People often get the wrong idea about New Jersey.

The image they conjure when the state’s name is mentioned is that of the New Jersey Turnpike between the George Washington Bridge and the Outerbridge Crossing, which offers stunning views of oil refineries, ports, warehouses, and the opposite of scenic beauty. The more sophisticated may picture Asbury Park—or the high jinks of Jersey Shore.

They rarely think about why it’s called the Garden State. Yet New Jersey ranks fourth in floriculture sales and seventh in horticulture, generating over $1.5 billion in sales last year. Nationally, the state ranks:

• 5th in blueberries
• 4th in cranberries
• 3rd in eggplant
• Top ten in tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, and sweet corn

But only those of us who’ve been given the secret handshake know that New Jersey is home to one of the largest Cherry Blossom Festivals in the United States. Newark’s Branch Brook Park has over 5,300 cherry trees across 18 varieties, far surpassing D.C.’s Tidal Basin, which has a mere 3,800 trees. It’s beyond gorgeous. The sheer number of trees and their pink and white blossoms are splendiferous—a full-throated, clarion call that spring has arrived.

I saw on the news the other day that this year’s festival will be held April 5–13. But instead of making me plan a trip to the park with Rosie so she could smell the flowers and roll in their petals, it made me think of the story we all learned in childhood.

I first heard it in Mrs. Ruprecht’s first-grade class, when she read us the tale of George Washington chopping down the cherry tree. According to the story, young George had been gifted a hatchet. Wanting to test its mettle, he chopped down his father’s prized cherry tree. When confronted, George famously said, “I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the tree.”

Ironically, the story is a lie. It never happened. It was created by Mason Locke Weems, Washington’s first biographer and a preacher, to present our nation’s first president as a moral role model—especially for children. But it served its purpose. It implanted the idea, over a dozen generations, that our leaders should be truthful, forthright, and decent. That those who sit in the office once held by Washington, Adams, and Lincoln must possess a high moral code and be among our most decent citizens.

Remembering this made me wonder: What moral code is Donald J. Trump teaching Gen Z and Gen Alpha?

Is it that, unlike George Washington, it’s perfectly okay to lie? After all, Trump told over 35,000 falsehoods during his first term (for those keeping score, that’s about 21 a day). His record-setting prevarication continues into his second term, with Executive Order 14149, which prohibits the use of taxpayer dollars for fact-checking, the elimination of Inspectors General who investigate fraud, waste, and abuse, and dozens of lies told during his State of the Union speech.

I’m pretty sure most of us had a teddy bear growing up. He was probably your best friend and confidant during those rough pre-K years. The bear was named after the 26th president, Theodore Roosevelt. Apparently, he had been hunting—unsuccessfully—when his guides cornered and tied up a black bear for him to shoot. He refused. It went against his sense of fairness and sportsmanship. That small act of kindness sparked a toy that would comfort millions of children for generations.

What will Donald Trump’s legacy be? His lack of empathy toward the hundreds of thousands of refugees who came to this country seeking asylum—only to be sent back to face abuse, prison, or death—paints a dark picture. Perhaps Mattel will introduce a line of Incarcerated Ethnic Ken and Barbie dolls, complete with orange coveralls and manacles, prodded by a G.I. Joe ICE Edition. Think of the comfort that will bring children—while being supervised by their Haitian nannies. Oh, wait. Well, you know what I mean.

In school, we were taught that Harry Truman had a sign on his desk that read: “The buck stops here.” The sign, made in a prison workshop and sent to him by the warden, delighted the president. He felt it perfectly summarized the office. Regardless of who made the decisions in his administration, he was ultimately responsible—whether it was taking credit for the formation of NATO and the Marshall Plan, or owning the more questionable decisions that fueled early “Red Scares” or led to the dropping of nuclear bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

As Truman said in his farewell address:
“The President—whoever he is—has to decide. He can’t pass the buck to anybody. No one else can do the deciding for him. That’s his job.”

The lesson we took from Harry was this: Be humble about the good decisions, and own the outcomes of the bad ones.

Sadly, the current occupant of the White House is teaching children the opposite. The sign on his desk might as well read:
“Every decision correct—unless they were screwed up by the people I hired, in which case they are to blame.”
Of course, that would be too big a sign.

Perhaps he could replace it with two large buttons:

• One for the “good” decisions, which randomly say things like:
  “I am a very stable genius!”
  “Nobody has been more successful than me!”
  “Only I could have fixed this.”
• And another for the failures, programmed to offer excuses like:
  “That is fake news.”
  “The deep state is out to get me.”
  “Joe Biden and Barack Obama created this mess.”

The stories we learned in school about our presidents were meant not just to inform, but to inspire.

George Washington taught us about honesty.
Theodore Roosevelt taught us about kindness and fair play.
Harry Truman taught us about responsibility.

So it begs the question:
What is Donald Trump teaching future generations—and what kind of stain will that leave on our national character?