b2o: boundary 2 online

  • Paul Bové–The Way-Out-There Right: The Claremont Institute

    Paul Bové–The Way-Out-There Right: The Claremont Institute

    This essay is published as part of the b2o Review’s “Stop the Right” dossier.

    The Way-Out-There Right: The Claremont Institute

    Paul Bové

    How the American Right has gone about ordering a new political hegemony in the US is an important if no longer an interesting question. Counter-revolutionary movements follow a recognizable path with few essential differences despite the newer tools available to later movements: from pamphlets and sermons, newspapers, mobs, crowds, radio, and other acoustic devices, up to now digital technology. Right-wing movements study history to find tactics that ease their way to power. Not surprisingly, they also study the mechanisms of left-wing revolutions finding, for example, in Lenin both a historically proximate example and a written record of strategies and tactics for clearing the terrain of competitors for power by defeating those that resist. The intellectuals of the contemporary American Right study Antonio Gramsci, whose careful analyses of fascism’s socio-economic foundations show the Right how to prepare the ground, the socio-economic culture of a nation, to make it available for seizure and control. Along with Lenin, Gramsci’s thinking shows on which points in the society that it intends to overthrow the counter-revolution should focus its attacks.

    In earlier Rightist intellectuals’ work, the new American Right finds accommodating mediations to understand its own situation, locate a needed familiar, that is, the political-historical justification of its desires, and perhaps most important learn how to fracture the society it wants to seize. While Leo Strauss is a significant resource with broad influence on the Right, Carl Schmitt’s thinking matters more in practical terms for the Right and more reveals its aims for the rest of us. Especially since George W. Bush launched a war on terror to protect the newly conjured “homeland,” American academic humanists especially, following European writers such as Giorgio Agamben emphasized Schmitt’s persistent discussion of the state of exception for its explanatory power and supposed political affect against (liberal) state action as a sovereign force outside constitution and Law. The Claremont Institute, however, finds more value in Schmitt’s creation of the “partisan” as a necessary figure to strike against the state and then to hold it. Schmitt in Claremont’s doings projects a handbook of tactics, intent, and theory for the violent breaking of a society to seize power as the sole alternative to what its visionary fever propagandizes as chaos and anarchy.[1]

    The Claremont Institute is home to much of the Right’s intellectual provisioning, including mythologies of national fall from innocence, the necessity of recovery, and the requirement that inherited carnage requires curative treatment by a post-democratic, extra-constitutional Caesar, established with impunity and plenary power.[2] I assemble Claremont’s poses and facades to see it and call it by its proper name to place before us the Right’s most basic motives, intents, and desires. If you will, this little essay is an exercise in summoning out and displaying an active but deeply shadowed will.[3]

    The political Right in the US has an expansive, fluid, well-funded, and varied system of both digital and analog institutions that generate propaganda, intrude in news cycles, and develop theories of state power and tactics for its control. A few examples give some sense of this structure’s variety and influence: Stormfront publishes and endorses what to many seems to be hate speech; the Heritage Foundation intends to overturn the Madisonian system of power balancing to concentrate unchecked power in the Executive; and the Claremont Institute supports and advances intellectual and tactical politics that justify and enable a post-democratic American state led by a historically necessary Caesar.

    Claremont has a lower public profile than other nodes in the Right’s ecosystem, and its façade hides its beliefs, procedures, and goals. Claremont effectively transforms the Right’s desires into high ideas and provides national narratives through which a massed political cohort sees US history and its present moment. Also, Claremont trains its agents—interns, fellows, and willing allies—in the intellectual discourse organic to the political Right’s desires, self-understanding, and political aims. It produces a thorough and saturating double-speak of an aspirant nationalism that would destroy the American constitutional republic to redeem what it dishonestly calls the lost origin of the American Nation. Claremont is something like a seminary for training priests or a Lukáscian vanguard, releasing mostly young men into the political ecosystem prepared rhetorically and ideologically to destroy the given, to redeem lost innocence. In toto, Claremont is both an instrument for the tyrannical seizure of power and a principal element in that seizure’s masking. It calls, as an instance, for a Caesarist post-democratic sovereign order in the guise of putatively restoring the ideals of the Declaration of Independence’s anti-monarchical politics. It thrives in comedy for tyrannical purposes.

    Claremont invites serious examination on its own terms. Intellectuals must resist this siren’s call.[4] Claremont defines its own intellectual origins in the writings of Leo Strauss and his ephebes. The invitation to study Claremont to expose its heritage plays Claremont’s game, which is multi-faceted and monumental, far less in need of explication that bothers with its “depths” than with description or naming that show what it is in its motives and desires. These last we can name if we resist the urge to examine Claremont in the complex terms with which it explicitly masks itself.

    Extended scholarly study of the Claremont Institute will add layers to the markings that hide the Institute’s threats to humanity, democracy, freedom, and creativity. Interpretive processes and misplaced curiosities that layer their expositions to understand Claremont make it seem complex and interesting, at best deferring its danger to continue to study its background, origins, and alignments; at worst, erroneously to deny those threats. Learned and cautious readers will hesitate to assent to the fact that Claremont threatens in these terms, deflecting the charge as exaggerating or misreading the status and effect of what is, after all, a “think tank” that publishes book reviews, holds conferences, and funds interns albeit in right-wing political rhetoric. For the hesitant, Claremont is the kind of serious intellectual diversity that liberally biased universities suppress or misunderstand. For the hesitant, then, conversation or dialogue, respectful exchange seems the best course to understanding Claremont and to the display and benefit of greater virtuous tolerance. Scholars might hesitate to declare Claremont a threat in my terms unless and until fuller scientific research provides adequate evidence to characterize the Institute. Those who refuse (yet) to accept that Claremont does, indeed, threaten in these ways typify the mind-set and political behavior on which Claremont relies to defeat those who, deferring judgment, become inactive or so slow as to be already belated. Claremont understands such deferral and hesitancy as a given, inherent political weakness on the part of its enemies, as not only the disablement of criticism, but more important in democratic republican politics as fleeing political struggle rather than making sacrifices in partisan combat.

    How then are we to know Claremont? Primarily by its actions especially as they link these to the purposive actionable motives of their writings and statements. We must read their motives, their will’s formations, and the strategies exposed in their tactics. For all this, reading them in themselves is essential with the help of excellent journalism. Or we might take another approach. Claremont’s and the American Right’s invocations of the so-called classical writings of the Eastern Mediterranean as sources of proper philosophy entitle us to recall Socrates’ encounter with Callicles to see Claremont’s attraction to physis and sophistry as a world-view and rhetorical practice with worrying political consequences, even for the non-democratic Plato. As Callicles turns away from Socratic criticism, refusing to defend rationally his own selfish claims to advantage the stronger in society, so Claremont rests immovably in its ideological commitments to Caesarism, limited liberty, and rule by the strong men who win and tightly hold power. Along the way, like Callicles, they show no concern with justice, truth, and language. Like Callicles, one of their predecessors, they use rhetoric to achieve their goal of rule by natural superiority and, presumably, its satisfied pleasures.

    The once mainstream newspapers report on the institute’s existence, its political alignments, and more rarely on its history or its funding sources, which Claremont obscures. Journalists mostly report on the façade not as such but with occasional interest in what putatively lies behind it. Taking the façade seriously would be productive good journalism, but, reports on Claremont’s connection to powerful politicians such as Vice-President JD Vance, whom the Institute celebrates as a favorite son, go almost nowhere.[5] The institute influences policy and political action, especially in legal theory, often with the support of prominent political actors. Claremont stresses its own commitment to litigation to restore what it calls the Founding after its distortion by democratic-republican politics.

    The litigation it promotes or supports is tactical; it often targets two elements in law. First, something the media will accept as at once important to what Claremont’s liberal enemies consider vital (a paper like The New York Times serving a large part of its audience), but second by undercutting the political legal formations upon which a democratic republic can exist. Following Schmitt to the letter, Claremont politicizes the legitimacy of law and of established institutional, constitutional arrangements both to encourage a mass cohort’s oppositional identity and to leave everything up for grabs by the organized and well-prepared Right that desires the sort of violent litigation Claremont encourages.

    When, for example, the federal government ordered an end to the practice, long set up in constitutional law of recognizing people born in the United States as citizens, The New York Times traced the government’s legal theory that justifies repealing the law and customary historical expectation to the now legally suspended California attorney John Eastman, a member of the Claremont Board.[6] The Times is not alone in noting Eastman’s association with Claremont and as the “idea man” behind the Right’s efforts to overturn the results of the 2020 presidential election. As part of daily political and legal news, Claremont sits next to matters of ordinary state business.

    Readers and viewers of written and visual news media became a little acquainted in various contexts with the Institute’s existence, its alignments, as a source of new thinking, often generated to the needs of its political allies. Like any such school for ideas, Claremont must circulate its own controlled news of itself and it does so always, sometime in print media, but regularly and widely on social media and, crucially in the case of Claremont, through its own text-based media—The Claremont Review on printed paper—and The American Mind, an online publication of the Claremont Institute attending, as the editors put it, “To the ideas that drive our political life.”

    Through these instruments and in response to curious requests for information and in interviews with its leading figures, The Claremont Institute tells stories of its own origins. In most versions, the Institute (1979) results from the simple efforts of a small group of ephebes, doctoral students of Harry V. Jaffa, under the influence of Leo Strauss. Claremont’s institutional existence started in a small propaganda project, called Public Research Syndicate, which flooded newspapers with conservative Op Eds. The Institute received generous seed funding from the NEH (Directors William Bennett and Lynne Cheney) during the Reagan administration and ever since from rightist oligarchs. Claremont has developed institutional affiliations and substantial ideological connections with and for allies among fellow travelers especially in intellectual and higher education circles. One thinks of Hillsdale College and Notre Dame University as examples of different sorts of alignment. With allied people and institutions, Claremont supports smaller ideological centers to house its offspring and their efforts, embody its influences, stabilize its projects, and enhance its prestige. For example, one of Claremont’s and the new Right’s leading figures, Michael Anton, both a fellow of the Claremont Institute and a member of government, became, when out of office, a research fellow at Hillsdale College’s Kirby Center in DC.[7] An ever-noisy Claremont never states the aims, effects, and desires behind its actions and maneuvers. To come near to the secrets not told, one must first see, describe, and warn of the projects, intentions, and consequences already set up and in motion.

    Public discussion links Claremont to a generalized Rightist politics that media and scholars too often call conservative or authoritarian. Journalism often calls the Institute a “think tank.” There are two errors in all this and both result from not calling a thing by its right name. In the spirit of Claremont’s often pretentious adoption of Shakespeare’s texts, let me say that his Juliet is wrong when she says a rose by any other name is just as sweet.[8] Tragedy teaches us she is wrong. Juliet is a child, grown only enough to feel romantic love and sexual attraction. “Tis but thy name that is my enemy,” she says to the night. She loves a Montague, which means as she knows that she has, in best Aristophanic fashion, found that part of her once cut away by jealousy and force. That cut away part has in history become her founding enemy; “Montague” is the ring fence limiting her possibility as agent and dreamer: “O, be some other name,” she demands. He must have another name improper to him and outside the essential inescapable relationship between them, namely, enmity. Romeo will be “new baptized” and left nameless: “I know not how to tell thee who I am. / My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself / Because it is an enemy to thee.” Yet, despite this and her earlier desire to detach proper name from an identity that has made her Juliet, she cannot escape: “I know the sound. / Are thou not Romeo, and a Montague?” Juliet’s efforts not to call Romeo by his name stabilize a tragic form. What does it do? How does it work? She cannot transform a murderous enemy by love. She cannot change force and historical burden by renaming, or worse, by ignoring all that which the inescapable name arrests and predicts. Her enemy draws her into a desire for a reality that mirrors her wish, that the enemy were like her, were part of her, were not the poison that would lead her to extinction. All these results come from not calling a thing by its proper name, believing renaming is a transformative power while all it does is misprise the situation, the state of power, and the enemy. Such misprision, feeling itself to be love, does not despise or undervalue except ultimately. It devalues the grasp of established power, and it undervalues threats in what she hopes to pacify or nurture by transforming the dehumanizing threat found precisely in the proper name. Long ago, we learned the proper name owns, but not that changing the name does no more than mask a reality the aspirant or lover cannot confront, defeat, a call to use its proper name. Baptism or rebaptizing deludes. Priests do not have the power to escape or transform what they would rebaptize—a superfluous, secondary, inert ritual—and together with their followers, they capitulate.

    Take Confucius as an example: call things by their proper names. Poets and critical writers insist on calling things by their proper names. “No ideas but in things” means things come before the names that ideas might provide for what they are. Names might even gesture towards the ideas or partially derive from them. Only a naïf, a selfish, a fearful or desiring critic believes they can change the thing with a word that flows like a tertiary effluent. History is replete with the inhuman consequences of this error, from early modern horrors of the Code Noir (1685) to the ongoing debasement of “aliens” who infect “our blood” (2023). Only the applied power of violence and money enforce these names against that which has lost its name. Shakespeare’s dawn song vignette unsettles the cliché popular and medium-brow culture derive from it. Claremont is not a “think tank” any more than it serves an authoritarian or conservative politics. Claremont is secretive, well-established, and influential. It may shade itself on the horizon, which means lights of distinct colors cast on it let it appear not each time “differently” but each time additively so that gradually the thing itself appears. To Rightists it might appear as the green ray. Critical reflection on a center of counter-revolutionary planning and training needs a poetic artistry, like a Cézanne patiently, actively, persistently intends to make a mountain and light itself seen. A mountain by any other name is not just as monumental. A secular critical mind does not bother with Claremont in a study of think tanks, of civil society institutions, of academies for conservative thought. Such studies, whether disinterested or not, whether detached and professional or angry and aggressive, oddly enough are less creative, less poetic than Claremont itself whose raison d’être is the creation of a new culture upon the rubble, after the carnage, of battering down the walls of its enemies’ bastions and institutions. In the end, all of that is to make sure “enemies” cannot return and that Claremont’s vision defines all life practices on the fields of social and cultural poiesis.

    How dangerous is this? Consider its antagonism not only to its racial, class, and ethnic enemies and the forms that gathered standing with them, but also its extermination of imaginations like Cézanne’s whose analyses made light an instrument of seeing, and of poets like William Carlos Williams who in the movements of time made life still for knowing and feeling. Cézanne or Williams were analytic and geometric—to uncover what names obscure and empower—so that their still lives would make new relations between forms, words, and things available for use, feeling, and repetition—for the freedom of poetic liberty. No ideas but in things, becomes with them no ideas but in poiesis. There are good and evil even in the working out of poetics. Confucius teaches that the only route to wisdom is to call things by their proper name. Claremont would decide and delimit who can name or have the power to make a name proper, that is, settled and all-embracing. If only one can name then there is no freedom, but only slavish incapacity in the face or grasp or trance of things. (Perhaps Orwell is a dystopian Claremont has studied.) The critic who opposes this usurpation of freedom must at least call by its proper name the agent of tyranny that will project its own, enduring unreformed sublime monumentality which might be called King, Caesar, or tyrant.

    The Claremont Institute has a geometry and the same sort of stable being in place as any mountain or wheelbarrow, even if Claremont is not yet called St. Victoire. And so, we can dissolve and rearrange its forces, pressures, and fissures. Balance gives it a normal place on a regular terrain of institutions, ambitions, and ideas. To see it, let ideas come from what it is, not what it says it is. Its founders made it normal and indistinct, inconspicuous. Cézanne worked with his mountain repeatedly over years because it had value as his art. Hardly inconspicuous, it was a settled regional monument, always well-known and unseen by cohabitants. Is it an illusion to think the same is true of Claremont? For a journalist or political writer, Claremont, well-financed, secretive, and intellectual, is part of the landscape, lodged in a suburb, withdrawn from view. Yet, knowing its actions and intents, it tempts, as the mountain must have tempted Cézanne to reassemble its fixed status, to explore its constituents. It is there inviting the exercise of the suspicious critical mind. In a Disney-fied Meta worldscape.

    Established hermeneutics and philological procedures let investigators study Claremont along two lines. First, the standard practice and ideological claim of historicists who study, map, and understand the contexts in which an object exists, words work, or nations extend themselves, make history expanding contexts, generating horizontal or adjacent relations along flows of power and interest as a field of reading. We now call this the “cultural text.” Claremont might call it the geopolitical or the new Imperium. Second, ahistorical hermeneutics, formalists, or allegorists, by attending to appearance, generate the conditions for genealogical questions, for forms of study that answer the question, how did it come to be? Nietzsche and Foucault are exemplary of this method. The thing is not ahistoricality as such, but the result of expressly nonlinear entanglements of will, desire, and often anonymous transformative forces.

    The much-admired German-American musicologist, Christoph Wolff, a renowned scholar of Johann Sebastian Bach, formulates in less than a paragraph the felt necessity of contextual location as essential to a serious understanding of Bach. At first, Wolff’s statement of intent, desire, and necessity is straightforward and enabling: “In the case of a painter, poet, or musician, the primary interest focuses, without a doubt, on the works of and their aesthetic power, but a deeper understanding of works of art presupposes also a special awareness of their historical context” (8).

    Such a normative approach to Claremont could interest readers, citizens, and politicians. Too often, however, historicism turns intelligence from the object or thing, the study of which in this manner turns the mind elsewhere and away. Contrast this to Cézanne’s unrelenting focus on the mountain’s light. Simple paraphrases of Claremont’s self-explanatory and self-justifying stories entice minds toward Leo Strauss and Harry Jaffa to highlight the intellectual ground of its ideology in action. Historicists, unsatisfied, will then question Claremont’s account and place it in relation both to contemporary sympathetic institutions and to predecessors with differing rhetorics and political nuance. What about Burke or Berkeley? What of the John Birch Society or the Southern Baptist Conference? Or the Opus Dei elements among Catholic reactionaries and traditionalists? And, finally, of what value are the answers to such questions and the endless debates they enable that then follow on to and encircle them? At the end, readers know a great deal around and about Claremont, but that knowledge is merely accretion upon a stable and still obscure part of Rightist politics that becomes increasingly monumental and eventually like the mountain is simply there, unseen. To describe Claremont or to refer to it as journalists sometimes do as an intellectual hotbed of conservative thought and aspirations polishes the stone façade of its facticity as a geopolitical, legal, and sociocultural agent in the landscape. And so, it becomes a mirror reflecting others back in their accounts. Claremont has succeeded in a task Lucifer could not carry out: To transform a place where the fallen and excluded could assemble, hatch a plot, act in revisionism and revulsion to promote resentment, or more precisely, ressentiment, on the expressive effect of which its creative power and destructive influence rest.

