentially called on the education sector to plan to shut it down.
He insisted that “everyone knows it's right,” and reminded the room that when the department was set up, President Jimmy Carter in the same room where Trump is now destroying it, many Americans opposed “famous Democratic Senator” Daniel Patrick Moynihan and even the editorial board of the newspaper.
Trump realized he had taken his education secretary, Linda McMahon, out of work. “We're going to find something else for you to do, right?” he told her.
He often describes the people who make up the federal workforce as part of the shadowy cobalt, who is too happy to shatter. In this case, that's not the case. “They're good people,” he said of the 4,200-person workforce in the education department. Many of them were effectively firing.
“I want to make just one little personal statement,” Trump said at one point. He said teachers are one of the most important people in the country and that everyone should “care” them. At another point, he promised that the money for the Federal Pell grant would not go away. “It should be a very good program,” he said.
What's interesting about Trump's seeming ambiguity about this he was trying to do was that everyone around him was so overwhelmingly ecifying it. Those who didn't seem too excited about what was going on were those who made it happen.
“They're a 38-year-old father and activist from Burke, Virginia, outside Washington,” said Terry Schilling, a 38-year-old father and activist from Burke, Virginia. He was with his redheaded wife and six of his seven children. “It's a beautiful day,” he said. He bouncing off a boy named Tucker on his shoulder.
In the room were activists like Chaya Raichik, creator of the influential Libs of the Tiktok account, and Tiffany Justice, co-founder of Tiffany Justice, Tiffany Justice, and Moms for Liberty. This was exactly how they wanted Trump repairs to go.
“You've made this promise by many Republican presidents,” observed Penny Nance, a female president involved in America. Trump didn't have the extreme to tear the education sector when he was last president.
What has changed?
“It took him four years to think about it and plan it,” Nance said. “Frankly, we all did that.”
