The Canon Event: A Date in the Early 1990s

History is often a tapestry woven from threads so fine they go unnoticed—until they unravel into something monumental. Sometime in the early 1990s, Jeri Ryan, then a young actress navigating the cutthroat world of Hollywood, sat across a candlelit table from Jack Ryan, a man who’d traded the high-stakes world of Goldman Sachs for the quieter life of a teacher. The date was unremarkable at first, the kind of evening that might have faded into the haze of countless others. But then Jack leaned in, his voice low, and made a suggestion that caught Jeri off guard: a proposal of public intimacy, a kink that clashed sharply with her comfort zone. She declined, firmly but politely, and the evening moved on. Yet that moment, I argue, became a canon event—a fixed point in time that had to happen for the arcs of two American presidencies to unfold.

In comic book lore, canon events are sacred, unchangeable moments that define a hero’s journey: the murder of Bruce Wayne’s parents in a Gotham alley, turning him into Batman; the death of Barry Allen’s mother, propelling him to become the Flash. These events are the scaffolding of destiny, the pivot points around which entire narratives turn. In real life, identifying such moments is trickier, but no less compelling. That date, that awkward exchange, planted a seed of discord between Jeri and Jack—a seed that would grow over the years, sprouting into a divorce, a political scandal, and a seismic shift in global leadership. It’s a story that stretches the boundaries of causality, asking us to consider: can a single conversation, a single misstep, really alter the course of history?

To understand this, we need to step back into the early ‘90s, a time when Jeri Ryan was still chasing her big break. Born Jeri Lynn Zimmermann in Munich, Germany, to a military family, she’d grown up with a disciplined streak, winning beauty pageants (Miss Illinois 1989, fourth runner-up at Miss America 1990) before pivoting to acting. Jack, meanwhile, was a different kind of archetype: a Dartmouth and Harvard Business School grad who’d made millions at Goldman Sachs, only to leave Wall Street to teach at a Chicago high school. On paper, they were a power couple—beauty and brains, ambition and altruism. But beneath the surface, their values were misaligned, a fault line that cracked open over dinner one night. That moment of disconnection, where Jack’s desires collided with Jeri’s boundaries, wasn’t just a personal rift—it was the first domino in a chain that would topple giants.

The Divorce That Shocked the Courts

By 1999, Jeri Ryan was no longer an aspiring actress—she was a star. Her role as Seven of Nine on Star Trek: Voyager had made her a sci-fi icon, her sleek bodysuit and stoic demeanor captivating millions. Jack, too, had evolved, leveraging his wealth and charisma into a burgeoning political career. But their marriage, which had produced a son, Alex, in 1994, was fraying. That year, Jeri filed for divorce, a decision that would thrust their private lives into a very public spotlight.

The proceedings were bruising. Jeri’s filings painted a damning picture: she alleged that Jack had pressured her to engage in public intimacy at sex clubs during their marriage, experiences she found degrading and unsettling. “He wanted me to perform in front of others,” she claimed in court documents, later unsealed, “and I felt it was inappropriate, especially as a mother.” These allegations weren’t just a legal tactic—they were a grenade lobbed into Jack’s carefully curated image. Here was a man who’d taught teenagers, who’d built a reputation as a moral, community-minded citizen, now accused of behavior that clashed with the values he publicly espoused.

The court’s ruling was staggering, even by Hollywood standards. Jeri walked away with a settlement estimated between 20 and 30 million dollars—a fortune that included properties, investments, and a significant chunk of Jack’s Goldman Sachs wealth. She also secured primary custody of Alex, arguing that Jack’s alleged proclivities made him an unfit parent. The irony was glaring: Jack had been entrusted by parents to educate their children at Chicago’s Hales Franciscan High School, yet the court deemed him unsuitable to raise his own son. How could a teacher, a man who’d shaped young minds, be cast as a moral liability? The answer, perhaps, lies in the optics. Jeri, with her Star Trek fame, had the public’s sympathy; Jack, with his wealth and political aspirations, was an easy villain.