    We can say simple and plain things about Claremont. It develops narratives along two lines. As a normal counter revolutionary tactic it puts in place, naturalizes, a grand narrative of national decline from ambitions expressed and set in motion at what Claremont regards and repeatedly calls the “founding.” In US terms, this means Claremont tells stories about the US as if the nation were something that had an origin from which it sprang rather than the immensely complicated entity with diverging histories of a kind and number one could expect of a continental political entity that never at any time in its history existed as a nation-state that like Spain or France set an organic relation between ethnic and linguistic unity and state institutions. As far as those relations came to exist, violence and often extermination played a role (1209, 1492). Making the US into something with a sacralized origin, what Claremont calls the founding, is the first step in Claremont’s contribution to the counter-revolution against secular liberal developments since 1688. Claremont’s most important ideological contribution to the Rightist cause is a secular version of the myth of the fall. The institute sets in place the linear narrative of a fallen origin that sets the stage for a counter revolutionary recovery of something that never existed outside this story. In simple terms, Claremont’s narrative sets out from a counterfeited version of Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence filtered through Straussian orthodoxy. For the Right, the Declaration renews classical beliefs in natural right. From this pure high point, itself a recovery—and therefore from the first a counter-revolutionary document—Claremont’s story makes the US an inherently Rightist entity. From this simple and pure original and yet recuperative impulse Claremont would create a new world and make of Americans a set of new Adams. Conventionally, of course, the Founding, like the Garden of Eden begins a secular story of a fall into the sinfulness of liberalism. In this reading, the Declaration is a messianic document for a new world that liberal politics shattered and weakened with relativism, theories of civil and human rights, and stories that desacralized the origin and substituted stories of complex historical beginnings. The unity of the origin and its Founding impulse was decimated and dispersed. The origin became political and originally human. To recover the messianic counter-revolution of the Declaration requires a new counter-revolution.

    The Right adopts Claremont’s fantasy of origins as a mask for the simple evil corruption of the tyrannical seizure of power to set up a Caesar as an extra-legal, post-constitutional sovereign in what had seemed the democratic republic of the US. As Claremont’s story develops, the 1776 origin affirmed administratively in the Constitution of 1787 fell into a secular historical world of struggles, crosscurrents, battles over right and wrong, and most important, a protracted process to suppress the aspirant tyrannical right. In Claremont’s propagandized fantasy, the purity of the origin, lost in and to a history called “liberalism” justifies restoring a tyranny the Declaration only seems to reject. This is a wonderful instance of Claremont’s remarkable Calliclean sophistry: the “founders” justified their rebellion against monarchical tyranny, which was in fact a revolution against the settlements of 1688, with an appeal to natural rights. After liberalism undermines the restorative origin, dirties its purity, then, now only a tyrant, a Caesar can reclaim the origins’ legitimacy justifying not only the destruction of historically organized society but the seizure of plenary power with impunity. Why? As the natural and needed sovereign form available for a return, the necessity of which from atop and out of the origins’ ruins leaves no choice but to reclaim its own power as the origin.[9]

    Claremont logically advances the claim that Caesarism is the only political form based on and capable of sustaining a recovered natural right politics. As it set up, codified, and put into action the principles of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution betrayed the origin, created the condition for administration that masks power in law and regulation and over-throws the very founding of America as the return of classical and biblical ideals. In telling this story, Claremont helps create the mass cohort essential to seizing electoral power and in so doing, by alignment with power, to erase from practice, common sense, and memory competing stories of the American nation discrediting other stories that might interrupt its own identity with sovereign power.  With feverish purpose it mocks the story, advanced in part by the New York Times, that the US began in 1619, the year enslaved Africans arrived in the US.

    For Claremont, the innocence of 1776 dissipated with ever increasing centralization of power, expansion of state administration, and a politics that restricted or regulated freedom that conflicted with natural rights by placing liberty and sovereignty in a controlling state. To authorize itself, Claremont finds resistance to this development throughout national politics, in figures such as Andrew Jackson and Abraham Lincoln whom “liberals” see as antagonists in the conflict of different political ideals put into action. Claremont intends its own story as a disruption of consensus, an end to struggle, and thus a replacement of political common sense. Harry V. Jaffa saw Lincoln as a Straussian hero, antagonistic not only to the liberal sentiments that began to seize power after 1776, but those of 1688 and earlier. In that antagonism, Lincoln, as his contemporary antagonists insisted, according to Jaffa, had become Caesarist and had broken the balancing order of the state Madison established. In an emergency, he not only stepped beyond the law, but over it when, for example, he ignored the Supreme Court’s order to grant habeas corpus to Confederate sympathizers and separatists. Most important, however, Lincoln, a minority president, made the rhetorical claim that national sovereignty rested in the people and upon that authority conducted the war and militarized the socio-economic fabric of the United States.

    Often Claremont draws on the ancient texts of the eastern Mediterranean searching, as did Strauss, for authoritative grounds for its worldview. Claremont’s desires lie behind its claimed discovery of the proper world view upon which, putatively, lie its sophistic and self-interested claims to find the desired world view in the US “origin.”  Only the decay of such origins, which leave Americans with carnage, justifies its seizure of power, which would end the persistent, if episodic, struggle of certain leaders and movements against liberalism by for the last time monopolizing power under the sign of rebirth. In a purely secular sense, American history—barring moments of Jacksonian resistance—is a record of sin against a recovered origin. The permanent recovery of that origin requires means necessary to end opposition to its regulative power.

    In other words, to anyone who has even the most basic grasp of western story-telling—an art Claremont claims for itself—the Institute’s basic repertoire is grossly familiar: identify an origin, a point of innocence capable of projecting force and motive both affiliatively and expansively. In the all too tired but effective instrumentalization of primal fears, needs, and ambitions, sin in the form of a liberal politics masks and sustains the violence of tyranny in an administrative state that surveils the people’s sovereignty that Lincoln invoked and followed to defeat slavery and sustain the Union. In other words, Claremont makes operational in a secular society an unsophisticated, fully cynical version of the Myth of the Fall, which Christians should recognize and readers might know, in more intelligent and liberatory fashion in such paragons of Western Civilization as Dante and Milton. To prefer Jaffa to these names should alone disqualify Claremont for poor judgment, ignorance, and mere sophistry.

    In the American electoral system of 2024, the narrative of the fall produced a paradox: a reactionary anti-elitist elite that had manufactured a mass cohort of voters seized power to disassemble the democratic republic, and remake politics to permanently keep power. In the counter revolution, the raw power of the police state forces cultural change across the spectrum of human life. A cadre of leading figures institutionalizes themselves and their heirs—and here we return to the affiliative nature of the origin in the Claremont stories—, because fulfilling the Counter-Revolution requires a permanent seizure of power, to make monumental its inaccessibility to competitors. Journalists, intellectuals, and politicians bemoan the Right’s desires and actions to fulfill its “authoritarian” or “anti-democratic” ambitions. Too rarely do they call it tyranny, or, to use Claremont’s own preferred proper and public term, Caesarism.

    “A fallen world requires redemption,” at least, common religio-political myths say as much. From this narrative comes millennial thinking, utopists, apocalyptics, and accelerationists. Claremont’s leading figures embrace various forms of millenarian necessity that Plato condemned as a tragedy. Since Claremont routinely claims it rests on Classical Greek thinking, remembering Plato points to what Claremont well knows, the falsity of its classical beliefs and the bullshit justifications of its hegemonic aspirations of its own stories.

    A star among Claremont’s peculiar progeny is Michael Anton. He is the Jack Roth Senior Fellow in American Politics at Claremont Institute. He took master’s degrees in liberal arts from St John’s College, in Annapolis and did advanced study in Claremont Graduate Universities. He worked on Wall Street for Blackrock and Citigroup, and he has served during both of President Trump’s administrations. In September 2025, he stepped down from his position as Director of Policy planning at the State Department, a position first held by George Kennan.

    For all its own disposition to practice ideology in language and print, Claremonters carry their message throughout the social media networks of Rightist public politics. The New Founding Podcast (10.3k subscribers) hosts “The Matthew Peterson Show: Conversation,” the first episode of which Anton helped launch as the de facto center of an explanation for the historical necessity of Caesarism. As an emergent higher form of sovereignty rising from the simple rules of post democratic and post constitutional governmental ruins, Caesarism’s establishment will require new stories for its advocates to sell it as the needed “the New Founding.” The videocast named as a site to host propagandists for this idea has lost financial support, not in 2025 an especially important fact. More to the point was Anton’s extended defense of Caesarism launching this site in the early 2020s. A simple search of online sites and traditional news outlets clarifies Anton’s interest in Caesarism, even as a state official, who had sworn loyalty to the constitution of a democratic republic.[10]

    For all of Claremont’s pretension to high intellect, its stock in trade is propaganda in two forms. First, its leaders, fellows, and adjuncts use Claremont’s story of the American Fall to encourage and justify actions that only the most extreme crises in civilizational collapses can justify. Claremont’s project had an immense success in President Trump’s first inaugural in which speech writers reduce the Claremont mythography of the Fall to the low mimetic mode in one now famous and effective meme: “This American carnage stops right here and right now.” Journalists and electoral opponents objected that America in 2017 was not a scene of carnage. In offering evidence to prove the President’s statement “wrong”—GDP numbers, data from crime reports—they showed, on the contrary, that they not only misunderstood the President’s statement but the politics it stood for and aimed to impose. Considering Claremont’s public statements and those of its ephebes like Anton, “carnage” signifies three things: first, it declares that the conditions for counter-revolution exist; second, that counter-revolutionaries can openly display their intent to seize state power; and most important, that their intent is to instrumentalize state power for their interests alone. Note that before the word “carnage” comes a Claremontian meme, standing for its project to define the “founding” as an “origin” that calls for its own redemption. Before “carnage” comes the anodyne sounding declaration that “We, the citizens of America, are now joined in a great national effort to rebuild our country and to restore the promise for all our people.” How can a world of carnage not demand redemption? Indeed, as always, redemption requires its own violence, its own carnage. What more effective way to find a just violence than in the verbal echoes of the original violence against liberal England in the name of natural law? Jefferson’s messianism that invoked a universal equality among men gives way to the first inaugural’s emphasis on citizenship as the qualifier to decide the political fate of “all our people.” And here that “our” is not anodyne because of its fully possessive force—all the people of we, the citizens of America. This points to an essential part of the Right’s politics and tactics as advanced especially by Claremont. The citizens of the first inaugural of 2017 have no interest in the universality of ineluctable rights nor, it becomes clear by 2025, in the cohort or partisan mass it gathered for electoral victory.

    The president’s speechwriter meant carnage metaphorically, referring to social decay, political disorder, moral disruption. In its sophism, carnage conveys images of disorder, ruination, or devastation. In this conjuring, carnage comes from violence, the stopping of which requires, of course, counter-violence, the direct application of the state’s defining monopoly on violence, political power in extremis deployed to effect the shaping of citizenry and carry out its desires. A new carnage destroys to save—an exhibit of long-standing US power politics, and in this way familiar from revolution to displacement, mass kidnapping, and enslavement, including economic war-making to show power in a unified state.

    In an explicit preemptive echo of Lincoln’s account of his authority as a derivative of the sovereign people, the executive in 2017 calls on “we the citizens” as the sovereign basis of its own authority. Given Claremont’s belief, inherited from Jaffa, in the priority of the Declaration over the administrative Constitution’s secondary status as mere implement, it neither defines nor constrains whatever violence “we, the citizens” conduct or institutionalize as administrative potential in redeeming the Declaration from carnage. In other words, the 2017 inaugural means the executive, speaking to define “we the citizens” as its authority and creation, as the executive’s declared sovereign will deploy violence as needed to create a new carnage to displace the old, which by the inaugural’s logic, in its liberalism prohibited the redemptive executive from acquiring salutary power.

    Of the customs, laws and institutions historical subjects built, Claremont’s fantasy of natural salvation demands negation, erasure, and lingering violent destruction. To achieve the mythological sovereign power capable of all this, negation cannot stop at laws, customs, and institutions—certainly not in recognition of an opposition’s legitimate interests. It must endlessly constrain the extent of “citizenship,” the concept which empowers the agency of belonging, meriting, benefiting. As such, for the content of this sign, “the citizen,” to keep its value, the Caesar must curate its content with the agreement of those already included in the inaugural we. Take this as an instance of this ambition: since 2024 the executive’s commitment to deport non-citizens (“illegal immigrants”) and to contest the 14th Amendment’s clear statement that “all persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the state where they reside.”

    Along with the 13th and 15th amendments, the 14th remade the US Constitution by assigning citizenship to all former slaves and by overturning the heinous three-fifth compromise in the original 1787 implementation of a crippled version of the Declaration’s universalist principles. Notoriously, the three-fifths compromise agreed to win slave states’ commitments to the constitutional arrangements and mechanically counted three of five enslaved persons when calculating a state’s proportional representation in the House of Representatives. The three-fifths compromise settled the slave power in control of Congress until 1865.

    The anthropology of the compromise is notorious and obvious in its dismemberment of enslaved persons and homicidal in its negation of enslaved people’s humanity, their degradation into less than integral units, bodily fragments without unity. The compromise gave power to a slave logic that could extrapolate its dehumanizing rule into the basis of an unreformable state system. The slave power had become the constitutional Caesar.

    Caesarism’s historical form gives plenary power to the executive and absolute impunity against all human and material laws. In the oddities of US history—and here I rely on the eyewitness expert testimony of Henry Adams—the slave power was Caesarist in its control of state power, most often by command of the government based on control of the Congress. Beginning with Andrew Jackson, slave power presidents, until Lincoln, gave the US over to a tyrannical executive Caesarism.

    The Claremont Institute aspires to create a new Caesar for the US and knows that to do so it must, as a counter-revolutionary measure, overthrow the 14th Amendment particularly to reverse again, in effect, the abolition of the three-fifths compromise. If that compromise set up power by controlling votes and consolidating partisan control to delimit state decisions, then its establishment need not take the same racist form of African slavery as had occurred in 1787. What mattered was what that original compromise implied and proved: the controlling power’s right and ability to define humanity by making citizenship an openly partisan prize, that is, making the ability to be “human” within the socius, an open question. To achieve these ends, that is, the defining control over population and humanity the Right desires in its “new form” executive Caesar—the “unitary executive”—it must win over the common sense. So, Claremont creates counter-revolutionary memes—stories, talking points, friend/enemy lines—that make what Claremont and its allies call “birthright citizenship” a controversy, an unsettled question, rather than a right proven by the 14th Amendment. On October 15, 2025, an online search of the institute’s website returns thirty-five results arguing the need to disestablish the 14th Amendment. On this question and others that the institute helps generate, Claremont, as it often does, provides the arguments that create a national need that the politics essential to the Right’s seizure of power alone might meet. For its ephebes and allies, it describes the tactics to put in play the question it creates and the maneuvers to achieve it. In this instance, as is often the case, the Institute offers grounds and procedures for bringing a case to the Supreme Court confident it will concede the Institute’s arguments against “birth right citizenship.”

    Amid the Right’s militarization of society by its deporting “illegal and other aliens,” “birthright citizenship” prepares steps against the 14th Amendment’s fundamental achievement, which is a legal, liberal, and common-sense obstacle to the Right’s new Caesarist ambitions. The post-civil war amendments stand as the basis for a refounding of the Republic along the universalist lines of the Declaration. As such, it is an obstacle to and proof of Claremont’s essential storyline that the nation needs a political movement that will return the US to its origins in natural law. If you will, the Right must overcome the hegemonic idea that the Declaration extends universal human rights and that the US must prove and defend them. Such a liberal notion is anathema to propagandists of natural law politics in which plenary power embodies and defends the priority of natural law against all encroachments by rights-based practice and discourse. Claremont’s second refounding, to return to natural law origins, requires sweeping away from power and politics the value, meaning, and effect of the post-Civil War amendments. Claremont takes aim through the birther movement at the 14th, so Caesarist power is unencumbered by limits on its basic power to control life and its humanity.

    Caesarism extends the neo-liberal state’s power over the population in absolute ways. Deportation purges the population, settles fear as the mode of governance, and places militarized force everywhere among the people, often pre-empting the police power and the independence of states’ rights. (That shibboleth, a long enduring phrase of the conservative right, having advanced a politics tinged with the old slave power Caesarism, has disappeared from the Right’s rhetoric and irony has no power make it a roadblock to the new Caesar’s absolutely empowered national government.) Conservatives’ appeal to “states’ rights,” a residue of Jeffersonian and Virginian theories of the original founding was only an aggressive defense against the democratic republic’s assertions of federal power over states’ “peculiar institutions.” Under a Caesarist Right, those institutions more likely extend those “peculiarities” than threaten them.

    Claremont prepares for SCOTUS, the Supreme Court of the United States to limit the 14th Amendment’s plain language. The tactics are clear enough. In early days of a renewed Caesarism’s control of government and given the Right’s naturalist and nationalist narrative, given its increasing control of information production and distribution as well, “birthright citizenship” rises up the chain of media importance and “culture wars” prominence. Caesarism, following Schmitt on the partisan, then uses this importance not primarily to prevent what the right vulgarly calls by the pejorative phrase, “anchor babies.”[11] That grotesque meme solidifies group identity and develops the leader / follower structure while giving popular form to the Right’s worst ambition, the nakedness of dehumanization, so clear to Plato as long ago as in the Protagoras.

    The 13th Amendment ended the worst peculiar institution and with the 14th and 15th amendments enabled Congress to institutionalize the legal force enabling the national government to supersede the states’ power to define humanity along racial and sexual lines citizenship within their territories and on occasion beyond. “States’ rights” meant, after all, rights that were the states to entitle or not. Claremont and its allies ask the Supreme Court to deny the constitutionality of Congressional capacities to limit the dehumanizing power of politicized identity and, in so doing, assure the recognition of all persons’ humanity manifest in their citizenship in the nation state.

    The Supreme Court’s willingness to engage Claremont’s problematic claim, that the phrase “subject to the jurisdiction thereof,” is not transparent, suggests legal arguments that the 14th and 15th Amendments that protected free slaves and later minorities discriminated against by political power should be inverted. The Rights’ refounding must overthrow the post-Civil War’s refounding to conclude Congress does not have the power to correct discrimination against minorities, since the claim contends such action discriminates against a majority that suffers from such racially intended revision. In effect, the Right, by law, would make the first refounding part of its own carnage that turns instruments of reform that would fully humanize all persons in the nation into instruments that expose minorities to the desire of groups with definitive impunity, the holding of power that gerrymanders its own perpetuity. The new Caesarism echoes the slave power’s first grasp on power.

    The Caesarist Right’s refounding renders unto Caesar alone the authority to decide who is and who is not human. Within the new arrangements, as Hortense Spillers declares, only one man is free.

    Claremont has formulated maximalist tactics within the current shell of US electoral politics. Claremont’s commitment to litigation, often guided by John Eastman, a disbarred attorney who theorized the means to overturn the certified results of the 2020 presidential elections. California’s bar and courts took away Eastman’s license to practice law for practicing outside constitutional limits. Eastman might pursue his reinstatement in what he imagines will be friendlier federal courts. If he succeeds along these lines, the right will also succeed in normalizing extra-constitutional law practiced on the basis purely of power, seized and held with impunity.

