People—especially public figures—have a way of sticking labels on one another, and sometimes a single word seems to travel faster than any argument. Lately, one such word has clung to Donald Trump: “bully.” You’ve heard it from actors, late-night hosts, politicians, even former first ladies. They don’t always use the same language or talk about the same incidents, but the throughline is similar enough to be noticeable: a pattern of behavior that some interpret as using power to intimidate or push people around. It’s simple, blunt, and yes, damning. But what does that label mean in practice? And how does the person called a bully respond when that name gets tossed around?
I’ll try to untangle that without pretending there’s a single neat answer. There isn’t. People bring their own angles to this story—personal history, politics, a movie cameo that spiraled into a cultural punchline. Still, a few moments stand out, partially because they’re public and easy to point at. Partly because they line up with how people say they felt: pushed, sidelined, or pressured.
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Notable voices who used the word
Take Richard Gere. At a public awards event, he didn’t dance around it; he called Trump a “bully and a thug” while talking about the broader state of American politics. That’s direct, and it’s framed as a moral judgment about the country’s leadership. It’s the kind of statement that’s both personal and public—he’s not merely criticizing policy; he’s describing character.
Then there’s Jill Biden. Before the 2024 election, while speaking to the LGBTQ community, she again used the word. It wasn’t an offhand jab; it was invoked in the context of a pattern—history, hostility, and consequences for a community that’s faced specific pressures. The label in that instance carries not just an emotional charge but a history.
Other figures have done the same. Senator Kirsten Gillibrand, years earlier, described interactions with Trump as bullying after she publicly raised concerns about how he’d spoken about sexual assault allegations. Her comments were personal—she felt targeted—and also political, calling out a behavior she’d seen repeated in different settings.
Then there are the entertainers who’ve used the term with a lighter sting but no less conviction. Jimmy Kimmel, for example, explained on air that he spends so much time talking about Trump because, as he put it, “he’s a bully.” Kimmel added a tiny, self-deprecating detail—about playing the clarinet in high school—just to humanize his reaction. It’s a small rhetorical move, but it softens the charge and makes the speaker feel more like a person than a podium.
I find that detail oddly relatable. It’s the kind of thing people add when they want to be taken seriously but also just want to be understood. It doesn’t change the accusation; it just makes the moment more human.
The infamous movie cameo: a small scene, a big debate
One specific episode often dragged into the discussion is Trump’s cameo in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. It’s a weird cultural artifact—part celebrity vanity, part business negotiation—and it’s been used as evidence by both sides.
Director Chris Columbus has said he believes Trump leaned on his hotel ownership to secure that cameo, implying pressure or leverage: “use the Plaza, and he’ll be in the movie.” For Columbus, the cameo was a misstep—something they screened and immediately regretted because the audience reaction was so visceral. He describes it now as a kind of cultural curse, something that haunts the film rather than helping it.
Trump, predictably, denies the idea that he bullied anyone into letting him appear. He’s called the claims false and framed his involvement as mutually beneficial: the cameo “helped make the movie a success,” he said, and questioned why, if people didn’t want him, they would have kept him there for decades. He also claimed the filmmakers asked him to be in it. Classic pushback: reject the power-play narrative, and instead position the outcome as ordinary or collaborative.
This disagreement exposes how people read the same event differently. One side sees leverage, the other sees a mutually convenient deal. Which is accurate? Maybe both. Maybe neither. People who worked on the film say they were desperate for the Plaza Hotel; people who defend Trump point to his long-standing presence in New York and the fact that celebrity cameos were common. It’s messy.
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Why the label keeps getting used
I think the “bully” tag persists for a few reasons:
- It’s simple and evocative. One word captures power, force, and an emotional tone quicker than a paragraph of explanation.
- Bullying, as a concept, is easy to recognize across different situations—public insults, business pressure, legal moves, TV attacks. That makes it handy for critics who want a shorthand.
- It resonates emotionally. People who’ve felt personally targeted by behavior like name-calling or threats are more likely to use it; it’s a real descriptor for their experience.
But the label also has limits. Calling someone a bully flattens complexity. It doesn’t explain motives, context, or how power was actually used in specific instances. And labels can be weaponized—turned into a political slingshot rather than a careful assessment.
I’m not trying to sidestep the moral point. For many, the evidence is persuasive. For others, the cases cited look circumstantial or partisan. Neither camp has a monopoly on truth. I’ll admit I find the pattern convincing enough to take the charge seriously—but I also recognize that single incidents are hard to prove conclusively in the court of public opinion.
At the end of the day, the word “bully” has become shorthand for a broader judgment. Whether that shorthand is fair depends on what you weigh: personal testimony, public behavior, or the messy motives behind a film cameo. All of those matter. They always do.
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