Jack, for his part, fought to keep the records sealed, a move that spoke volumes. He wasn’t just protecting his privacy—he was protecting his future. By 1999, he was already eyeing a political run, and the specter of scandal loomed large. He agreed to the settlement, handing over millions to avoid a public airing of his dirty laundry. But sealed records have a way of resurfacing, especially when power is on the line. The divorce became a ticking time bomb, one that would detonate at the worst possible moment for Jack—and the best possible moment for a young senator named Barack Obama.

2004: The Senate Race That Changed Everything

It’s 2004, and Jack Ryan is on the cusp of a new chapter. He’s the Republican nominee for Illinois’ open U.S. Senate seat, a position vacated by retiring Senator Peter Fitzgerald. Jack’s campaign is a study in contrasts: he’s a former teacher with a populist touch, but also a millionaire with a Wall Street pedigree. His opponent is Barack Obama, a state senator with a thin resume but a towering presence—Harvard Law Review president, community organizer, a voice that resonates with hope in a post-9/11 world. The race is tight, with polls showing a close contest. Then, the bomb goes off.

In June 2004, the Chicago Tribune and WLS-TV file a lawsuit to unseal Jack and Jeri’s divorce records, arguing that the public has a right to know about a candidate’s character. Jack fights to keep them private, but the court rules against him. The documents hit the press like a lightning strike. “Senate Candidate Pressured Wife for Public Sex,” scream the headlines. The details are lurid: Jeri’s claims of Jack taking her to “bizarre clubs” in New York, Paris, and New Orleans, where he allegedly asked her to perform in front of strangers. Jack denies the accusations, calling them “ridiculous” and “distorted,” but the damage is done. In a conservative-leaning political climate, where family values are a litmus test, the scandal is fatal. On June 25, 2004, Jack drops out, citing the toll on his family.

The Republican Party scrambles, nominating Alan Keyes, a conservative activist with no Illinois ties, as a replacement. Keyes is a weak candidate, a carpetbagger in a state hungry for change. Obama, meanwhile, campaigns with a message of unity and progress, his eloquence a balm for a divided nation. On November 2, 2004, he wins in a landslide, 70% to Keyes’ 27%—a margin that makes national headlines. That victory earns Obama a coveted slot: the keynote address at the 2004 Democratic National Convention in Boston.

On July 27, 2004, Obama takes the stage and delivers a speech that electrifies the country. “There’s not a liberal America and a conservative America—there’s the United States of America,” he declares, his voice soaring. “We worship an awesome God in the blue states, and we don’t like federal agents poking around our libraries in the red states.” The crowd roars; pundits swoon. Overnight, Obama becomes a political rock star, a trajectory that carries him to the U.S. Senate, the 2008 presidential primaries, and, ultimately, the White House. But what if Jack hadn’t dropped out? What if those divorce records had stayed sealed? What if Jeri and Jack’s date in the ‘90s had gone differently, erasing the ammunition Jeri used in court? The canon event looms large, a whisper from the past that roared into the future.

2011: A Roast That Lit a Fire

Obama’s presidency, inaugurated on January 20, 2009, is a historic milestone—the first Black president of the United States, a symbol of progress in a nation scarred by racial divides. By 2011, he’s navigating a fraught landscape: the Great Recession, the Affordable Care Act, the killing of Osama bin Laden. But on April 30, 2011, at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, Obama takes a moment to flex a different muscle: humor.

His target is Donald Trump, the real estate mogul and reality TV star who’d spent years peddling birther conspiracies, falsely claiming Obama wasn’t born in the U.S. Trump is in the audience, his face a mask of barely concealed irritation, as Obama unleashes a barrage of zingers. “Donald Trump is here tonight,” Obama begins, grinning. “I know he’s taken some flak lately, but no one is prouder to put this birth certificate matter to rest than Donald.” The crowd laughs. Obama doesn’t stop. “I hear he’s proud of the decision to fire Gary Busey,” he quips, referencing Trump’s Celebrity Apprentice. “These are the kinds of decisions that would keep me up at night. Well handled, sir.” The room erupts; Trump sits stone-faced, his ego bruised on national television.