    Revolution against the administrative state masks a final seizure. Claremont’s role in this is large, even if not as at once pragmatic as, for example, that of the Heritage Foundation. Claremont envisions both means to and the achieved enduring Caesarism of an anti-democratic tyranny. Its refounding refers not back to the Jeffersonian Declaration or Madisonian constitution, but to pre-revolutionary forms of centralized single-person rule that often appeared after 1787 and 1789 in figures such as Bonaparte, Stalin, and Mussolini. Given the Caesarist success in creating its own paramilitary while purging the professional military of potentially unreliable leaders who famously swear loyalty not to Caesar, but rather to the Constitution, this then further parallels even the Caesarism of German National Socialism.

    Although Claremont publicly associates itself with Leo Strauss and his student Harry Jaffa, in its practical activities as mythmaker, as the acid-bath of legitimacy, and as a proponent of autocracy, it belongs to a cluster of extremist political organizations of a kind once bemoaned by President Reagan’s Ambassador to the United Nations. In a famous article distinguishing among political forms of oppression and justifying American support for anti-Soviet authoritarians, Jean Kirkpatrick described an evil political form of government antagonistic to American interests and ideals. She described these enemies of America in precise terms. They were autocratic, anti-democratic, Caesarist, and uniformly self-serving. The Leninist model, which Steve Bannon openly embraces as his own model for MAGA revolution, was the perfect anti-American model of government. It took freedom from Russians and others that it ruled. It made everyday life poor and riddled society with fear. It narrowed culture to the vulgar purposes of a ruling class mostly interested in its own power and wealth. Like Bannon, Claremont and its associates took Kirkpatrick’s account of a collapsing state form that once was America’s main enemy as a blueprint for its own revolutionary action. Kirkpatrick sees that other authoritarian Caesarist regimes had the same characteristics as the Soviets. She points to the revolutionary national religious government of Iran under the control of ayatollahs, who, “display an intolerance and arrogance that do not bode well for the peaceful sharing of power or the establishment of constitutional governments, especially since those leaders have made clear that they have no intention of seeking either.”[12] Claremont is quite willing to turn the US into a regime type that America identified as repulsive and threatening in a report by the extremely conservative figure of the New Right, itself. Where once the competition between the US and Iran presented itself as a conflict of ideas and values, now, competition between a Caesarist US and a Caesarist Iran exists only as a struggle for power in which the greater power abandons its values to adopt the virtues of its lesser enemies.

    We are in an American moment in which propaganda has done enough to make an extreme conservative like Kirkpatrick an implicit enemy of Claremont and the Right. In part, this is because Claremont and other Rightist thought leaders have studied Gramsci to understand the theory and practice of achieving cultural hegemony, to create a common sense in which such a moment as Kirkpatrick’s is forgotten and abandoned.[13] Current Leninist quick strike politics comes from the Right’s studying revolutionary texts, no doubt in the very universities they persistently undermine for bias. Certainly, Claremont has read and learned from both analysts of Caesarist regimes, such as Kirkpatrick, but also from Strauss’ most prominent student, Carl Schmitt. (Serious readers of early Schmitt remember that Strauss corrected his unreformed liberalism.)

    If the likes of Kirkpatrick, Lenin, and various extremists lay out the mechanisms of tyranny, then Schmitt’s catastrophic study of the partisan explains the value, the effectiveness of politics made into relentless partisan warfare, but also how to achieve permanent war. The technology that in Schmitt’s analysis shows the partisan is a congruous permanent irregularity. The partisan does not fight within the regular order, hence the need to replace leaders loyal to that order with irregular political cadres. The partisan is not an extension of official power during a state of exception. Importantly, the partisan and guerrilla are not the same, for the latter does not work in the open, as a public figure, immune and empowered. The guerrilla works in the spaces opened by war, struggling against an enemy as, for example, the French Resistance filled with maquis, rural unprofessional fighters who relied on their local knowledge of terrain, fought against the Nazis. At first, the Right imitates the form of the guerrilla to place partisans everywhere in the political world of decisions and actions. Just as the guerrilla is a temporary form in a targeted struggle so the guerrilla form of carefully placed partisans in the machinery of institutions passes quickly into the partisan who knows a line, holds to it, enrages opposition, and creates a purely partisan oppositional relation in what had been republican politics.

    The partisan is not only public, but professional despite being outside regular order, where partisans, having seized power, pose themselves forever. Schmitt’s partisan’s technological advantage, then, is not secrecy, local knowledge, or victory over an enemy. Rather, and Jacques Derrida noticed this decades ago, the partisan’s advantage within Caesarist politics is a permanent state of enmity: not merely an enemy it first defeats and displaces, but enmity for all that is not itself, forever. Claremont works for this final form that organizes state and techno power over and against all else, call it society, nature, culture, or questioners. While the “Left” concerned itself, as I suggest above, with the problem of the state of exception and its hypocrisies within liberal regimes, it failed to politicize an opposition to the Schmittian tactics, theory, and goal of partisan counter-revolution.[14] Often unrecognized, as part of the continuing revolution, the partisan brings war and violence everywhere. Given the Schmittian positions against the liberal state in all its post-17th century forms, one line of thought lies at the center of his condemnations and those of his followers at Claremont and in the US Right’s ambitions. Put very simply, for Schmitt, the liberal democratic republic always pretended to remove violence from politics and when secure look to suspend politics within and from the order of its own imperium. (Left critics of liberalism found Schmitt’s program useful here.) Hence, if you will, his theorizing the state of exception. According to Schmitt, to overthrow a liberal republic, however, requires partisans to bring political violence everywhere as essential element of Caesarist politics.

    At this point, to hurry to an end, review Michael Anton’s video defense of Caesarism as regrettable necessity after the carnage of the liberal state.[15] The Schmittian paradigm is clear. The tactics stand out: weaken the Republic with actions and stories that calmly announce civilizational failure, a process easier than imagined when the republic has no eloquent or organized defenders. In Anton’s performance, we see the Claremont playbook: regret that a Caesar is necessary but understand that it naturally emerges from the garbage heap of democracy’s decay. Caesar appears to reground civilization threatened with anarchy. Something about the executive’s politics appears historically necessary. But to what end? Who benefits? Those who have authority, control wealth with its power, and define people as inhuman and so as waste. Partisan politics is everywhere. To create fear, a new carnage. That leaves all final authority in Caesar’s hands.

    Intellectuals could devote themselves to endless discussion of the sources, qualities, and aims of this Rightist movement, accounting for the conditions of its success, the chances to displace it, and worries about its permanence. As valuable as those works will be and as happy I will be to continue to read them as they appear, for the moment it seemed best to peel back some of the cover from an important locale of the Right’s preparatory and persistent work: In the present moment, the idea that worse might come as intellectuals organic to the counter-revolution work out its end-goals and the means to sustain its winnings.

    Paul A. Bové is the author of Love’s Shadow (Harvard UP), Intellectuals in Power (Columbia UP), and several other books on criticism and theory. He has also written a book on torture (HKUP). For thirty-five years, he edited boundary 2, an international journal of literature and culture for Duke UP. He retired and lives on the ridges of Southwestern Pennsylvania.

    [1] James Hankins, “Hyperpartisanship,: A Barbarous Term for a Barbarous Age, Claremont Review of Books Vol. XX, no. 1 (Winter 2020): Hyperpartisanship – Claremont Review of Books. “As it happens, the most sophisticated theoretical languages for discussing issues of cultural dominance were created by Marxists during the 1930s: by Antonio Gramsci, a founder of the Italian Communist Party; by the Frankfurt School with its Critical Theory; and by Mao Zedong, who put his theories into action in the 1960s during the Cultural Revolution.”

    [2] Stephen Miller, Deputy Chief of Staff to the executive and recognized planner of deportations in the second Trump administration, said on CNN that the president has “plenary authority.” (October 8th, 2025)

    [3] I add this phrase to oppose (throw light on?) the clerk, Patrick Daneen of Notre Dame who strongly objects to the judgmental nature of leftist cultural politics. He makes this point at length and to great applause in Why Liberalism Failed and Regime Change: Toward a Postliberal Future. Daneen mistakes judgment for opinion when he objects to social protest and profit-motivated market formation as judgment but his own opinions on these and other matters as statements of truth. The Right’s intellectuals and petty political actors share the sophistry perfected by Claremont and its ephebes. Daneen’s defense of traditional culture comes from the pinnacle of elite academic formation and employment security. Contrast Daneen with Paul Kingsnorth to see how the rhetoric of traditional culture, profitable always on the Right, implicitly disdains a working eco-traditionalist.

    [4] I do not present myself as deaf to this seduction. I began to study and write about Claremont in 2024, and I presented papers on Claremont late in the year. I have posted the talk paper I presented in late 2024 on my blog. See PAB, “The Claremont Institute: Sophistry and the Power Grab,” Critical Reflections. Inside that post is an entry to a rump essay on the machinery of Claremont. The direct link to my rump paper that does some of the work I no longer want to do here is @ https://paulbove.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/talk-paper-for-hopkins.pdf last accessed October 31, 2025.

    [5] “Vice President JD Vance Honored with Claremont’s Statesmanship Award,” July 8, 2025 @ Vice President JD Vance Honored with Claremont’s Statesmanship Award – The Claremont Institute. Politico reports that “Vance is closely tied to Claremont circles, frequently speaking at their events and appearing alongside their scholars. In a statement to the American Conservative on Monday, Claremont President Ryan Williams called Vance “the ideal pick for Trump’s Vice President,” adding: “It’s hard to find a more articulate and passionate advocate for the politics and policies that will save American democracy from the forces of progressive oligarchy and despotism.” @ The Seven Intellectual Forces Behind JD Vance’s Worldview – POLITICO. last visited on 10/22/25.

    [6] John C. Eastman, Senior Fellow, Founding Director of the Center for Constitutional Jurisprudence @ John C. Eastman – The Claremont Institute. Eastman earned his J. D. from the University of Chicago, clerked for Mr. Justice Thomas (1996 – 97) and served in a senior position in the Federalist Society. “In January 2023, OCTC filed 11 disciplinary charges against Eastman, alleging that he engaged in misconduct to plan, promote, and assist then-President Trump in executing a strategy, unsupported by facts or law, to overturn the legitimate results of the 2020 presidential election.” @ State Bar Court Hearing Judge Recommends John Eastman’s Disbarment – The State Bar of California – News, last accessed 10/2225.

    [7] Michael Anton was Deputy Assistant to the President for Strategic Communications on he National Security Council after 2017 @ Trump’s national security spokesman Michael Anton is resigning, last visited on October 22, 2025.

    [8] Mary Beth McConahey, “Publius Fellow,” Claremont Institute, answering the following question: “What’s your fondest memory of the Claremont Institute”: “I have so many memories and they’re all happy! I’m very nostalgic about my time as an intern—those halcyon days! Working down the hall from Professor Jaffa seemed the realization of an impossible dream. He was always teaching and, as interns, we couldn’t even use the microwave without getting a pretty extensive lecture on Lincoln or Shakespeare or Aristotle or Aquinas or Churchill or all of them combined. It was awesome.” @ Mary Beth McConahey – The Claremont Institute, last visited October 22, 2025.

    [9] Reread Wallace Stevens, “The Man on the Dump,” which includes the line, “One rejects / The trash.” Claremont, we can say, fears this possibility of rejecting its own ruination because as Stevens says, “and the moon comes up as the moon / (All its imagines are in the dump) and you see / As a man (not like an imagine of a man).”

    [10] The New York Times January 18th, 2025, reported that “The incoming State Department official Michael Anton has spoken with [Curtis Yarvin] about how an American Caesar might be installed into power.” Yarvin is best known as an advocate for monarchy, kingship, as the best, proper, and necessary form of sovereign executive for the post-constitutional United States. In The Claremont Review, Yarvin’s name appears only once. during a word search of the magazine, and this in an article by Michael Anton, “Are the kids Al(T) Right?” who refers to Yarvin as “the well-known anti-democracy blogger” (Summer 2019).

    [11] On CNN’s New Day, August 19. 25. Cf. CNN Transcript, CNN.com – Transcripts and per Politifact, on August 19, 2015 in New Hampshire, then candidate Donald Trump said “his plan to roll back birthright citizenship for children of illegal immigrants will pass constitutional muster because ‘many of the great scholars say that anchor babies are not covered.’” PolitiFact | Trump: ‘Many’ scholars say ‘anchor babies’ aren’t covered by Constitution.  All last accessed November 10, 2025.

    [12] “Dictatorships and Double Standards,” Commentary (November 1979), reprinted by America Enterprise Institute for Public Policy Research, 1979, p. 34. Ambassador Kirkpatrick was then a fellow of his Institute.

    [13] For a belated and seemingly surprised recognition of the Right’s sophisticated Leftist grasp of liberal politics’ weaknesses, see the civilized conservative, David Brooks, “Hey, Lefties! Trump Has Stolen Your Game,” The New York Times, October 30, 2025, @ Opinion | Hey, Lefties! Trump Has Stolen Your Game. – The New York Times, last accessed October 31, 2025.

    [14] Cf. Edward Luce, “Democrats are locked on campus: In politics you are what you talk about,” The Financial Times October 31, 2025, @ Democrats are locked on campus, last accessed on October 31, 2025.

    [15] It would help to understand Claremont’s aims, the effectiveness of its training, and the sufficiency of its tools to look through Anton’s book, The Stakes: America at the Point of No Return (Regnery, 2020). The book is fine and revealing propaganda, spreading fear, stoking nostalgia for a lost “origin” (California before immigration). Most important is its style, marked by the declarative sentence, easy accessibility, and the partisan’s battle against qualifications, evidence, and alternatives. Linearity to produce false memories to create nostalgia stoking resentment, and willing to adopt partisan stories as its own.

  • George Shulman — Interregnum not Impasse

    George Shulman — Interregnum not Impasse

    by George Shulman

    Since the 2016 election, and during Donald Trump’s Presidency as well as its violent aftermath on January 6, commentators on the left have engaged in two related debates. One has concerned the danger posed by Trump’s rhetoric and policies, by his base, and by the extra-parliamentary right. This debate involves contrasting assessments of the future of the Republican Party, and of the durability of the hegemonic center that has ruled American politics from Reagan to Obama. Running parallel is a second debate on the left, and intensified since the summer, about the meaning of the Movement for Black Lives (M4BL) and the massive inter-racial protests it organized last summer, but also about the potential of the Democratic Party as a vehicle of social change. These debates involve judgments of the character of American political culture and claims about the fluidity or rigidity of its manifest polarization. At stake are contrasting visions of our political moment. One vision, influential if not dominant, implicit if not always explicit, circulates through Democratic Socialists of America and Jacobin, and has been articulated by notable commentators like Samuel Moyn and Corey Robin in The New York Times and The New Yorker. Since 2016 it has depicted our political moment as both reflecting and continuing an ongoing impasse in politics and ideology. I support a contrasting vision, which also circulates through activist and academic circles on the left, and which depicts our moment as a fraught interregnum bearing both a real danger of an authoritarian or fascist turn, and, incipient possibilities of radical change. While the trope of impasse presumes the reconstitution of the hegemonic center ruling American politics since the 1980s, the trope of interregnum imagines both breakdown and transformation.

    I would begin by noting the elements of the orientation I am trying to capture with the trope of impasse. First, it has criticized ‘alarmism,’ and consistently minimized the sense that Trump’s presidency, his base, and the Republican Party posed dangers beyond historic patterns of harm. Second, it has minimized the extent and grip of racism, misogyny, and polarization in the political culture of whites and in general it discounts the power of political language and the potency of irrationality, in order to defend the premise that ‘common material interests’ (and demographic change) can and will underwrite a multi-racial, progressive, majority coalition. On the basis of that organizing fantasy, third, it attributes the character of the Democratic Party only to cowardice and corruption, bred by neoliberalism and elite complacency, and it has discounted how the party, as currently constituted, could undertake change more radical than tinkering. Fourth, it has imagined each party absorbing its radicalizing elements, thereby sustaining the hegemony of established elites. It expects that an ideological political center will be reconstituted, and that American politics will remain trapped in the deep structural impasse that it claims Trump merely manifested and never ruptured. The overall effect of such arguments, over the last five years, is to emphasize the undeniable inertial power of historical patterns and institutions, but diminish their contingency, fragility, and mutation. Such arguments minimize our sense of both danger and possibility, and magnify our sense of historical stasis. Though we hear an assumption that demographic change promises a brighter future, if only the Democratic Party supported truly progressive candidates, the repeated conclusion over five years is that the Trump moment and Biden’s election only continue the “interminable present”—the structural intractability and discursive paralysis—depicted by the academic left since the early 1990s.

    We cannot definitively validate, or decisively disprove, these claims and anticipations, both because “evidence” also warrants contrasting interpretations, and because assessments of the strength or weakness of a president, a movement, or a party concern objects whose character and power depend on actions that can and do remake political reality, whether by unexpectedly shattering a consensus, contesting entrenched power dynamics, or mobilizing unforeseen support. By foregrounding that sense of contingency, I would raise questions about each element or step of the “impasse talk” I am trying to identify, and propose instead how the trope of ‘interregnum’ better grasps the danger and the possibility in our recent history.

    My avowedly arguable premise is that politics cannot return to the neoliberalism and racial retrenchment of the last fifty years, and that post-Reagan conditions of political impasse cannot continue, either. Instead, I would propose that American politics has entered what Antonio Gramsci called an interregnum, in which the old gods are dying, the new ones have not yet been born, and we suffer ‘morbid symptoms.’ Though his Marxist teleology assured him which was which, we cannot be so confident about what is dying and what is emergent. For the last year manifested indigenous forms both of fascism, and of radical possibility, as enacted by M4BL and the multi-racial protests it organized and led. Each was incipient or inchoate, and each was amplified by COVID-19, one by the gross racial disparity and state abandonment, the other by manic denial of its mortal impact and political implications. Each rejected neoliberalism, each overtly named the centrality of race, each bespoke the extent to which liberal democracy has been hollowed out, each scorned the party system as failed representation, each refused the idiom of civic nationalism and its narrative of incremental progress, each depicted conditions of crisis and decisive choice. But the crystallization—or cooptation—of each emergent possibility is contingent, not only on organizing by white nationalists and abolitionists on streets, in localities, and by elections, but also on fateful choices by the Democratic Party about its policy and rhetoric.

