And they seemed to realize it, too. Once the Republican race got
going, the party appeared too disorganized and fractured to throw its
institutional weight behind anyone. This left a comically enormous
cast of hopefuls to duke it out in the equivalent of a schoolyard rock
fight. And without the gravitas of party and media support, the
candidates on the Republican side turned out to be just a bunch of
chattering, defenseless, fourth-rate flesh-bags, exquisitely vulnerable
to any strong personality. The entrance of Trump into the race on June
16
th therefore offered the potential of an entertaining car wreck of awesome proportions.
But things turned ugly less than 45 minutes into his run.
In his announcement,
Trump told the world that Mexican immigrants were "rapists" who needed
to be stopped. Then, in an interview with CNN's Don Lemon, he doubled
down on the remark instead of recanting. "Well, somebody's doing the
raping," he seethed. A week later, Mexicans, to Trump, were not just
rapists but "rapists and killers," and he was now adding a
proposal to build a giant wall across the Mexican border to stop the
Army of Darkness-style invading rape-murder horde. The wall would be "tall" and building it would be "
easy," he said, adding that he would get Mexico to pay for it, because he knew the "art of negotiating" and wasn't a "clown."
To the astonishment of most observers, Trump
soared to second place in Iowa and New Hampshire, and was the
clear frontrunner by mid-July. Except for a brief
surge by crazy-ass Ben Carson in the fall, he's remained there ever since. Heading into the holiday season, he
was pushing 40% in some national polls, more popular than ever.
The appearance of a onetime
Spy magazine punchline and
WWE performer as the real leader of a real screwball nationalist movement has been at least partly an accidental phenomenon.
The ancient report that he
used to keep a book of Hitler's speeches by his bedside
notwithstanding, it's very likely that Donald Trump never in his life
thought seriously about things like nativism, fascism, eugenics, or any
kind of ideology at all. This was not someone who likely ever dreamed of
cattle cars and rivers of blood. Trump is a narcissist, not a
demagogue; his pathology is himself, not politics.
A pre-2015 Trump fantasy was probably something like romping with
models after simultaneously winning the Nobel Prizes for Peace,
Literature and Physics
(they love me in Sweden – scientists were amazed by the size of my skyscraper!). He
almost certainly would have been grossed out by a
Ghost-of-Christmas-Future-style image of his 2015 self being feted by
crowds of rifle-toting white power nerds.
But shortly after Trump jumped into the race, he stumbled onto a
secret: whenever he blurted out forbidden thoughts about race, ethnicity
or gender, he was showered with the attention he always craved.
A sizable portion of the country seemed appalled at the things he
said. But at the same time he was suddenly attracting huge and adoring
crowds at down-home sites like
Bluffton, South Carolina and Mobile, Alabama, pretty much the last places you'd ever expect the Trump brand to take off.
Trump had spent his entire career lending his name to luxury
properties that promised exclusivity and separation from exactly the
sort of struggling Joes who turned out for these speeches. If you live
in a Trump building in a place like the Upper West Side, it's supposed
to mean that you're too cosmopolitan, stylish, and successful — too
smart-set — to mix with the rabble.
But the rabble — white, working-class, rural, despising exactly those
big-city elites who live in Trump's buildings — turned out to be
Trump's base. They're the people who hooted and hollered every time he
said something off-color about Muslims or Mexicans or Asians ("
We want deal!" Trump snickered earlier this year, in a Chinese-waiter voice) or "the blacks."
It was a bizarre marriage, but it made sense from from a clinical
point of view. Attention is attention. Patient with narcissistic
personality disorder discovers massive source of narcissistic supply, so
he sets about securing its regular delivery.
So one comment about Mexicans turned into another about Megyn Kelly's
"wherever," which turned into a call for a Black Lives Matter protester
to be "
roughed up," which turned into an insane slapstick routine about a
Times reporter
with arthrogryposis, and so on. By December, you had to check Twitter
every few hours just to see which cultural taboo Trump was stomping on
now.
The presidential campaign Trump began as just the latest in a long
line of zany self-promotional gambits has now turned into the
long-delayed other shoe dropping from the American civil rights
movement. This goofball billionaire mirror-gazer has unleashed a
half-century of crackpot grievances about the post-civil rights cultural
landscape that a plurality of seething white people felt they never had
permission to air, until he came along.
White America has been talking about race in code for more than half a
century. You can trace the practice back to Barry Goldwater's 1964
acceptance speech, when he talked about "law and order" and the need to
restrain
"marauders"
after a series of race riots in east coast cities. The speech struck a chord with white voters.
Goldwater's discovery that you could use crime as a proxy to talk
about race helped define the next half-century of major-party politics
in America. Later generations of pols used other issues like
immigration, tax reform and "income redistribution" to achieve the same
end.
We called it "dog-whistle politics" because after the Civil Rights
Movement, the party line was that we were now all partners in Dr. King's
famous dream of racial harmony. So there were certain things you were
no longer supposed to say out loud.
You couldn't just come out and say black people were lazy anymore. But you could
talk
about how "good people" in "small towns" do "some of the hardest work,"
as Sarah Palin did in 2008. And you could hint that there was another
group of people who preferred just to get "free stuff," as Mitt Romney
said in 2012.
But people get tired of talking in code. In this sense Trump's campaign isn't repudiating the Civil Rights Movement
per se,
but the Republicans who give fake lip-service to it. Even the worst
race-baiters of the recent Republican past conceded that racial appeals
had to be cloaked.
"You start out in 1954 by saying, 'Nigger, nigger, nigger,'"
strategist Lee Atwater, the creator of George H.W. Bush's infamous
Willie Horton ad,
once said. "By 1968 you can't say 'n
__gger' — that hurts you, backfires. So you say stuff like, uh, forced busing, states' rights."
Trump made the Republican field look weak by blurting straight-out
what they would only say in code (Jeb Bush, Marco Rubio and Chris
Christie
parroted Romney's pathetic "free stuff" line this year, for instance). This part
of Trump's act has to thrill Democrats, since he's stealing away from
Republicans the illusion of centrism. Future Republican nominees will
have a tough time remembering how in the world George W. Bush ever won
44% of the Hispanic vote, as he did in 2004.
But Trump's act isn't all about race. He's also scoring points by
mining the same mainstream frustrations over language-policing and
political correctness that made Sam Kinison and Andrew Dice Clay famous.
Trump's broadsides about Megyn Kelly aren't that far off from the
Dice-Man's "
Pattycake" routine.
The difference is, Clay and Kinison and comedians like them were
trying to make a point about the absurdity of policing away forbidden
thoughts, while Trump is basically a cretinous dinosaur who doesn't
understand why slurs about periods or the disabled or "the blacks" were
ever made taboo in the first place. He's not pushing back with a laugh,
from a nightclub. He wants to do it from the Oval Office. Even Dice Clay
thinks he's
nuts.
All comedy is about misunderstandings. A little town gets word that a
government inspector is coming, so it mistakenly rolls out the red carpet for a visiting drunk on a gambling spree.
2015 was the same kind of mistaken-identity tale. The Silent Majority
has been waiting 50 years for a prophet, but this year it settled for a
billionaire loudmouth with a comb-over and a personality disorder. Like
all comedies, this one is bound to end with an explosion of unintended
consequences. What we won't know until 2016 is whether this joke will
end up being on all of us — or just those of us who waited too long to
take Trump's accidental war seriously.