This was my Dad, seven decades ago:

He shattered his leg jumping out of a plane just like that one during the Second World War. He studied chemistry. He built rockets, and helped U.S. intelligence figure out how the Soviets were building theirs. He shepherded me to adulthood. He faced racism, both subtle and gross, his entire life. He lived just long enough to see, and to vote twice for, America’s first black president, and he’d have been thrilled to see Hillary accept tonight’s Democratic nomination.

Here’s what Trump said about my Dad and millions of other black men:

Black guys counting my money! I hate it. The only kind of people I want counting my money are short guys that wear yarmulkes every day.

Laziness is a trait in blacks.

Don’t tell me he didn’t mean it. He did. Don’t tell me he’s taken it back. He hasn’t. My Dad never made a huge amount of money–working as a scientist is seldom a path to riches–but he was worth a million Trumps, and a harder worker than an infinite number of Trumps, yet Trump wouldn’t have let him balance his books or live in one of his apartments because of his skin color.

That’s why I feel a particular, personal loathing for Donald Trump. I want him to lose. I want him beaten so bad that bigots will be afraid of running for office for the next 200 years.

That’s all.