    To anticipate, I propose that changes in both cultural landscape and party politics preclude reconstitution of the impasse that has arguably characterized American politics at least Reagan, and instead have opened an interregnum in which mobilized and antagonistic political constituencies—70% of whites, in one party, increasingly committed to minority and racial rule, facing a party increasingly committed to multi-racial democracy—see decisive choices shaping antithetical futures. If the question posed by the developments on the right is how to distinguish the danger of fascism from minority rule committed to white supremacy, the question posed by developments on the left is whether the radicalization on the streets since last summer, and danger from the right, engender a significant modification of liberal nationalism on the order of a third reconstruction. I would thus intensify both danger and possibility by amplifying the contingencies—and the rhetoric—that can interrupt, inflect, or transform inertial patterns.

    On the one hand, Trump was not repudiated in the 2020 election; he achieved a historic mobilization of working class, rural, and non-college educated voters to forge a coalition with explicit evangelical and capitalist elements, a long-sought Republican Party project, but he did so by disavowing creedal or civic nationalism, which had been the hegemonic rhetorical center that has long contained partisan difference. An explicitly anti-democratic and racially exclusionary Republican Party, no longer even evoking universalistic language, consistently won down ballot, protecting control of most states and redistricting, while retaining domination of the Supreme Court and the advantages bestowed by the constitution in the Senate and Electoral College. Roughly 70% of white voters, 40% of the electorate, deny legitimacy to the 2020 election, support the capitol invasion, and endorse not only voter suppression but overturning elections that Democrats win. Given the institutional grammar controlling elections, it is likely that a radicalized Republican Party will retake the Senate and perhaps the House in two years, and then win the Presidency in four years–unless the Biden administration produces tangible benefits clearly linked to electoral campaigns in states and nationally. Though a huge majority in public opinion polls support ‘bipartisanship,’ a default politics of ‘return to normal’ only allows the parliamentary obstruction that assures Republican electoral success. In turn, that success would cement an anti-democratic project of avowedly minority rule to protect authentic Americans from displacement, i.e. the native form of fascism that Du Bois and de Tocqueville–both seeing the imbrication of class rule, racial caste, and nationalism–called ‘democratic despotism.’ The newest iteration will amplify those inherited patterns, but in unprecedented ways it will abandon the universalist (creedal or civic) language that has both justified historic forms of domination, while also authorizing and yet containing protest against it.

    On the other hand, experience of COVID-19 and last summer’s massive protests fostered notable shifts in how whites view both endemic racism and state action, opening unexpected and perhaps unprecedented possibilities for progressive politics. What some call a third reconstruction or new New Deal is now spoken of in ways that no one could have imagined even 6 let alone 12 years ago, and yet, importantly, it is also a political necessity. For the democratic coalition that elected Biden must address the suffering and rancor, as well as the political infrastructure and constitutional bias, that sustains its adversary, or it will become an ever-losing minority party despite its majority support. But given the polarization in American political culture around race and gender, membership and immigration, the meaning of “America,” citizenship, and freedom, how can and should an openly social democratic and race-conscious approach be legitimated and narrated? That is the question of rhetoric, as Aristotle defined it: what are the available means of persuasion? Working through recent debates on the left will clarify possible answers.

    The impasse argument

    The first point of debate has been how to understand Trump’s electoral appeal and presidency, which has involved contention about naming -was Trump continuing conventional Republican goals (tax cuts and judges), or was ‘the F word’—fascism—appropriate to signal a mutation or intensification of inherited cultural and political patterns? These questions required judging the ways in which Trump simply repeated, or also modified, the white supremacy–and patriarchy–foundational in American history. One position feared the effects of ‘exceptionalizing’ Trump, which made him seem an anomaly in our history, rather than credit the racial and misogynist roots of his rhetoric and style, and rather than anchor his appearance in the failures of liberalism. The other position feared that ‘normalizing’ Trump would protect the ways that he represented a significant mutation of those historic patterns.

    Against those who used the F word to signal those departures, two different kinds of claims were made, each normalizing Trump. One claim called Trump an inherently ‘weak’ president, as evidenced by his policy failures, whereas a contrary view traced how he was repeatedly thwarted by massive political mobilization. Likewise, by defining power only by what we “do” and not also by what we “say,” Trump’s actions were cast as conventional and ineffective, whereas a contrary view traced how overt racial rhetoric, performative misogyny, and the practice of the Big Lie were transforming inherited political culture and party politics. Anxiety about ‘fascism’ was thus dismissed on the grounds that Trump did not govern like European fascists and autocrats, rather than see him in relation to recurring but also mutating forms of what Alberto Toscano called “racial fascism,” entwining cultural mobilization, popular terrorism, and state violence.

    The prevailing orientation, therefore, cast the “real” danger not as Trump or the right he was authorizing and mobilizing, but as the “alarmism,” even “hysteria” of those who used the F word. Why? Because the effect of “inflating” danger was to push the left to protect the regime of liberal democracy, as if it were the only and necessary alternative to fascism, whereas (and I agree) the failures and deep racial structure of liberalism in fact made Trump both possible and appealing. To reverse this argument’s logic, though, what is its effect?  It dismisses those who see danger and precludes taking (the idea of) danger seriously. What is thereby being protected? If there really were danger from a growing and militantly anti-democratic right increasingly occupying an established political party, and if the U.S. had entered a version of a ‘Weimar moment,’ what would that mean? The left would have to re-imagine the cultural landscape (and working class) it has fantasized, and, it would have to decide if defending even the minimal terms of liberal democracy is a necessary to protect the possibility for radical possibilities. It would have to rethink the working class subject it is invested in sanitizing, rethink its assumption that hegemonic impasse will continue, and thus rethink its relationship to the loathed liberal object on which its future may depend.

    The second point of debate involved the danger in the mobilization by the right, in increasingly networked and armed militias, in the alternate reality created by social media and FOX news, and in state and national sites of the Republican Party. The dangers have been consistently minimized by influential voices on the left, on the grounds that the extra-parliamentary right is not formally organized, and thus will be contained by the Republican Party. The capitol invasion and certification vote might have tested these claims, but influential judgment remains that the occupation ‘failed,’ as if that proved both the weakness of the right and the durability of the established order. Though the worst possible outcome did not materialize, that doesn’t mean the threat is not real and ongoing. The left faulted Biden for his fantasy of returning to normal that includes bipartisanship, but it has not traversed its own fantasy of the center holding until a progressive movement captures the Democratic Party and gains overt political power. Dramatizing a contrasting view, Richard Seymour responded to the capital invasion by inverting Marx: an “inchoate” and “incipient” fascism” has indeed appeared, as farce first; it can then reappear as tragedy. A first step has already occurred as the mobilized right has taken over and radicalized the Republican Party.

    It is not consigned to irrelevance by demographics, as too many on the left assume; rather, Trump created a template for its resurrection. Indeed, his defeat further radicalized the party, even as it retained its grip on state and local governments. Given the electoral college, the rural bias in the Senate, voter suppression, and the composition of the Supreme Court, there is every reason to expect the party to remain committed to minority rule, and to electoral viability on terms that include overturning elections that Democrats win. No establishment element in the party is available for bipartisan consensus; every incentive encourages the party to obstruct Biden’s initiatives, diminish economic recovery, and prove that government is ineffective, thereby to feed the despair and rage that enable Republican majorities in Congress in two years, and a successor to Trump in four. Autocratic rule has been averted for the moment, but merely postponed, not forestalled. Alarm seems at the least prudent, and I would argue that prudence requires defending electoral (and so, liberal) democracy, not as an idealized alternative or revered object to defend against an alien form of despotism, but as a grossly flawed framework whose declared rights and recent advances nevertheless can authorize and enable emergent radical projects of democratization to develop further.

    This broaches the third broad area of debate, concerning the character of public opinion and political culture. In simple terms, the election revealed that 72 million people, mostly white, across class lines, voted to reelect Trump–3 million more than in 2016, enough to have beaten Hillary in the popular vote and not only the electoral college. After the election, 80% of those voters remain convinced the election was stolen, a claim based on ‘disinformation’ that was taken as plausible because it confirmed prior racialized judgments about who is a legitimate citizen. Some of those voters were transactional, making a judgment on the basis of taxes and judges, but nevertheless, they knew they were voting for a candidate who refused to accept the peaceful transfer of power if he lost, as if Democrats could win only by fraud, i.e. by people of color voting. At issue is not only ‘denial of reality’ by enclosure within an alternate one, but mass investment in protecting white supremacy and patriarchy. The prevailing view of DSA and Jacobin would salvage this situation, to protect the vision of a class politics oriented by “material interest” rather than divided by the “identity politics” of race, gender, and nationalism. But for whites, class in the U.S. is lived through codes of race and gender, and by deep investments in both propertied individualism and nationalism. Indeed, a huge majority of whites has been wed to the death drive by the discourse of racial capitalism, aligning whiteness, work, and worth to masculinized self-reliance. Blocked grief at real losses has produced both the suicidal and manic features of melancholy. Rather than undergo mourning, many white men and women embraced death in the name of liberty, but they also are enraged, feel legitimized in their sense of victimization, and they are armed. The material realities of disease, precarity, and racial disparity must now include the invented reality of a stolen election, as well as the denial of reality embraced by the millions who voted for Trump. But the historic rationalism of the left, presuming the effectiveness of what Freud called the reality principle, prevents apprehension of the desires and fantasies–and so of the images and symbols–that constitute what class means in particular places and times.

    I would call our historical moment an interregnum, therefore, partly because the historic marriage of citizenship and whiteness is being regenerated, not only as militias enact historic forms of popular sovereignty and local civic power, but also as the Republican Party increasingly recruits men and women of color into a newly emergent, multiracial and not only ethnic, form of whiteness. This anti-democratic form of ‘American democracy’ defensively asserts the individualism, popular sovereignty, and nationalism once taken for granted in the civic language that wed whiteness and citizenship, but now it is severed from even the pretense of universalist ideals and appeals. This zombie politics of the undead, this resurrection of American greatness may be dismissed as farce, but it will thrive and not truly die unless its premise—in gendered and racialized forms of individualism and resentment–is addressed, and unless its constitutional scaffolding is dismantled. This challenge has also prompted debates on the left about the Democratic Party.

    The prevailing view, articulated by DSA and Jacobin, imagines a culture that is center-left in a readily accessible way, which implies that the only obstacle to a winning majority coalition is Democratic Party timidity, linked to the corrupt neo-liberalism of its established elites. If we recall that refusal to accept electoral norms has occurred before–when southern states seceded and then rejected open elections during reconstruction–it seems more plausible to say we have shifted from ‘polarization’ to a condition more like civil war, albeit so far a cold one, over antithetical visions of democracy and the future. Even if parliamentary stalemate persists, it reflects not so much structurally dictated foreclosure, as a condition of civil war whose outcome we cannot predict, because it is contingent on our action now.

    In these cultural circumstances, the Democratic Party mobilized 8 million more voters and created the basis for a multi-racial coalition with some 30% of whites, more affluent and educated than not, and people of color across class lines. DSA and Jacobin still claim that Bernie Sanders could have won the election, despite the fact that even in the primaries he could not cross the 30% threshold, because he could not gain significant support from Black and Latinix constituencies (except in Nevada). The base of the Democratic Party, Black women, rescued Biden in the primaries because they credited the depth of racism and anxiety among whites across class lines, because they valued his appeal to competence, and, I would argue, because his profound (Catholic) understanding of grief linked mourning to public service in ways that really resonated with the Black church tradition. But in turn progressives and millennials still mobilized (in ways they did not for Hillary Clinton) because so many accepted Bernie Sanders’ dire judgment that we had indeed entered a Weimar moment in which the choice was really between Trump and democracy.

    One incredible irony of our moment is thus that Biden’s reputation for moderation, his personal proximity to suffering, and his performance of a ‘common man’ version of a whiteness wed to decency not supremacy, were crucial to recruiting enough (suburban) whites to create a winning coalition with affluent progressives and people of color. Moreover, his first 100 days suggests that this persona may allow him to advance more progressive policies, perhaps a democratic version of Nixon going to China. Given our political culture, constitutional bias, and gerrymandering, the Democratic Party still needs both its moderate and its progressive wings if it is to fly, to use Cristina Beltran’s great metaphor, though this creates enormous parliamentary difficulty for progressive projects. And to complete the double bind, unless it produces benefits tangible to masses of people in the next two and four years, it is likely to be defeated electorally, but the actions that produce such benefits are likely to contradict the promises that are crucial to moderate voters.

    Interregnum and Rhetorical Possibility

    Rather than depict a durable center containing threats on the right as well as radical energies on the left, and rather than presume the readiness of working class Americans (across racial lines) to adopt a pointedly progressive political agenda, I see a darker and more dangerous situation in which a likely outcome is the victory of an openly anti-democratic Republican Party, anchored in an increasingly organized militia movement and a conspiratorial popular culture among the vast majority of whites, and recruiting enough people of color to appear nationalist rather than racist. Rather than moralize the character of the Democratic Party, I would emphasize that political culture among whites supports only some specific elements of the progressive or radical vision offered by the left, though to an uncertain degree some whites (across class lines) may be open to shifting affiliation. But tangible benefits are not self-evident in meaning and do not suffice to generate allegiance; rather, inferences from those benefits—that government can be effective for the many not the few, and that democracy is not a fraud—depends on the available means of persuasion. What are they? Which idioms might resonate, and with whom?

    The symbiosis of Trump’s presidency and his base was made possible by the conjunction of defensive nationalism, racial retrenchment, and neoliberal precarity, the dominant strands in American politics since Reagan, which set the limitations of Obama’s self-defeating and disappointing presidency. But in ways the left has not credited, this conjunction reflects the failure of prior populist and progressive projects to address how citizenship is racialized standing and capitalism is always-already racial. The repeated failure of American social reformers to sever citizenship from whiteness, to show the price that whites and not only blacks pay for white supremacy, and thereby to join a class politics to an abolition project, is the ongoing condition enabling this iteration of American-style fascism. Conversely, a politically effective and durable response to Trump and his white base must address both precarity and structural racism, as twinned not separate. Progressives must show that separating whiteness and citizenship brings tangible benefits to those disposed by zero-sum racial logic to see only loss. But we also must explain what those tangible benefits mean–narrate their meaning–in ways that reattach profoundly alienated people—not only working class whites but millennials across class and race lines—to democratic ideals and practices they understandably deem fraudulent and/or exclusionary. Those ‘values’ are not manifestly valuable in a time of rampant cynicism, but must be turned from empty nouns into active verbs by political poesis and praxis that vivifies and enlarges their historic (and limited) meaning. Politics has entered an interregnum, though, not only because of danger on the right, but also because the conjunction of COVID and M4BL organizing has created just that possibility, by linking precarity and race in democratizing ways.

    How might different ways of politically and rhetorically linking precarity and race address the danger of an emboldened and increasingly organized right? Aziz Rana, Robin Kelley, and many M4BL advocates have argued that the crisis in liberal nationalism and its creedal narrative, witnessed on the right and the left, is an opportunity to conceive a democratic politics no longer defined and contained by the nation-state. M4BL, drawing on traditions of black radicalism, is thus seen as a model of how social movements should sever projects of social justice even from a progressive version of civic nationalism and its redemptive narrative, to assemble instead coalitions that shape politics locally and influence policy nationally. On this view, radical social change requires not an over-arching national narrative, but a movement of movements, coalitions forged by transactional and strategic relations around intersecting issues, contiguous interests, and regional projects. The great benefit of this approach is to contest the settler colonialism presumed and erased by progressive versions of civic nationalism, and to instead foreground the patiently prefigurative politics that slowly but surely builds another world, a durable and vibrant res publica, within and against this one. Such ‘horizontalism’ may also offer a resilient practice of survival under conditions of a cold civil war, when political persuasion seems impossible, and mutual aid and mobilization seem paramount.

    These arguments are credible and appealing, but I fear they cede state power to a mobilized right intent on crushing sanctuary cities, anti-racism insurgency, climate change activism, queer politics, and critical race curricula, let alone social democratic attempts to increase social equality and address racial disparity. They cede state power because they relinquish a large-scale (say national) effort to seek a majoritarian hegemony on behalf of a democratic horizon of aspiration, to legitimate equality, popular power in participatory practices, and through elections and truly representative institutions. I would argue that social transformation requires more than a coalition of constituent movements, which are always at risk of acting as narrowing interest groups; it requires hegemony, to denote the symbolic legitimation and organization of political power that at once advances and protects the constituencies it brings into relation as a majoritarian formation. Such hegemony requires symbolic or figurative language, an organizing vision and historical narrative, to explain circumstances, invoke a ‘we,’ and stipulate ‘what is to be done.’ For democratic ideas and participatory practices are not self-evidently desirable or legitimate; by praxis and imaginative poesis we turn empty nouns into embodied verbs, visible realities, rhetorically compelling objects, and durable affective attachments.

    On the assumption that radical social change requires a persuasive idiom with broad appeal, my avowedly arguable proposition is for progressives to articulate a “third reconstruction” that, in Baldwinian terms, publicly reckons with the historical legacy, institutional features, and cultural meaning of white supremacy, while in Gramscian terms, symbolizes democratic renewal through a ‘national-popular’ idiom aspiring to hegemony. Because the toxic character of civic life and prevailing devaluation of public goods is inseparable from endemic racism, a third reconstruction is not only a program of ‘reparations’ directed to the ‘wealth gap’ suffered by Black communities, but is also the means and the signifier of a broadly democratic reconstitution of social life. That reconstitution requires the use of state power and public programs to break the grip of oligarchy and caste, but its democratic integrity depends on ongoing ‘movement’ in every locality and across of range of issues, to bear witness to historic injustice and present injuries, to sustain non-state infrastructures of mutual aid, to pressure elites, and to create stages on which people can see themselves assembled, enjoying civic life and public things. But as the freedman bureaus during the first reconstruction indicate, the survival, let alone vitality of any ‘democracy-from-below’ requires a state that challenges local tyrannies and supports insurgencies, which in turn requires a ‘national-popular’ idiom that shows the relevance of democratic ideas to people rightly cynical about them, and that recruits (some or enough of) those who inhabit the “non-intersecting” reality that is the legacy, not only of Trump, but of the failed liberalism that made him possible.

    Rather than recuperate the tired teleological narrative of progress, the trope of a “third” reconstruction emphasizes two prior but “splendid” failures, as Du Bois put it, to suggest a revolutionary experiment to make anew, the contingency of any victory or accomplishment, and the necessity for ongoing popular struggle with entrenched forms of power. We cannot know if such language could achieve hegemony until and if it is genuinely attempted. In this interregnum, when we do not know what is in fact dying–is it white supremacy or democratic possibility?–drawing on ‘national-popular’ or vernacular idioms seems necessary to reckon finally with the past, project a potentially common horizon, and thereby protect the very idea of a democratic, multi-racial politics. Failure does not mean a return to neo-liberal impasse, but an opening for an aspirational fascism to shift from incipience and farce to resurgence and tragedy.