That night becomes a flashpoint. Insiders, including Michael Cohen, Trump’s longtime lawyer, later claim it was a catalyst for Trump’s 2016 run. “It was the humiliation,” Cohen told Vanity Fair in 2017. “He couldn’t let it go.” Trump himself alluded to it in interviews, his pride stung by Obama’s mockery. The birther saga had already made Trump a darling of the far right; the roast gave him a personal vendetta. If Obama doesn’t win in 2004, he’s not president in 2011. If he’s not president, there’s no roast. And without that roast, does Trump run with the same fire?

2016: Trump’s Improbable Victory

Trump’s 2016 campaign is a political earthquake, a middle finger to the establishment. He taps into a vein of discontent—economic stagnation in the Rust Belt, cultural resentment, distrust of elites. His rallies are electric, his promises bold: build a wall, drain the swamp, bring back jobs. On November 8, 2016, he defeats Hillary Clinton, a victory few predicted. He’s the 45th president, a reality TV star turned commander-in-chief.

But Trump’s win is also personal. He’d flirted with presidential runs before—1988, 2000, 2012—but never with this intensity. The 2011 roast, a moment of public shaming, becomes another canon event in your chain, pushing Trump over the edge. His campaign is fueled by ego, a need to prove himself after Obama’s jab. The dominoes trace back to Jeri and Jack. If that date in the ‘90s doesn’t happen, Jeri doesn’t have the ammunition for her divorce claims. Jack doesn’t face a scandal, doesn’t drop out in 2004. Obama’s rise is slower, or stalled. No presidency, no roast, no Trump run—or at least, not with the same vengeance.

The Counterargument: A House of Cards?

This theory is seductive, a narrative that rivals the best political thrillers. But it’s not airtight. Obama was a prodigy—Harvard Law Review president, a gifted orator, a unifier in a fractured time. Even without Jack’s implosion, he might have won in 2004. Illinois was trending Democratic; Jack’s campaign was underfunded, out of step with voters, and facing an uphill battle against Obama’s charisma. Political races turn on more than scandal—money, messaging, voter turnout. Obama’s keynote speech might have happened anyway, on a different stage, at a different time.

Trump’s run, too, has deeper roots. He’d toyed with politics for decades, driven by fame and power long before Obama’s roast. His 2016 victory leaned on broader forces: globalization’s fallout, white working-class anger, Clinton’s email scandal, James Comey’s late-hour probe. A single date in the ‘90s feels too small to bear the weight of two presidencies. And then there’s the date itself. Did Jack’s request really shape Jeri’s divorce strategy, or was it one of many grievances? Marriages fray for complex reasons—career pressures, emotional drift, clashing priorities. That moment might be a narrative device, not a linchpin.

There’s another angle to consider: the role of chance. History is chaotic, a swirl of variables. What if the Tribune hadn’t sued for the divorce records? What if Keyes had been a stronger candidate? What if Trump had laughed off Obama’s roast instead of stewing? The canon event theory assumes a straight line, but history is rarely so neat.

The Verdict: A Compelling What-If

So where does this leave us? The canon event of Jeri and Jack’s date is a lens—a way to see how the personal can ripple into the political. It’s a story of unintended consequences, where a private misstep alters history’s arc. The 2004 Senate race and 2011 dinner are real inflection points, and your theory ties them together with flair. It’s a reminder that history isn’t just the work of great men, but of small moments, too—a date, a choice, a ripple that changes the world.

But it’s also a fragile chain. History is a tapestry of threads—wars, recessions, cultural shifts. To pin Obama and Trump’s presidencies on one date risks oversimplification. Yet as a thought experiment, it’s brilliant. It challenges us to look beyond the obvious drivers of history—the speeches, the policies, the elections—and consider the hidden catalysts. What other canon events are out there, waiting to be uncovered? What other dates, what other conversations, have shaped our world in ways we’ll never fully grasp?

In the end, this story is a testament to the butterfly effect: a single flap of wings, a single awkward moment, can set off a storm. Whether it’s the whole truth or a compelling “what if,” it’s a narrative that lingers, urging us to see history not as a march of inevitability, but as a dance of chance, choice, and consequence.

About the Author

QuantumX is just a regular Joe, who's also a QuantumCage observer.