     

    George Shulman teaches political theory and American Studies at the Gallatin School of New York University. In 2010, his second book, American Prophecy: Race and Redemption in American Politics, won the David Easton Award for best book in political theory. He is currently working on a book entitled Life Postmortem: Beyond Impasse.

  • Seamus Deane — Apocalypse Now

    Seamus Deane — Apocalypse Now

    by Seamus Deane

    In its drive for universal dominion, the most barbaric global force of the last seventy years has been American foreign policy. Among its most notable creations has been American domestic right-wing nationalism. By extension, this has been reproduced, as part of the enormous projection of American power, as similar domestic nationalisms in numerous parts of the globe. So exact has this process of reproduction been that the leaders of these ‘populist’ movements bear an uncanny resemblance to one another, boiler-plate reproductions of a composite of gangsterism, deceit, violence, ignorance, racism, baroque evangelical religious convictions and a matching derision for expertise (a contemporary mode of anti-intellectualism), plus billionaire support and well-honed social media skills. They include Trump, Netanyahu, Johnson, Bolsonaro, Modi, Berlusconi, Salvini, Orbán, Erdoğan, Kaczynski, Sisi — to name but a few.

    The USA had been producing Republican grotesques for some decades —Nixon, Reagan, the elder Bush, but then, like fully evolved mutations of a political climate change, emerged two paragons in excelsis of the type – George W. Bush and Trump. The sun belts and the bible belts had combined to produce the first three of these for the Republican party. Trump, though, went further; he fused them with the rust belt(s) and made bigotry, racism, resentment, the celebration of economic inequality, the most active core values of an under-educated and brainwashed electorate. These became renovatory for a party that needed to find some species of ideology to bolster its practices of gerrymander, voter suppression and non co-operation that, since Newt Gingrich and Karl Rove, had become daily exercise routines for a Republican Party, determined by every possible means to ward off the threat of demographic change. These populist movements also bear strong family resemblances – fundamentalist religious furies, bug-eyed on the same issues, like hostility to abortion, immigration, support for internal domestic and for international violence; white racism, always front and centre, imperial fantasies, enmities old and new – Russia, China, Iran, Islam,’socialism’ –and a global economic system run like a protection racket.

    ‘We can’t predict the future but we can always change the past’ is an old joke but works also as a rationale for many historians. The past American century could do with some revisionism; otherwise, it would be possible to believe that the astonishing power and incompetence of the US military and political classes have had no rival since the Fall of Rome. Unopposed in the air, the US has spent twenty years in Afghanistan, seventeen years in Iraq, in Syria openly since 2014, bombing non-stop in all.  We can only roughly count in multi-millions the civilian deaths inflicted by the USA, starting in 1950, from Korea to Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, across Asia to the ruined Middle East – not to mention Central and South America. American presidencies are primarily remembered in the wider world for catastrophic war: Truman (atomic war on Japan, pulverizing of North Korea), Johnson (chemical warfare, (plus white phosphorus and napalm), Vietnam), Reagan (Central America), Bush Snr. (Panama, Iraq), Clinton (Serbia, Iraq), Bush Jnr. (Iraq, Afghanistan), Obama (Afghanistan, Libya, Syria, Yemen, Somalia, Pakistan) and the proxy wars of its criminal allies, Israel (Gaza, Lebanon) and Saudi Arabia (Yemen).

    One can show this policy of warmongering has been long established, especially among what we call western democracies – Britain, France, the USA – as they have feasted, since the mid nineteenth-century, on the remains of the decaying Spanish, Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Empires and have taken, by force and duplicity, the natural mineral resources of the Middle East, especially oil. The fall of the Soviet Empire has stimulated comparable political appetites. Wearing the bib of NATO, the US has been, since 1989, digesting several former Soviet republics. The right-wing nationalism of Ukraine, for instance, has served as an especially piquant sauce while a cold-eyed Putin, on the other side of the table, is compelled to watch this steady mastication of the remnant of the former USSR and the Warsaw Pact countries. With Yugoslavia dissolved, Serbia bombed, NATO and the EU expand almost in lockstep in the process of incorporating the former enemy and its ‘near abroad’, now ringed by US military bases and heavily infiltrated by the CIA. Only the Covid-19 plague has prevented the proposed display of minatory American/ NATO military games in the regions where the Soviets once destroyed the spectacular Nazi military machine.

    Perhaps the radical switch to global domination came with World War I when European interstate wars were magnified into a global struggle. More specifically, it came with the refusal of the US Senate in 1919 to ratify Woodrow Wilson’s proposed League of Nations on the grounds that the USA refused to be dragged into wars on behalf of others. It would choose its own wars and when it did, they would be global. Or one might say, as Carl Schmitt did, that the change came with the Kellogg-Briand pact of 1928 or, to give its full title, General Treaty for the Renunciation of War as an Instrument of National Policy. That was interlinked with the Stimson doctrine of 1932 which declared that the USA had, according to the 1928 pact, the right to decide the justice or injustice of any territorial change anywhere in the world. Schmitt pointed out that this global interventionism had been repudiated by the USA only a lifetime earlier, in 1861, when the UK recognized the Confederacy as a ‘belligerent faction’ in the American Civil War. Such recognition was itself an intervention. Intervention had by 1932 become a more doctrinal affair, with global range and yet its legitimacy was confined by Stimson to the decision of one nation alone.[1]

    So as the low dishonest decade of the 30s dawned, the system of international law was decisively shifted from its former European to an American base; interstate agreements and the ‘bracketing’ of war were, by fiat, globalized. War, as such, had been criminalized at the Versailles Treaty of 1918. The then most recent civil war in Russia, begun by the Whites and supported warmly but not competently by the UK, produced a polity the very principles of which challenged the legitimacy of the Great Power States in particular.

    At first, it appeared that Europe was the decisive zone of struggle across the fifty years of war and inter-war. But, in the long run, it was not. The increasingly possible German turn to the left after WWI was halted by the brutal Freikorps murders of Rosa Luxembourg and Karl Liebknecht in 1918. Contrastingly, the ominous turn to the right in Germany was finally facilitated in 1933, when the fragile Weimar republic was transferred by the vain and treacherous von Hindenburg to Hitler’s Nazi grip for safe keeping.[2]  The long French turn to the alt-right had begun with the Dreyfus case of 1894-1906; when Charles Maurras was sentenced to life for treason in 1954, he declared his punishment was revenge for Dreyfus, served cold after sixty years. Right and left in France had long been in dangerous equipoise. Only a year separates the firing-squad executions of Marc Bloch by the Nazis and Pierre Laval by De Gaulle’s government. Both died with ‘Vive la France!’ on their lips. Pétain just beat de Gaulle to the punch in that instance.  A close-run thing in both Germany and France.

    Yet these tragic national moments quickly lost much of their dramatic force, especially in the ‘near abroad’ retrospect of the European Community. The angles of intrastate and interstate frictions began to alter in the larger and yet more shriveled spaces of the Cold War. Hitler’s fanatical concentration on the Russian front was the one element of his strategic approach that survived his defeat and became American doctrine. The USSR, fellow- and pre-eminent victor in the War, had been the real enemy of the USA all along. The question had been, which would destroy Germany first? The answer was the USSR, but not before being irretrievably weakened by its losses, its demographic profile an indicator of the catastrophic long-term damage it suffered then.[3]

    National post-war conflicts revealed the intramural war that had been strategically conducted in secreto in 1939-45 and became manifest thereafter in the Cold War. Its first battle was to decide who got the credit for winning World War II. Some of it had to be ceded to Russia; but was it Soviet or Mother Russia? The latter, who had beaten the last world conqueror, Napoleon, had (the story went) done it again, despite then Czarist, now Stalinist, tyranny. But, alas, it was the Soviets who appeared at Yalta and there were powerful communist parties in France and Italy. Communist contributions to the defeat of fascism in those countries were first downplayed by the domestic right and then almost erased by the  exemplary and brutal US intervention in the Italian 1948 elections. (The Irish embassy in Rome co-operated in relaying American dollars to the Vatican for the support of Catholic candidates.) The past had to be rewritten for the sake of the future.

    Yet the great damage the Americans sought to do to the communists in Europe was almost superfluous, since the Soviets did it for them with their robotic repression and their manufacture of atheistic boredom outmatching the US manufacture of consumerism and kitsch religious fervor. The Americans were able to begin the Cold War by obliterating North Korea in 1950, secure in the belief that most of Western Europe had by then been made safe for democracy and capitalism; in the Iberian peninsula, for dictatorship and capitalism. Eastern Europe and the Balkans were anaesthetized. The geo-political balance was not only kept but reinforced during the ‘trente glorieuses’ years of prosperity, 1945-75, even through the breakdowns and massacres of the fading Anglo-French empires, (India-Pakistan, Kenya, Nigeria, Rhodesia, Algeria, Indo-China). Colonies re-coagulated into the Third World. The Cold War reached its peak of tension in the Cuban crisis of 1963. As the Soviet Union twitched towards its demise, Western Asia (now the Middle East) began to overtake it as the focal point of global struggle. America’s Israel began its wider wars for domination; apartheid and genocide, well-learned in Nazi Germany, now practiced in the lone surviving fascist state, were re-programmed as democracy and defence of the Western promontory in the East. Israel’s America outfaced the new Great Beast, Islam, its ramshackle, mostly Arab, autocracies and their vast lakes of oil, with fleets of weapons from the Pentagon and televangelistic ravings, once anti-semitic, now pro-Israeli, on the Jewish role in the End Days on the new sound-track as the bombs rained down.

    Perhaps the idea that has infiltrated most deeply behind democratic defences, partly because they had decayed or been exposed or had often simply been pretences, was that bureaucratic and discursive modes of government were of their nature not only given to moral emptiness but were actually devoted to the creation of it. In its first and still most influential modern articulation by Carl Schmitt, in the Germany of the 1920s and early 30s, this first appeared as a clarifying analysis, parading the virtue of decisionism as a power to overcome Weimarian chaos but, in addition, as a theory of power, envisioned as a surgical act that cleared the functioning of a body politic blocked by endless discussion .  This is often and rightly regarded as a defence of dictatorship but it is perhaps even more effective in its negative force as the claim that deliberative democracy cannot but abandon basic moral instincts in order fully to be itself.[4] Although the stain of that accusation spread quite slowly within Europe and the USA, it began to accelerate in the sixties, precisely when democratic protest against the Vietnam war, against sclerotic authority, seemed to have gained democracy a high prestige. The reaction was quick. Ronald Reagan, elected as governor of California, promptly carried out his notorious assault on the Berkeley campus, staff and city itself (1967-69). He was one of the first populists, ruthless, vacuous, a commercial for American capitalism as the main attraction with Religion as the B-movie and a Las Vegas-Biblical rhetoric for both. Further, a remarkable shift within academic discourse began in that decade and continues still. In brief it involved a deflection into the American academy and political world of the negativing power of Carl Schmitt’s thought. This deflection was achieved by the adoption by a kind of whining ricochet of Carl Schmitt via the writings and teachings of Leo Strauss in a concerted ambush on modernity and the Enlightenment.

    Quite how this took place is an intricate story. An early recruit into the anti-modernity narrative was Edmund Burke. A predominantly Catholic, Irish and Jesuit commentary replaced utility with prudence as the key term in his thought and his revolutionaries became the subhuman others by whom the Christian civilization was suborned at its centre. [5] Stalinism also played its feral role in the standard refiguring of the Russian revolution as a replay of the French; the interpretive rein was tightened to restrain all revolution, revolution as such, from destroying that mass of inarticulable belief  which, for the Straussian version of the plebs, was their zone of the ignorant sublime while the governing elite communicated actual knowledge by esoteric semaphore.[6]  One problem was that those—like, say, Allan Bloom—who most loudly lamented the disappearance of the deep truths of tradition were themselves the most pernicious betrayers of it. If one can speak of an American or any other kind of titular national ‘Mind’, it only reveals how much time the author wasted in reading the ‘classics’ that are ostensibly to save it. [7] But the very vulgarity of this discourse is what made it so amenable to such political ends as it was used for in the days of Wolfowitz and Cheney and their ilk during the bloody wars, by no means ended yet, of the Bush administration. The ever-expanding ‘war on terror’ has, on top of slaughter, produced an unexampled exodus of people from Western Asia and the Middle East, victims of the terror of a war which was itself the most intense instalment yet in a long series of assaults already decades long. Launched by lies, supported by sycophants, equipped with weaponry whose users rejoiced in its unmatched destructive and annihilating  range, the war pulverized helpless populations, their homes, the infrastructure of their cities, hospitals and mosques. Their remnants fled to the refugee camps, the snail-trail of misery left by the passage of the American war-machine. Now the region is dominated by carious, aftermath political regimes and sectarian civil wars, while Europe’s shores seethe with displaced immigrants. The bombing of Libya by NATO made it a war zone, opened Africa wide to the ISIS created in Iraq. The Taliban have returned in Afghanistan, the Shia crescent from Iran to Syria has consolidated, Yemen has became an apocalypse under Saudi bombs and in the midst of all, Trump, after a series of assassinations and displays of random force, has suddenly announced America First and started to withdraw, leaving behind Bush’s initial and now unimaginable mess.

    After WWII, Alexandre Kojève envisaged history ending in the arms of a Kantian federated Europe; but it turned out to be only what we now know as the EU, finally relieved of the UK. And the series of judicial coups that marked the development of the EU, confirmed that its democratic deficit was more the consequence, maybe even the aim, of policy rather than some unfortunate side- effect.[8] Francis Fukuyama, at the end of the Cold War imagined it ending in a neo-liberal capitalist paradise, finally relieved of political conflict.[9] At least, after the latest attempt at world domination by the USA (which we might date to 1991), after the financial crisis of 2008, the Pandemic of 2019 –, and the anti-Enlightenment of the Internet age, no-one, apart from all the evangelicals who set off like commuters for their daily incandescence, is going to announce the end of history in any foreseeable future.

    Perhaps we can again take direction from the Old Right. Carl Schmitt, claimed that, since the declaration of the Monroe Doctrine in 1813, the USA has been caught up in a dialectic of interventionism and isolationism.[10] Right now, with the end of the Trump presidency, perhaps an isolationist phase has set in; in a tectonic shift, the manic right has begun to be consumed in its own negation. With the 2021 invasion of the Capitol perhaps the USA, weary of invading everywhere else, has decided, to the world’s relief, finally to invade itself.

     

    Seamus Deane is Professor of Modern History and American Literature at University College, Dublin. He has published two books of poems, Gradual Wars and Rumours.

     

    [1] Carl Schmitt, The Nomos of the Earth in the International Law of the Jus Publicum Europaeum trans. and annotated by G.L.Ulmen (New York: Telos Press Publishing, 2006), 279, 296-99. See the recent plea for a return to a truly liberal foreign policy in the USA: David C. Hendrickson, Republic in Peril: American Empire and the Liberal Tradition (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), 161-210, 216-17. But the endless whitewashing of the ‘new international order’, including the UN, as a juridical operation that began with the Kellogg-Briand pact continues apace. See Oona Hathaway and Scott Shapiro, The Internationalists: How a Radical Plan to Outlaw War Remade the World (New York: Simon and Schuster,2017).

    [2] See Christopher Clark, Iron Kingdom: The Rise and Downfall of Prussia, 1600-1947 (London: Penguin Books, 2007), 655-58.

    [3] Tony Wood, ‘Russia Vanishes’, London Review of Books (6 December, 2012), 39-41. Adamson, David M. and Julie DaVanzo, Russia’s Demographic ‘Crisis’: How Real Is It?. Santa Monica, CA: RAND Corporation, 1997. https://www.rand.org/pubs/issue_papers/IP162.html.

    ‘Today Russia is experiencing rapid population aging that will accelerate in the next two decades. The patterns and trends of population growth and aging in Russia have been strongly affected by such catastrophic events as the two world wars, the civil war, and famines. These catastrophes have distorted the population age-sex structure. For example, due to huge losses during the World War II, Russia has the lowest male-to-female ratio in the world, especially among the elderly. The irregularities of the age-sex pyramid will have an impact on the rate of population growth and aging for several decades.’ 

    [4] Schmitt, Political Theology: Four chapters on the Concept of Sovereignty (Chicago; University of Chicago Press, 2004,[1922]), 62. In his polemical account of the conservative thought of Donoso Cortés, he says that for Cortés, ‘Liberalism…existed…only in that short interim period in which it was possible to answer the question “Christ or Barabbas?” with a proposal to adjourn or appoint a commission of investigation.’

    [5] See my  ‘Burke in the United States’ in The Cambridge Companion to Edmund Burke ed. David Dwan and Christopher J. Insole  (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 221-32.

    [6] Leo Strauss, Natural Right and History (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1953). The opening pages in particular of this work show Strauss’s strong affinity with Schmitt; For example, pp.5-6:  ‘genuine choice is nothing but resolute or deadly serious decision. [It] is akin to intolerance rather than to tolerance. Liberal relativism has its roots in the natural right tradition of tolerance…but in itself it is a seminary of intolerance.’

    [7] Allan Bloom, The Closing of the American Mind (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1997)

    [8] On Alexandre Kojève’s aide-mémoire The Latin Empire: Outline of a Doctrine of French Policy’, see Thomas Meaney, ‘Fancies and Fears of a Latin Europe’, New Left Review, 107, (Sept/Oct 2017), 117-30. See Perry Anderson, ‘The European Coup’, London Review of Books (17 December, 2020), 9-23.

    [9] Francis Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man (New York: Free Press, 1992).

    [10] Schmitt, Nomos of the Earth, 253-55.

  • Elissa Marder — Beyond the Reality Principle Like You Wouldn’t Believe: Reflections on the US Election

    Elissa Marder — Beyond the Reality Principle Like You Wouldn’t Believe: Reflections on the US Election

    by Elissa Marder

    I think it would be a real mistake to imagine that we are now entering “life after Trump.” Although Trump’s presidency did rupture something in American life by ushering in a scary new day for American fascism, the roots of Trumpism took hold long before Trump took office, and the impact of the Trump-effect is far from over. The Trump era has taken us dramatically and I suspect irrevocably Beyond the Reality Principle.  The possibility of “life after Trump” would need to be an actual reckoning with the painful realities that face us (climate change, the enduring legacy of slavery, the carceral system, poverty) rather than a nostalgic wishful hope that we can simply return to the way things supposedly were “before.” Joe Biden won the election not by being Biden but by not being Trump. The idea that Biden could simply “make America a democracy again” is itself a fantasy that invests in some of the very same myths about American political life that Trump exploited for his own populist, racist, and fascist ends. Trump not only violated political norms, institutions, science, facts, and trust but was rewarded for doing so by the Republican leadership and by more than 72 million American voters.

    We need to take up the challenge of understanding why Trump’s assault on the reality principle was so effective and so appealing to so many. Why—after more than four years of his abhorrent rhetoric and political tactics, has political resistance to him—from both the left and the more traditional right—been so feeble? 72 million US citizens voted for Trump. Some of those people fully embrace his toxic rhetoric and his warped world view. Others claim to have made a rational decision to vote for him by pointing to his economic policies or his support for American businesses. In fact, however, given his blatant and triumphant disregard for the truth, facts, the constitution, and the rule of law, one could not vote for Trump without also voting against the reality principle. Every vote for Trump was also a vote against truth.

    In this domain, the opposite of truth is not a lie, but a wish. Trump peddles magical thinking and weaponizes Freudian dream logic. Unlike most other fascist leaders, he doesn’t give a damn about politics, policy, or ideology. He doesn’t believe in anything other than his own perverse infantile fantasy of phallic infallibility. But what we must work to understand is how and why his grandiose and simplistic pronouncements touched so many people so very deeply.

    Denial is his super-power. His refusal—or inability—to respect any prohibition, restriction, or limitation of his own will-to-power apparently enthralled his admirers. His seemingly unlimited capacity to demand that the world bend to his infantile view of it inspired his followers to join him on the path beyond the reality principle. He made those people feel that he recognized their distress and that he—and he alone—could make it go away. Most of his promises were absurd: Mexico will pay for the wall; the coronavirus will vanish by Easter. But it is as if the very absurdity of these promises only further cemented his power. He dared to express impossible wishes. Trump’s grip on his own fantasy is like a twisted reversal of the Lacanian dictum not to give way on one’s desire. He never ever concedes to the reality principle. It is through the prism of this denial that he touched so many. We must take the measure of the despair, anxiety, shame, helplessness, and fear that underlies a vote for Trump. 72 million people voted for him because he promised them a way of escaping, denying, or avoiding some aspect of reality that had indeed become unbearable. There is an important truth to be reckoned with here: what if those people needed his absurd promises precisely because certain aspects of reality have become unthinkable and hence unbearable. The omnipresent specter of climate change and global warming, for example, cannot be processed by individual psyches because there is little—if anything—that individual people can do to stop the devastation that hovers on the horizon. Quotidian survival requires that we deny the magnitude of that devastation. In the case of climate change, denial of reality only accelerates and exacerbates the very reality that it aims to deny. The thread that connects all of Trump’s supporters (whether they are white supremacists, white collar capitalists or workers in obsolete industries) is a need to ward off acceptance of a loss that is disavowed because it is felt to be unbearable. Trump apparently relieved people of the responsibility and the burden of facing reality. His utterances are both absolutely (and impossibly) performative and completely unreal. His shamelessness absolves people of their shame.

    Trumpism not only altered the terms of American political discourse by undermining truth, facts, science, expertise, precedent, norms, decency, and trust but he also waged an assault on reality itself.  We need to understand how he transformed his own personal denial of reality into a collective fantasy that effectively altered the political landscape. His denial of reality did in fact create a new reality. It is this new reality—the reality of “fake news” and “alternate facts”—that has become the hallucinatory norm.

    Everything Trump says is literally incredible. “Like you wouldn’t believe” is one of his favorite phrases. One doesn’t need to have a psychoanalytic sensibility to appreciate the double-edged dreamlike duplicity of this expression. Meant as a variation of one of his standard hyperboles (everything he touches can only be the greatest, biggest, the most tremendous, etc.) the expression “like you wouldn’t believe” openly avows that the reality being hyped requires an act of belief precisely because it is unbelievable: it is beyond the reality principle.

    Trump deploys reversal as a political tool. He contests every bit of reality that threatens to expose his lies and misdeeds as “fake news” and then disseminates his own false counterclaims via social media and conservative TV. Over time, the infusion of so much noise (flooding the zone with shit as his aide Steve Bannon famously put it) has transformed the public sphere into a vertiginous hall of mirrors. All news is potentially “fake news” so there is no news. The internet is the perfect delivery device for disinformation. It soaks up distorted wish fulfillments and amplifies them through endless replication.

    As in a dream, there is no negation on the internet. Disinformation is always already viral: viral communications cannot be destroyed, negated, or contained. They can only be refuted by the presentation of “evidence” that comes from a reality that has no bearing whatsoever on the life of what transpires in the viral dreamscape.

    Trump is not merely an aberration of American political life; he is also a symptom of it. He reflects at us the image of what we have become and exposes the wishfulness and the denial in those (like me) who still harbor sentimental fantasies about the checks and balances that supposedly guarantee democratic institutions, the court system, and the rule of law.  Over the past weeks, it has become a commonplace for people to observe that this election “stress-tested” the electoral process and that “the guard rails” have held.  But from what I saw, we just got lucky. The disaster may not have been averted, merely postponed.

    So now we find ourselves in an odd limbo. We have moved so far Beyond the Reality Principle during the Trump years that it is difficult to imagine a possible return to what intellectuals now quaintly refer to as the norms of political life. Personally, I don’t think that there can be a return to a world before Trump. That world no longer exists, if indeed it ever did. Instead, we need to invent another relation to reality; one that is neither bound to “cruel optimism” (to invoke Lauren Berlant’s felicitous phrase) nor paralyzed by the necessity of recognizing the limits of personal and state sovereignty.

    As far as I’m concerned, this post-election season has been like a bad dream from which we have yet to awaken. This last and most recent phase is like the dream-within-the-dream when you dream that the nightmare is over but it’s not. Because none of the things that we have seen go down in the last month should be thinkable or possible. So just because the worst possible outcome didn’t fully materialize doesn’t in fact mean that the threat is not real and ongoing. The world that awaits us demands that we traverse that fantasy and awaken to the challenges of imagining a different and more livable new reality.

     

  • Julia Chan — #hkfortrump: How American Liberals Have Failed Hong Kong’s Democracy Movement

    Julia Chan — #hkfortrump: How American Liberals Have Failed Hong Kong’s Democracy Movement

    by Julia Chan

    Thanksgiving, 2019: thousands joined in a rally to express their “gratitude” to Donald Trump. Waving the Stars and Stripes, they held up posters of Trump, photoshopped with a well-toned body and boxer gloves to symbolize the president’s fighting spirit. This took place in my home city of Hong Kong, organized by some of the most committed pro-democracy activists who braved tear gas, batons, rubber bullets, and often real bullets as they protested Beijing’s increasingly oppressive regime. This year, after resistance of all kinds has been suppressed by a new national security law directly imposed by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), these activists continued to root for Trump in twitter campaigns and on YouTube channels. There, they would reiterate almost verbatim the bogus conspiracy theories of voter fraud, Biden’s collusion with the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), and COVID-19’s origins in a Chinese laboratory.

    No, these Trump supporters are not older white males with no college education, a low income, or diagnosed with the “authoritarian syndrome.” They are intelligent, politically engaged, and idealistic university students and young professionals who demonstrated admirable courage in their pursuit of the very same liberal values and practices that Trumpism seeks to destroy in the American society. Commentators have pointed out how Trump’s “tough-on-China” posturing has won wide support across Asia: Hong Kong, Taiwan, Vietnam, South Korea, even among liberal groups within the PRC itself.[1] Others, more attuned to the city’s decade-long struggles for democratic self-determination, have noted the movement’s worrying turn to the right. For the more radical activists, Trump’s “America First” policy and MAGA slogan chime well with their separatist localist agenda, which often takes the form of animosity towards mainland Chinese tourists and immigrants, blamed for taking up social spaces and resources.

    These observers may well be right, but they do not explain what is fundamentally a paradox: how can one be pro-Trump and anti-authoritarian at the same time? Does not one cancel out the other? Is it not more logical that we should seek our allies among fellow-victims of police brutality and arbitrary state power, such as the Black Lives Matter movement, rather than pin our hopes on a capricious would-be dictator who claims to be “a friend” of Xi Jingping? After all, as Trump’s “Executive Order on Hong Kong Normalization” inadvertently revealed, the US State Department had been providing regular training and sale of military equipment to the Hong Kong Police Force throughout the year-long protests, up till July 2020 when the presidential executive order terminated that connection.[2] While the HK protests and BLM remain divergent in their ultimate demands—few in Hong Kong have experienced, let alone understand, systemic racism, and most American citizens have little idea of what it is like to have their basic liberties snatched from them overnight—there is still much common ground in our collective resistance.

    And yet, apart from a few attempts at building international solidarity and sharing protest tactics, many Hong Kongers turn to the far right, seeking support from the likes of Mike Pompeo and Marco Rubio instead. We need something more than a moral censure here. What the Trump supporters in Hong Kong have shown is a small nation’s desperation for survival, but more fundamentally, the failure of American liberalism itself. Although right-wing factions in the United States have a long history of co-opting resistance movements in foreign countries to further American imperial power, ironically, they were often the sole defender of those facing dire suppression. In the case of Hong Kong, except for Nancy Pelosi, few Democrats have ever spoken out about the city’s continued struggles against Beijing authoritarian domination. Unwilling to jeopardize their trade relations with the PRC, American liberals have proved themselves questionable allies. Despite their high-sounding ideals and the usual moral outrage they express at Trump’s attacks on democratic institutions at home, they remain deaf to others’ call for international solidarity and mutual support.

    Few pro-trump liberals are deluded enough to believe the incumbent president holds any genuine goodwill for Hong Kongers. Like in many small Asian countries, we rely on the simple tactic of playing one imperial power against another. On his visit to the Berlin Wall, Joshua Wong (the face, though by no means the leader, of the movement) hailed Hong Kong as the “new West Berlin,” the battleground for a “new Cold War” between the US and The PRC.[3] Prompted by the G20 Summit that coincided with the height of the protests last year, activists developed an “international front” dedicated to lobbying Western sanctions on Hong Kong, if not on the PRC itself, for the latter’s infringement of the 1984 Sino-British Joint Declaration, which promised to secure the autonomy, basic rights, and liberal institutions of the former colony.

    In the United States, these efforts culminated in the bipartisan Hong Kong Human Rights and Democracy Act (HKHRDA), passed almost unanimously in the both the Congress and the Senate, and which incidentally Trump at first refused to sign. True to its new-Cold-War metaphor, the HKHRDA is largely a nuclear option. It stipulates that the Secretary of State will make an annual report on the city’s autonomy and civil liberties. Should the region’s “One Country Two System” constitutional principle continue to erode, the US would revoke Hong Kong’s special status that offered unique privileges, unavailable to the rest of China, in areas such as trade, immigration, technology transfer, and intellectual exchanges. The HKHRDA would jeopardize Hong Kong’s position as a global financial hub; but given that Hong Kong funnels more than three quarters of the PRC’s yearly foreign investments, it will also cause indirect but substantial damage to China’s economy. Threatening mutually assured destruction, the bill was meant as a deterrent to slow down Beijing’s increasingly blatant interference. It was on the very next day after Trump reluctantly signed the bill, on 27 November 2019, that the Thanksgiving rally took place.

    This time, though, the script did not play out like the last Cold War. Barely half a year later, the PRC responded to the bluff by putting in place a national security law criminalizing vaguely defined acts of secession, subversion, terrorism, and collusion with foreign forces, bypassing the local legislature altogether. The US officially removed Hong Kong’s special status and imposed sanctions on several pro-Beijing officials on 14 July 2020, but the sanction itself now meant little. Within days after the national security law came into effect, protest slogans and songs were outlawed. Students were arrested for displaying even blank placards. Materials deemed sensitive or controversial, from the Tiananmen Square Massacre to discussions of the separation of powers, are removed from textbooks. Judges are routinely harassed, as are activists and journalists. In a recent case, a TV producer was arrested for her news program that reported possible collusions between the police and the pro-Beijing groups responsible for a mob attack on civilians. Popularly elected pro-democracy legislators were “disqualified” and removed from their posts. Meanwhile, on the pretext of COVID-19, the government suspended further elections. For the first time since the end of colonial rule, opposition is completely absent in the city’s legislature.

    Our future is beyond dystopian. It is no wonder that much of the movement drew inspirations from The Hunger Games movie trilogy. Chanting the main character’s line “If we burn, you burn with us” as their slogan (or laam chau in Cantonese), many welcomed the US sanctions as the long-overdue justice and vindication of their injured, jailed, and dead comrades. Their support—or worse, admiration—for Trump originates from frustrations with Hong Kong’s own powerlessness as a nation, with fighting for some twenty years what is invariably a losing battle. Many view Trump’s America as the only counterweight to the re-colonizing forces of Beijing, who apparently will stop at nothing short of total domination. Thus, in a problematic twist, even as Hong Kongers lament and struggle against the rapid erosion of the rule of law and other liberal institutions at home, they also celebrate Trump’s disregard for institutional protocols and political traditions as the very qualities necessary to hold the PRC in check. For though Obama’s “pivot to East Asia” strategy in 2011 turned American focus back onto the Asian-Pacific region, it was the Trump administration that produced the country’s most aggressive containment measures directed at the PRC. For many in Hong Kong, Trump’s antics on issues such as the trade war, the expulsion of state-owned companies like Huawei and TikTok, and the closure of the PRC embassy in Houston, offer almost a vicarious pleasure and sense of power.

    More clear-sighted critics would point out that in instigating its own destruction, economically at the hands of the US and politically by Beijing, Hong Kong has only turned itself into a bargaining chip for Trump. Yet this is exactly why the Cold War rhetoric remains attractive despite its obvious obsolescence. The idea of a new Cold War offers a familiar narrative in which Hong Kong can again find its strategic role. After all, as the chess piece in the great game between Western democracies and communism, this quintessential neoliberal city did not just survive but prospered.[4] Hong Kong touted its free market economy not only as the “gateway” into communist China’s otherwise inaccessible pool of consumers, natural resources, and labor, but also as a guarantor of political and cultural freedom. The city’s pride in its economic success is entwined with its other identity as the enclave for dissenters and refugees from the dark, oppressive government of the CCP. When the “One Country, Two System” structure was proposed in the late 1980s, it was tacitly understood, or at least hoped, that Hong Kong would function as the model liberal democratic “open society,” whose path China would follow by gradually opening up its economy.

    The development of the PRC under Xi Jingping has proved that the ideological binarism of the Cold War no longer holds: capitalism can work hand in glove with authoritarianism. In Hong Kong, the so-called “red capital” has been in fact one of the major vectors of suppression. It includes installing CCP staff in the governance structure of corporations, forcing companies to fire their employees for posting Facebook comments in support of the protest, and squeezing out local publishing houses and booksellers to stifle dissenting publications. Throughout Asia, US economic and military hegemony has been understood as the guarantor of security and protection, especially from the PRC as an emergent power. In recent decades, however, American business interests in China have silenced most governments in Western countries—particularly the United States and Britain—on issues ranging from the mass incarceration of human rights lawyers within the PRC to Xi’s dubious claims over the South China Sea.

    As the global narrative of American liberalism collapses, we are left with few alternative discursive tools to defend the city’s shrinking political space. In practice, the protests last year and the Umbrella Movement in 2014 have sparked remarkably innovative forms of mutual aid and community building. For example, with the help of mobile apps that map and promote pro-democracy small businesses, a newly emerged “yellow economic circle” seriously challenged the monopoly of pro-establishment chain stores and corporations. Even today, the steady flow of politically like-minded customers continues to help struggling restaurant and shop owners survive the economic impact of COVID-19. Others have sponsored the daily expenses of the frontline protesters through crowdfunding, decentralized online chatgroups, and personal networks. It is a misconception that Hong Kong’s democratic movement is largely a middle-class affair.[5] Supporters cut across all age groups and all sectors of society—from pilots to construction workers to housewives to high school students to the unemployed—who share strong convictions in voluntarism and reciprocal care. These initiatives that seek to reshape Hong Kong’s socio-economic life find no coherent expression in international advocacy. Neither the Western media nor we seem able to move away from the binary of East and West, totalitarianism and freedom, Hong Kong as a “typical Chinese city” and the crown colony of the glorious past.

    Hong Kongers’ pragmatic calculations of pitting US imperialism against Chinese domination are no doubt selfish. There is among us a willful ignorance of the realities of American life in the last four years. To believe that Hong Kong people’s experience of oppression is unique, to refuse to see that the treatment of migrants and asylum seekers under the Trump administration is of the same kind as the treatment of the Uighurs in Xinjiang, is perhaps the greatest weakness of the city’s courageous and creative resistance movement. At the same time, we might also reflect whether we are asking too much of these young protesters, whose physical and psychological trauma from months of police brutality and harassment is often beyond the comprehension of onlookers. For those on the front line, looking to America for protection is as much a matter of personal survival as the survival of Hong Kong. As I write, Joshua Wong is facing his fourth jail sentence (13 months for inciting unlawful assembly) since 2016 and was held in solitary confinement with lights on around the clock during custody. His fellow-activist, Agnes Chow, nicknamed “the real Mulan,” will spend her twenty-fourth birthday in prison. Nor is the regime targeting only opposition leaders. Between June 2019 and November 2020, more than 10,000 people were arrested. Over 2300 of them have been charged and over 500 sentenced to jail, some for as long as six years. A handful of dissidents have managed to find political asylum in Germany, Britain, and Taiwan. In contrast, when four student protesters arrived at the US Consulate General seeking refuge late October this year (their friend had been apprehended and taken away before he could even reach the Consulate gates), they were simply asked to leave.

    Contrary to the wishes of the HK Trump supporters, then, the enemy of my enemy is not really my friend. It should have been a clear warning sign when Trump threatened to send in the National Guards to suppress the Black Lives Matter protests this summer—an uncanny reminder to many of both the Tiananmen Square Massacre in 1989 and the more recent experience of police violence against protesters at home. At times, however, it seems that Hong Kong people are left with impossible choices. Between Trump and a Biden administration that still imagines that Xi Jingping’s the PRC can be persuaded to play by “international norms” through trade and without any rigorous engagement, it is understandable that they chose the former.[6] In the city’s lonely and futile fight against the CCP, Hong Kong people are not merely racist, or misguided, or selfishly opportunistic to wish for a US government that would at least claim to hold the PRC responsible for its flagrant violation of human rights. The paradoxical idea of a Pro-Trump liberal in Hong Kong is an instance not of the global rise of the right, but the inadequacies of American liberal politics and imagination that we in Asia have adopted as norm and model.

     

    Julia Chan has recently completed her PhD in the Department of English, Yale University, where she researched on revolution and utopia in British and Soviet modernism. Her work has been published and is forthcoming in the Journal of Modern Literature and Modernism/modernity Print Plus. A native Hong Konger, she has taught English literature at Lingnan University and the Chinese University of Hong Kong.

     

    [1]. https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2020/10/democracy-activists-who-love-trump/616891/

    [2]. https://www.whitehouse.gov/presidential-actions/presidents-executive-order-hong-kong-normalization/

    [3]. https://www.reuters.com/article/us-hongkong-protests-germany/my-town-is-the-new-cold-wars-berlin-hong-kong-activist-joshua-wong-idUSKCN1VU0X4

    [4]. Priscilla Roberts and John M. Carroll, eds, Hong Kong in the Cold War (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2016).

    [5] Though the political situation in Hong Kong has changed dramatically, Matthew Torne’s 2014 documentary Lessons in Dissent remains an excellent portrayal of grassroot and left-wing pro-democracy activists.

    [6] https://www.nytimes.com/2020/09/06/us/politics/biden-china.html

  • Hortense J. Spillers — Fly Me To The Moon (from the ground)

    Hortense J. Spillers — Fly Me To The Moon (from the ground)

    by Hortense Spillers

    It is simply incredible, and had I not experienced it in the flesh, rather than in dreams, (where this stuff belongs), I would not believe any description of life in the United States since 2016. The character of these years, first of all, as if a spectacle unfolding elsewhere and detached from any language or gesture or principle of reality that I recognize and honor, will eventually find its narrators and historians, but the latter will live in another season of time and purpose from my own and my generation’s. In other words, this conjuncture not only marks an inflection point, but lays hold, I believe, of a whole new political grammar that must be grasped, not because we do not know the words, or the rules of syntax—we know them all too well—but because we can no longer fathom the uses to which they’re put, nor can we easily imagine the human personality who would be compelled by such uses. I do not comprehend: the so-called right wing in my country, QAnon, the 73 million Americans (a considerable number of them women), who voted for Donald Trump, Donald Trump himself, the plot to kidnap the Democratic governor of the state of Michigan, Gretchen Whitmer, the Fox News Network and its creator, Rupert Murdoch and whatever unspeakable animus or anguish that must drive this project, the antipathy toward masks, the rage at public officials in their effort to protect local populations from covid-19 infection,  and the vicious oversupply of partisanship, as expressed by the GOP. This drive-thru of complaint does not exhaust the list, which, collectively multiplied, would soar toward infinity, but it gets us to the right ballpark.

    There are times when I fear to know what I think—in fact, I can’t even write it down in my diary here lately—and even resist its echoes from the minds of others; could it be some modicum of hold-over, atavistic superstition (fit candidate for Totem and Taboo?), that if you speak its name and conjure it up, it is embodied and becomes true? But by contrast, naming it also socializes it, as Kenneth Burke conjectured decades ago, perhaps disallows its sting and, therefore, propitiates and exorcizes it; in our time, Shoshana Zuboff, in her remarkable study of “surveillance capitalism,” argues that the “unprecedented” must be named and only by doing so do we move toward the mobilization of “new forms of collaborative action: the crucial friction that reasserts the primacy of a flourishing human future as the foundation of our information civilization. If the digital future is to be our home, then it is we who must make it so” (21; emphasis Zuboff). This fear of one’s own words is occurring in the context of surveillance capitalism, but the latter is not our primary concern here; what we’re fearing in the country at this moment, however, is precisely the alienation bred by what Zuboff calls the “unprecedented.” We are 16 days past the longest presidential election in our history, one of the most dangerous and contentious, and at this writing, the current president of the United States, who lost the election by 306 electoral votes that represent approximately 80 million Americans, has not conceded, but launched instead a systematic and unprecedented campaign to stay in office—essentially, the staging of what has been called an “auto-coup”—and the sole question that knots the stomach (as it has the entire tenure of his term of office) is what do Americans do now. Wishing for the moon, or some other planet, will not help! But facing what must be faced entails danger precisely because our circumstance today has no precedent and thus no name.

    Starting with the presidency itself, this current iteration bears no resemblance to any single instance of modern American political history that I can think of, however inadequate the person of the president has been from time to time. I would go so far as to say that Americans these four years have not had a president at all, but, rather, a place holder, or one might even say president-for-lack-of-a-better-word. The Trump term of office has exposed the sheer fragility of a constitutional democratic order, which must rely on the power and force of an idea; the unwritten agreement between its stake-holders, its citizens, and those who govern them, about what constitutes political reality; the consent of the governed, and the consonance of values among all the principals—the governed and the governing. One of the most disturbing features of these years has been precisely the dramatic reminder that these elements of cohesion are neither imprescriptible, nor written in the stars. What we now realize with renewed poignancy is that their orchestration has never evinced perfect balance and harmony, but enough of the latter has played throughout all the darkness and disharmony that hope in American democratic possibility has never felt displaced. One had rather “forgotten”—and it is the lapse that a degree of comfort breeds—that these arrangements are exactly so and as such can come undone. This marked unraveling of an inadvertent inattentiveness is nowhere more palpable than in the loud intrusion of the persona of the presidency into the everyday life of the citizen—his violent abuse of the powers of office as a constant feature of the twenty-four hour news cycle. The indefatigable storm and stress of conflict and the rupture of routine coming from the Commander-in-Chief himself broke in on everyday life with such persistence that the stunning outbreak of sickness and death in the closing months of the term seems somehow fitting as the fatal, indelible mark of years that we will remember as a colossal civic blunder–or was it?

    The question is occasioned by a shadow of doubt that would suggest that Donald Trump, for all the disarray and nausea that he inspires, did not spring up in a vacuum. The ground of his emergence was actually seeded at least decades ago, not only in quite obvious instances like “the scoundrel time” of the McCarthy era, closely followed by the Nixon presidency and the apodictic rise of the partisan “consultant” and “strategist,” with their endless “dirty tricks” and pliable morality, but also the less obvious deviations of the Reagan White House and its seductions: Recall that the “southern strategy,” the deliberate appeal to states’ rights and anti-black sentiment, sits at the very heart of Republican politics as a counterweight to the Civil Rights Movement, an outcome that Lyndon Johnson, in the aftermath of the Civil Rights Bill of 1964 and the Voting Rights Bill the following year, presciently understood avant la lettre. Reagan launched his bid for the Oval Office in 1980 from Philadelphia, Mississippi, an active locus of civil rights struggle and the murder of the trio of young activists, James Cheney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner in the summer of 1964. As Republican “dirty trickster,” Lee Atwater, understood, one didn’t have to utter “nigger” umpteen times in order to drive home his point, and I should think that an appearance in Neshoba County, Mississippi, less than two decades later by a leading Republican contender, would speak as eloquently as a racial epithet, if not more so, for all its subtlety, just as the “Willie Horton” ad of Bush the Elder’s presidential run said all it needed to say a little less than a decade later. Bush’s appointing a staunch conservative to the United States Supreme Court in the fall of 1991 to assume the seat of Thurgood Marshall, a pioneer in the legal struggle for black rights, remains, to my mind, one of the most hateful acts of cynical mockery and outright racist antipathy of the late twentieth century. By the time the presidency enters the new millennium, riding the wave of constitutional “originalism,” a true fraud of American democratic order, as I see it, the outline of Republican misrule and its propensity for authoritarian charms has evolved into a repertoire of dubious practices that operate under the color of law. Against this backdrop of dishonor and injustice, everywhere supported by a scaffold of lies and millions upon millions of revanchist dollars, the awful story of the U.S. Senate’s brazen mistreatment of Appeals Court Judge Merrick Garland at the tail end of the Obama presidency opens wide the gates of hell for any old embodiment to stroll through, and it did.

    Looking around the room, then, for a single, definitive point-of-departure simply will not do; there are several. For one thing, the country’s media sources, especially the major networks and cable companies of the television industry, advanced the persona of Donald Trump to a degree of visibility and significance that it might never have achieved beyond “The Apprentice” reality-tv series and the tabloid reputation of a local Manhattan “playboy,” known for the “prenuptial agreement” and the noisy, sophomoric changing of wives. In other words, systematic media attention, from the launch of Trump’s presidential campaign to the present moment, not only afforded him critical, free advertising, but also put him before the public auditory as a kind of necessity. As of 2015 and the famous escalator descent, no gesture of his, from silly tweets to golf outings, has failed to be repeated and amplified in a sickening, ubiquitous loop—as late as this Thanksgiving, well after the November presidential election and Joe Biden’s victory, CNN, for example, has still persisted in covering his ridiculous ravings about “massive voter fraud,” the “theft” of the vote, and how, in time, the “evidence” would be revealed, if only a court that would treat him fairly could be found, somewhere. The Thanksgiving newscast and the endless repetition of programs like it simply extend post-election angst, feed the unrelenting outrage of Trump’s most ardent supporters, and do nothing to heal the dangerous rifts that now sit athwart the body politic. But televisual logic, as though detached from human choice and thinking, proceeds on autopilot in the pursuit of top ratings and advertising dollars. Exactly what debt of sociality is owed to the public by various media constitutes not only a critical inquiry concerning cultural production and its widest distributive patterns—in other words, how their dissemination and content participate in processes of educating—but it is also the nexus that is denied: a breach falls between them with media and their decisive commercial interests on one side and the public and its stake in bildung and literacy on the other, as never the twain meets. What accounts for this unconscionable refusal and its perdurability, generation in, generation out? And can a direct line be drawn between our incomplete intellectual meditations and mediations and the excess of gullibility that has captured sectors of the American public?

    Perhaps the single most disturbing feature of the current conjuncture is the extent to which the Trump years have been enabled by the substantial and craven complicity of Republican politicians. Without the silent endorsement of a Republican-led Senate and well-placed Republican figures at every step along the way, much of what the country has been through might have been avoided; but how does the public respond to a political party that has degenerated—for all intents and purposes—into the behavior of a criminal gang, operating at the behest of a strong man? The U.S. Constitution does not necessarily offer guidance here, nor does it anticipate the deterioration among interlocutors of a dialogue that is predicated on the mental availability of the principals. The Biden years opening before us must navigate this bleak evacuated terrain, and not a single American will be able to escape the implications of the journey.

    Works Cited

    Zuboff, Shoshana. The Age of Surveillance Capitalism: The Fight for a Human Future At the New Frontier of Power. PublicAffairs Hatchett Book Group, 2019; quotation at p.21.

     

  • Margaret Ferguson — Doing Some of the Work: Grief, Fear, Hope

    Margaret Ferguson — Doing Some of the Work: Grief, Fear, Hope

    by Margaret Ferguson

    Throughout the long first months of the pandemic—from March to November 2020—I volunteered as a phonebanker for “Indivisible Yolo,” the local chapter of a national movement devoted to defeating Trump and electing Democrats up and down the ballot. We partnered with a group called “Sister District CA 3,” which focuses on electing progressives to state legislatures including those shaped by Republican gerrymandering efforts. I was able to devote quite a lot of time to this volunteer effort because I am retired from teaching and no longer have children at home.

    The Indivisible movement began in an informal “grief counseling session”—a meeting of friends in Austin, Texas in November 2016 attended by two former congressional staffers, Leah Greenberg and her husband Ezra Levin, when they were in Austin for Thanksgiving.  Returning to their home in Washington, D.C., they and nearly three dozen thirty-something friends collaborated in an effort to turn their grief about the election into action. They composed a 23-page Google Doc handbook called “Indivisible: A Practical Guide for Resisting the Trump Agenda”; Levin tweeted a link to the document with this message: “Please share w/ your friends to help fight Trump’s racism, authoritarianism, & corruption on their home turf.”[1]

    Adapting ideas drawn both from their own experiences with members of Congress and from tactics used by the Tea Party in its successful efforts to block Barack Obama’s agenda in 2010, the Indivisible guide went viral, and was shared by people with Twitter followings much larger than those of the document’s authors: among the amplifiers were Robert Reich, Jonathan Chait, George Takei, and Miranda July. Less than two months after its publication, more than 3,800 local groups called “Indivisibles” had formed to support the movement. It developed a website where the Guide was continuously updated in Spanish and English, and only a few weeks after Trump’s Inauguration, the fledgling movement became a 501(c) organization. Levin drily remarked that “The last thing the progressive ecosystem really needed was yet another nonprofit,” but in this case, the organization thrived.  The protests it organized at the local level have been credited with, among other things, making it hard—and eventually impossible—for the Republican party to pass a “replacement” for the Affordable Care Act.[2]

    Different Indivisible groups have focused on different—and multiple–actions during the Trump era, frequently collaborating with other groups such as the Working Families Party and the Women’s March. What drew me to the local group in my Northern California town was its slogan of “Do the Work”—an alternative to watching TV news and wringing one’s hands—and the congenial community of activists it had created.  Like others, I was excited when we were able to rent office space near Interstate 80 in March as we geared up for work during the election year; many of us had written post cards since 2016 and had canvassed in person for Democrats in 2018, but in early March this past spring, we would finally have our own space for organizing.  I went to one meeting to be trained in texting potential voters, and I spent one Saturday morning cutting sheets of paper for postcards in the communal space. But then all organizing efforts had to move online as the virus swept through California and the lockdown began. The idea of not being able to knock on doors or set up registration tables—as we had done in 2018—at sites such as the Woodland Community College seemed incredible. One of my Indivisible friends, a woman with whom I had carpooled when our kids were in middle school and whose organizational skills I respected greatly because we had served as co-leaders of the garbage squad for our children’s high school graduation party, asked me if I would be willing to consider phonebanking. I said no.  I told her that I am much too much of an introvert to do that kind of work. Plus I hate it when strangers call me out of the blue, so how could I make calls to strangers myself?

    My friend, a scientist at the University of California at Davis, suggested that I read some of the research on the effectiveness of different methods of communicating with potential voters. With the help of other Indivisible members, I did that work,  starting with the valuable article “Lessons on GOTV Experiments” published by Yale’s Institute for Social and Policy Studies, with further bibliography.  The authors give their highest mark of certainty—3 stars—to research studies finding that “personalized methods and messages work better” and that, after canvassing, with its face to face encounters, phone calls by humans (as opposed to robots) and also by volunteers (as opposed to paid operatives) are most effective. Though I’m still perplexed about what exactly the evidence is for this conclusion (exit polls? follow up calls?), I did come to believe that I should add phoning to the other things I was doing, namely postcarding and texting. The former action was boring but also satisfying: I found myself enjoying the mild challenges of fitting the words of a script into the allotted space and using different colored pens for my best grade-school handwriting efforts. But of course one never got any response to a postcard. Our campaigns were carefully chosen for maximum impact and I had really enjoyed writing cards with other volunteers before the pandemic forced us to write at home by ourselves. I had also enjoyed sending texts, which I learned to do for the Environmental Voters Project at the Indivisible-Sister District office just before it shut down. Texting brought a few positive responses including requests for further information; and it was incredibly fast: I could send 50 texts in less time than it took me to write one postcard. But most of the text responses told me just to STOP –or to do something bad to myself or to my mother, who is dead. I continued to text and write postcards, but I decided I should at least try to make phone calls too. Naively, I thought I could conquer my fear of calling strangers if I called as a member of a group of volunteers who shared information about best practices and stories about “memorable” calls—good and terrible—during Zoom meetings.

    I’m deeply grateful that I was able to phonebank during meetings which included training on issues, tech support, and hosts who sent email reports after every session detailing the number of calls we had collectively made and which we reported (another small pleasure) in daily tallies—over 106,000 by November 3. But I never did get over my fear of phoning—a fear that became enmeshed with my larger and darker fear about the possibility of a Trump victory. My stomach tightened every time I lifted my cell phone for manual dialing sessions, and my stomach was even more upset when I attempted to use the “hub dialing” system that Indivisible and allied groups such as “Flip the West” considered to be the most efficient way of reaching potential voters. When you login to a hub-dialing system, a distant computer does the dialing for you and you get many fewer wrong numbers, busy signals, and disconnected phone lines than you do when you are dialing voters directly from a list supplied by a campaign. The downside of hub dialing, for me, is that the caller is not in charge of the timing of a connection; it could take many minutes (during which some supposedly calming piece of music would play again and again); or it could come just seconds after you had completed your previous call. This meant that there was no time for the psychic loin-girding I needed, and there was often not enough time to compose my face into the smile that experienced phone bankers recommend that callers wear (as it were) for every new connection. Voters can hear you smile, I was told. And although  each campaign we participated in gave us scripts that came up on our computer screen for us to follow as the call unfurled, we couldn’t follow the scripts slavishly. The voter’s tone of voice and specific concerns (including sometimes strong concerns about being contacted at all) shaped what we might say from the first seconds of the call through the farewell.

    Our phonebanking team was supporting several Senate races, and I was particularly invested in Theresa Greenfield’s in Iowa. Her staff provided excellent (and frequently updated) scripts for both manual and hub dialing, and I learned enough about her positions to be able to engage in substantive conversations with some Iowa voters. I also learned a good deal about the progressive candidates our group was supporting in Georgia (Jasmine Clark for District 108) and in Arizona (Doug Ervin for State Senate and Judy Schwiebert for State House in Legislative District 20). Clark and Schwiebert won last week; Ervin alas did not, and has modeled adult behavior by conceding to his opponent. I hope he runs again.

    The first campaign I joined involved manual dialing for California Congressman Josh Harder. He was running for re-election in the 10th District, and his campaign was what veteran callers considered an easy one for neophytes. We were mostly calling registered Democrats and the script was good: it directed us to ask about what the Congressman could do for the constituent during the COVID pandemic before we asked the voter to support or volunteer for Harder. There was no request for money, to my great relief, and it turned out that a number of people I called did indeed have problems that they hoped the Congressman could solve. One man in his mid thirties (the information on the screen gave us the voter’s age and party affiliation) was having a terrible time getting a bank loan for his small business from the CARES Act. I got his email address, called Indivisible’s liaison with Harder’s office, laid out the problem, and learned that Harder, who had taught business at Modesto Junior College after working for a venture capital firm in San Francisco, would brainstorm with his staff about helping this constituent get a loan from a smaller (and evidently more flexible) bank. I called this voter back later in the day and he said he’d heard from Harder’s staff and had hope, for the first time in weeks, that he wouldn’t have to let his fifteen employees go.  People I called for Harder did hang up on me and a few swore at me for interrupting their day, but a goodly number of people I spoke to described problems to me that I then relayed to the Congressman’s staff. One woman, in her 80s, needed groceries delivered; another, much younger, wanted to be put in touch with other parents who were trying to home school their elementary school age children.  Some of the people I called didn’t support the Congressman at all or disagreed with his position on some issues, but if the voter didn’t hang up on me within the first ten seconds, we often had civil conversations; in many cases the person on the other end of the line thanked me. Josh Harder won his race on November 3.

    The most rewarding phoning work I did during this long (and still unfinished) election season was for Reclaim our Vote, a non-partisan voting rights initiative founded by an African American woman, Andrea Miller, as part of the non profit organization “Center for Common Ground.” ROV collaborates with many other groups including Black Voters Matter, the Virginia Poor People’s Campaign, Mi Familia Vota, Religious Action Center for Reformed Judaism, and the American Ethical Union. ROV aims to counter the “[o]ngoing voter suppression and voter list purging [that] have been disenfranchising millions of eligible voters — especially voters of color.” As the organization explains on the page of its website that encourages new volunteers to join, the focus is on “voter suppression states” in the south. The campaigns, designed county by county, seek to “inform and mobilize voters of color to make sure they are registered and they know how to get a ballot and vote.”  Volunteers join a ranbow coalition and are welcomed from around the country. The training materials include an interactive video especially for introverts and note that shy people may be especially good at this work because it involves listening as much as speaking. The trainers gently remind middle class white people like me that not everyone shares the sense of time (and self importance) that regards phone calls from strangers as an annoying infringement of personal space. Dialing manually to people on the ROV lists was, for me, both satisfying and unnerving.  So many phones were disconnected, so many people simply didn’t answer, that I could and did make 30 calls in an hour with no human contacts at all.  (My Indivisible colleagues interpreted such sessions as “cleaning the phone lists” for the campaign.) The scripts were straightforwardly informational; this was not a “persuasion” campaign but an effort to help people who might want to vote do so as easily as possible during a pandemic in a state where they might have been dropped from the rolls even though they believed they were registered. We could and did direct them to websites that would tell them if they were registered or not, but the ROV scripts acknowledged that the person being called might not have access to a computer. In that case, we gave them phone numbers for their county’s Voter Registration office. I imagined that giving someone that information might lead simply to long waits and frustration. But in at least three cases where I made the call to the Registrar on behalf of someone I had talked with, the official picked up right away and was extremely helpful.  After talking to a young woman who wanted to vote but who didn’t know her polling place in Navajo County, Arizona, for instance, I spoke with an official who said she could get me that information if I had the would-be voter’s date of birth. I hadn’t thought to ask for that information. But then the official said she’d do some further research and get back to me.  She did, within fifteen minutes, telling me not only the address of the polling place but also suggesting that the voter could get a free ride from LYFT since the distance was substantial. I called the young woman back and we had a conversation—surprising but intense–about our mothers. Both of them had been ardent Democrats.

    I often thought about my mother as I learned to do the work of phonebanking during these months of being isolated at home. She died in 2015, and the only good thing about that is that she didn’t have to know about Hillary Clinton’s loss of the presidency. I talked about Clinton with an 81 year-old voter in Georgia with whom I spoke on the last weekend before the election when our Indivisible group was having a 45 hour call marathon (7 a.m. to 8 p.m for 3 days) to oust President 45. The person I reached through the ROV list wanted to vote and had asked for an absentee ballot. It hadn’t come, or she didn’t think it had come, but she was pretty sure that she had requested it. She had voted for Hillary and she wanted to vote for Kamala and Biden. I asked her for her mailing address and had just taken it down when we got cut off (that happened not infrequently in my phoning experience). I was very upset about losing her voice.  I called the Registrar of her county (Cobb) and explained that I was calling on behalf of a voter who hadn’t recevied her absentee ballot.  The official, like the one from Navajo County with whom I’d spoken earlier, picked up right away and said she would try to help.  Again, I had failed to get a crucial piece of information—again, the voter’s birth date. Nonetheless, the official said she would track the voter down and she did, in short order; she called me back to say that there was no record of a request for an absentee ballot, but she would call the voter herself to tell her where she should go for early in-person voting or for voting on election day. I was moved by this official’s willingness to go above and beyond what I imagine her duties are; and I dearly hope that my elderly interlocutor was able to cast her ballot.

    I’ll never know for sure (I lost her number when we got cut off).  But I do know that I’ll be volunteering for Indivisible Yolo, Sister District, and Reclaim our Vote again, attempting to participate in one form of the non-violent work of civil resistance that some scholars such as Erica Chenoweth—the Berthold Beitz Professor in Human Rights and International Affairs at Harvard’s Kennedy School—have recently been tracking and beginning to theorize.[3]  As part of the effort to reclaim our future, I’ll be calling this week for Raphael Warnock and Jon Ossoff in Georgia.  I fear that the road for them is uphill, but I have hope that by electing them from a state that has already turned blue because of massive grassroots efforts inspired in part by Stacey Abrams, voters will allow a genuinely progressive Democratic agenda to see the light of day, despite the current Administration’s efforts to keep that possibility shrouded in dusk.

    [1]Charles Bethea, “The Crowdsourced Guide to Fighting Trump’s Agenda,” The New Yorker, December 26, 2016, retrieved 9 November 2020.

    [2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indivisible_movement and David Wiegel, “Left out of AHCA fight, Democrats let their grass roots lead — and win,” Washington Post, ch 24, 2017, retrieved November 9, 2020.

    [3]For an account of Chenoweth’s contribution to the recent civil resistance work, see Andrew Marantz, “How to Stop a Power Grab,” The New Yorker, November 16, 2020; retrieved 15 November 2020. 

     

  • Bruce Robbins — Return of the Plague

    Bruce Robbins — Return of the Plague

    by Bruce Robbins

    The period of intense anxiety that did not begin with Joe Biden’s undeclared electoral victory on November 3, 2020 and that has now (on November 15th) been stretched to the breaking point by the incumbent’s refusal to concede and by fears that he is preparing a coup attempt—this is not the ideal sort of moment for humanist academics to weigh in about. On the whole, we tend to write on a slower and more reflective timescale. We wait for the dust to settle. At least I do. I talk about books for a living, most of them books that weren’t published yesterday. When big news is being announced hour by hour and even minute by minute, each item potentially big enough to alter the political landscape and even to make it unrecognizable, my impulse is to shut up and listen.

    I will match my personal disgust for the incumbent with anyone’s, blow for blow, round for round, point for point. But the spectacle would not be edifying. About the 70,000,000 who voted for him despite knowing what they might not have known about him in 2016 but had ample chance to find out over the past four years, I am no longer willing to bend over backwards, as so many of us did four years ago, putting most of the blame on the Clinton campaign and the Democratic National Committee for going to Wall Street instead of to Michigan and Wisconsin. Yes, that’s what they did, and odds are they’ll do it again, just as the pollsters will undercount the Trump voters of Michigan and Wisconsin again. Where racism and sexism and xenophobia are concerned, when those who are privileged by their whiteness and maleness and Americanness continue to translate equality as oppression, we are in for a very long haul.

    Still, my own privilege has occasioned one small qualifying thought about the 70,000,000. I am cushioned both from the coronovirus and from its economic consequences: I can work from home, and my income has been unaffected.  I am not threatened with eviction. I do not own a small business that could very well go under for good. I am imagining, not having consulted such figures as are no doubt available, that a certain percentage of these Trump voters, and perhaps especially the slightly higher proportion of people of color who voted for him this time over last time, were inspired to do so by the pandemic. Not, of course, because they think Trump has dealt with it competently and responsibly, but because they have been rendered so economically desperate that they simply can’t take any more. Under those circumstances, I can conceive that Biden’s nuanced position on the pandemic would read simply as “lockdown” and Trump’s open-up-the-economy position would read as their only hope, in spite of the health risks to themselves and their loved ones. This thought helps me avoid falling into the “deplorables” trap, which this go-round has become harder to steer clear of.

    While awaiting January 20th and the vaccine, relatively optimistic about both, I read books, think about them, teach them remotely.

    The June 2020 issue of Harper’s includes a letter written by Albert Camus in 1943, during the Nazi occupation of France. Camus, whose novel The Plague (1947) has been enjoying a large and easily understandable revival since the outbreak of the novel coronavirus, says what he is called upon to say on behalf of the Resistance: “the only chance we have of improving our fate is to act, organize, and stay vigilant.” But the letter’s most striking words are “anguish” and “uncertainty.” For “we are watching history run its course, and know nothing about the intentions of those in charge.” You can see he feels that the intentions that matter, the intentions that dictate the course history will run, are the intentions of “those in charge,” not our intentions, and this is one reason for all the uncertainty and doubt, even about joining the Resistance. This also holds for the fictional plague-ridden Oran he was then inventing, which seen in retrospect takes some of its emotional too-bigness from the French occupation of Algeria (something Camus notoriously didn’t know what to do with) as well as the Nazis, and for that matter also from the historical plagues he was researching in order to write the novel. When the plague struck in the past, as he was learning, very little useful knowledge was available as to where it came from or what to do about it.

    In today’s plague, however, useful knowledge is available. Actions and consequences have been pretty well aligned. Places whose leaders have done the right thing have reaped the benefits of their actions—a flattened curve, a drop in infections and mortality, the availability of equipment and hospital beds for when a next wave hits. Europe, where people got complacent and got hit by a second wave, is now locking down and already seeing the benefits of doing so. Places whose leaders haven’t done the right thing, like the US, have reaped the whirlwind, and will keep reaping it. To our vast surprise, history has made sense.

    Is there a larger moral here? Acknowledging the absurdity or existential meaninglessness of things always makes you seem smart, and in a time of pandemic that disabused tone may even be inevitable. Who wants to sound dumb? But maybe intentions and consequences are not always mysteriously fated to misalign. Maybe the times demand that we read not just Camus, but H.G. Wells (see the NYRB July 23, 2020). Maybe we have underestimated the extent to which history, pace Camus, does after all have some meaningful outlines.

    Camus is not wrong, on the other hand, when he suggests at the end of The Plague that plagues always come back. His plague is not just pre-modern, in the sense of being inexplicable; it is also metaphorical. It is inside all of us. That’s why it repeats and repeats, rendering history absurd. Wrong conclusion, but I am a little more inclined to forgive Camus for striking that “myth of Sisyphus” note even here, even about something as unfunny as a plague, because like many others I have also been re-reading Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), and Atwood makes more sense of the return of the plague. People forget that the immediate cause of the Christian reactionary coup in The Handmaid’s Tale is another plague, a plague of infertility caused by environmental toxicity. From this environmental perspective, Atwood’s pre-coup past doesn’t look so very good after all. She allows us to feel a certain subtle ambivalence even toward the austerity of the post-coup present, despite its hypocrisies and its violent authoritarianism. These are signs of a novel’s greatness. Like the MaddAddam trilogy that followed it, The Handmaid’s Tale is a prep session for the future plagues that have to be expected, after the inevitable relief that will follow the arrival of a vaccine and having an adult in the White House, as long as we keep steamrolling biodiversity and, more generally, mistreating the planet as we have been in the bipartisan habit of mistreating it.

  • Anthony Bogues — Chaos and the Trumpian Project

    Anthony Bogues — Chaos and the Trumpian Project

    by Anthony Bogues

    Chaos. Authoritarian political figures thrive on manipulating events creating grounds in which liberal normality seems to be one which invites disaster from which the authoritarian can intervene to steady the ship even if heads have to be cracked. But there is a twist to Trump’s political practice, authoritarian figure that he is, his political project now requires constant chaos. Not in order for him and his ruling regime to intervene with any steady hand rather it is about enacting permanent chaos as a tactic of rule first to erode the liberal state and establish the illiberal democratic project and then secondly to create the new political ground after his electoral defeat. Permanent chaos creates situations where the balance of social forces is in constant flux. In a period of crisis, it consolidates and energizes a section of the population that is committed to the authoritarian figure.

    Trump has been defeated electorally but Trumpism has not been and there is in Trump’s political eyes the need to reorganize and give it a new lease on life. In enacting this kind of political activity, Trump’s narcissistic personality becomes a political force. Trumpism is a political configuration that is a mosaic of ideas and American political practice. At its foundation is the idea of exclusive  white citizenship based upon  an interpretation of the 1790 naturalization act, white patriarchy, the reinterpretation of some  Christian ideas (for example one Trump supporter proclaimed that  the election represented the partial victory of the Great Satan) as well as a long discursive American history in which conspiracy explains all  events. This mosaic  of ideas rests upon a notion of individual liberty rooted in self-possession untethered from  the social (which is why  the wearing of masks became  a political statement) unless it is an imagined community which can occasionally be called into being, hence  the  MAGA rallies and  their centrality  to the Trumpian project. Of course, that imagined community itself is based upon whiteness.

    The Trump mantra that “We won but the election was rigged“ fits neatly within the realm of conspiracy theory and calls upon supporters to redouble their efforts the next time.  It prepares them for other moves to create chaos. The main purpose of this mantra is not to delegitimize an electoral result but to create the ground for a more protracted struggle based on chaos. The purpose is establish political obstacles for the Biden regime in an effort to unsettle it. There are other actions as well, ones which spell out the character of the Trump regime and the ways it deepens neoliberalism. Thus, for example there is a proposal to fast track a new set of regulations which would speed up lines in the poultry industry and another that would turn workers into independent contractors. All these are efforts to deregulate the liberal state under the guise of unbridled market freedom. We are into unknown political waters in American politics. While many of us focus on the unconventional ways in which the transition is proceeding or not, and fear a coup, Trump and his political friends are seeding the ground for a longer-term struggle in which they will politically further unsettle the American liberal state. So as we think about Trumpism and the current moment where what Stuart Hall calls “class democracies” attempt to stabilize themselves  to resume a liberal normal we must be careful  not to be carried away with the noise of the tweet, but pay attention to the overall Trumpian political project and how it might unfold in the near future.

  • David Simpson — About “Bedwetting Democrats”

    David Simpson — About “Bedwetting Democrats”

    by David Simpson

    The phrase is James Carville’s. It slipped by without comment during an MSNBC interview just before the election results began to come in. Carville blustered that only “bedwetting Democrats” would doubt the upcoming Biden landslide, already in the bag. The remark is offensive in any number of ways, not least to those many people who suffer from incontinence. The posture of aggressive masculinism fits well with Carville’s dogged good-old-boy self-projection. A one-time Bill Clinton warhorse, Carville never appears on TV without a US Marine Corps cap or sweatshirt, sometimes both. Perhaps he has anxieties of other sorts than election results. Anyway, I felt like punching him out for suggesting that anyone with doubts about the election had to be some sort of psycho-physiological failure, a wimp. It brought back memories of “pointy-headed intellectuals.”

    He was, of course, completely wrong. It was a very close election in a number of key states, notwithstanding Biden’s massive victory in the popular vote. But some seventy million people voted for Trump. If they are being fooled—and some surely are—then they have been fooled twice, and after relentless and seemingly unignorable evidence that Trump himself has proved completely deficient and deplorable in almost every way. Others, it must be assumed, are getting exactly what they want.

    Like many of our sort, I have been depressed since the 2016 election, not least about the evidence that there is little if anything I can do to change things. I took some grim solace from looking back at Richard Hofstadter’s wonderful 1962 book Anti-Intellectualism in American Life, which reminds us that Trump can be seen as just one more scoundrel in a tradition of con-men, self-merchandisers and reactionaries who have on a pretty regular basis captured popular support by denouncing expertise. But this is hardly consolation. Nor is it cheering to be made aware once again that the American tradition is one founded from the very first in an apparently intractable racism, and that every step away from it has been bitterly and violently contested by reassertions of white suprematism. Intellectuals have pointed this out over and over again, and are still doing so. It seems not to matter much to the march of history. Even charismatic leftist intellectuals like Chomsky and Said, known and listened to all over the rest of the world, get no exposure in the mainstream American media. There seem to be even fewer opportunities for most of us to contribute in a professional capacity, except in the classroom, to the redirection of a fundamentally unjust world.

    And yet . . . giving in to the too-much-TV syndrome has brought me to the wonderful MSNBC daily show, The Reidout, where host Joy Reid has produced a whole string of superbly gifted and mostly black politicians and commentators, including the amazing Stacey Abrams, who seem to know exactly what is happening and why. They are the talk-shop wing of the Black Lives Matter movement, but some of them are also on the streets, and they leave little doubt that if the votes can be assembled there is a deep pool of talent, many of them women, standing ready to redirect national politics. A few already hold office. But can the votes be assembled? What will it take for a realignment large enough to put enough such persons into significant governmental power?

    On good days I think that this may already be happening. Events in Georgia are hugely encouraging. The nonwhite vote, and especially the black vote, is going to be at the heart of any future for the left. But even in white majority Maine, one Green Party candidate for State Senate, Chloe Maxmin, won in a rural district that otherwise went for Republican Senator Susan Collins, attributing her own success to “deep canvassing,” talking at length to voters instead of just leaving leaflets at the door and ticking boxes. Would I know how to talk to “them,” getting beyond the Trump signs and American flags on the porches in search of some sort of common ground? Is Trump’s base dominantly made up of ugly white racists with a desire for violent acting-out? Are there seventy million of such people? I don’t even know what to say to the Evangelicals who make up a large segment of Trump’s base, or to the “hundred percenters” (as Hofstadter calls such types) who see no complexity whatsoever in their commitment to banning abortion. But I could perhaps find some common ground with those who want to pursue an isolationist foreign policy, even if my reasons for considering it have less to do with the exceptional sacredness of American lives than with the conviction that American interference has as or more often been malign than positive. And there is surely a discussion to be had about climate change, or about protectionism and free trade, even if it will not resolve the incremental loss of traditional manufacturing jobs.

    The fact is, of course, that I don’t know any Trump voters; or, to wax Rumsfeldian, I don’t know whether I know any. I’ve had loud disagreements with my British relatives about Brexit, but I’ve known them forever, I grew up with them, and I know they won’t pull a gun. During the run up to the election, there were fewer signs in our suburban college-town neighborhood than I have ever seen before on similar occasions. People were keeping their heads down. My wife was spending hours on the phone banks but she was calling out of state—Georgia, Arizona, Iowa, Kansas and so on, on behalf of down-ballot progressives who seemed to have a chance. When one of her voters told her to fuck off, it was over the phone and a thousand miles away. Our town and our state are overwhelmingly Democrat, but I have to think that the parsimonious signage was both self-protective, a fear of Trump’s goon squads who were rumored to be in the area from time to time, and also a refusal to participate in a spectacle that had been so wholly adopted by the nasties: the honking, flag waving, paintballing convoys and assemblies that appeared on the national news.

    One thing seems clear: we should not give much credence to those pundits and politicos who are intoning a reverence for “the American people” as driven by core values of decency and peaceable decision-making. At this point I don’t see a traditional coup in the offing; I don’t think Trump has the support of the military (though some police departments might well pull more triggers at his beck and call than they are pulling already). But I can imagine a subversion of the deeply troublesome and vulnerable electoral college vote by a cabal of state legislatures. Or a manufactured crisis of some kind, a Reichstag Fire event, between now and January 20th. Nothing probable, perhaps, but definitely conceivable. Enough so to suggest that we must all be on maximum alert and be prepared at the very minimum to take to the streets. Another of Richard Hofstadter’s important contributions was a study of the paranoid style in American politics. But that does not mean they’re not out there. Indeed, the recent history of gerrymandering and of voter suppression stand as an examples of what amounts to a de facto coup by a thousand pseudo-legal cuts, one taking years to put into place.

    Meanwhile, one of the besetting conditions of Covidworld is loneliness. More of us are spending more time without more others than before. Sociability itself, with the Trump rallies, has been captured by the right and celebrated as a rebuttal or rebuke of scientific expertise. At such a time, I am more grateful than ever for the spirit of the collective embodied in the boundary2 effort. Not in our name sounds so much better than just not in my name.