Trump supporters are a mystery to most coastal elites. This vignette is my attempt to explain how Trump supporters see themselves.
A Deplorables Tale: Jacksonian Top Shelf Politics in the Trump Age
One of those ancient Greeks my mom was always quoting to us said, “A hamlet breeds heroes, a city breeds eunuchs.”
Trump supporters are a mystery to most coastal elites. This vignette is my attempt to explain how Trump supporters see themselves.
Derek’s visiting!
As cousins go, we weren’t the closest, but to see a familiar face after living in this cultural Gomorrah for three years is a rare treat. I miss the Valley, my people, and the hum of insects on a sunny meadow.
Derek had a layover, having just returned from his fourth tour of “whack-a-Haji” and it would be good to see him whole. Too many of our people had watered the deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan with their blood for me to forget a homecoming. He said he wanted a real meal and a watering hole to drink in, and I knew just the places.
I had been living in this city for three years while working construction on the new Apple headquarters, a 70-minute drive down to Cupertino. Still, I discovered an oasis or two where people like us could relax in this rainbow-flagged theatre of tokenism called a sanctuary city and named after a saint.
One of those ancient Greeks my mom was always quoting to us said, “A hamlet breeds heroes, a city breeds eunuchs.” As were many of the men from our Valley, Derek was a leader of men in battle and I would make sure he enjoyed his layover.
When I pulled up at the airport, I saw Captain Derek Gill standing outside the terminal some fifty yards away, by the taxi stand. A human body in perfect proportion, only 128 percent normal size. At six foot four, he looked like a super-ripped baby giant with a buzz cut.
“Derek! Welcome home, man…” His eyes had yet to focus on me. He seemed to be enjoying the cool, crisp NorCal air as he breathed deep through his nostrils.
Once he realized I had walked up to him and stopped babbling, he smiled and grabbed me close. Given the expectant look on my face, he must have thought I was still that kid from home, always following him around and wondering if I had done good.
“Still growing, I see,” he said, releasing me. “Landed a bit early and I’ve been enjoying the breeze. I was tapping this Red Cross supervisor at Bagram. She told me how USAID did a study of the Kabul dust and found it was about 20 percent fecal matter. I thought that shit smell would never leave me. Feels good to be home.”
I grabbed his desert camo duffel off the curb and we headed for my truck. “So where are we going for chow?” he asked with the feral look in his eyes of someone that had eaten his fill of MREs and airplane gruel.
“Well,” I smirked as our doors slammed in unison, “you know I’ve been here in the egalitarian LGBTQ capital of the world for a few years, right? We are going to COCKSCOMB!” I had the entire evening organized. On a prior visit home, Derek had said how civilians never seemed to have a plan for anything and it always rubbed him the wrong way.
“What!” Derek chuckled as he pushed the passenger seat back to accommodate his long legs.
“Don’t worry, it’s a vegetarian’s dark nightmare dedicated to head-to-tail cooking. Since you just came back from Haji-land, I thought you’d appreciate their signature dish: wood-oven-roasted pig’s head.”
“Ha!” Derek grunted. “The name of it brings to mind the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t touch’ talk I do with my men.” Derek affected a deep command voice. “Many people confuse liberty with libertine. This is not an issue of where we put our sex organs — or choosing them, for that matter. It is at its essence about whether we, as a people, can make our own decisions. Just don’t touch without explicit permission.”
I froze. That must be the voice he used to send men into battle. It demanded my attention and presumed absolute compliance.
We merged onto 101 North and sped past a big Hillary billboard. I had been living in the political closet for three years and finally felt free to burst out with my thoughts. “She can’t even control her man and they want to give her the country? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Again, Derek had been gathering wool, looking out the window. His comeback surprised me. He turned to me. “Secretary Clinton,” he stated.
Noting my bemused gaze, he said, “Cuz, just like our family, the army considers courtesy to be the highest social virtue. You can’t afford to give offense within a community that walks around with weapons lock-n-loaded. Courtesy is the best way to prevent such hostility from accumulating. It protects everyone from extremes.”
With a wry smile he added, “Now before you concede to the political ‘talking heads’ who will be the Democratic Party’s nominee, Secretary Clinton first has to win the nomination. The Democratic Party faces an insurgency of its own and seems on the verge of being taken over by an outsider, just like the Republicans. If Secretary Clinton can’t close out a progressive political independent secular Jew who has to have his wife do their taxes and couldn’t even balance a checkbook, let alone a national budget, maybe the nation won’t have to worry about making that vote.”
I snickered. “Well, you’re in for a treat then, as I can guarantee you’ll feel the Bern tonight for sure. You’d think he was in the NBA finals with all the Bernie gear being worn here.”
Somehow Derek stopped time itself with his cold stare. “You mean Senator Sanders?” I turned my eyes back to the road and kept them there. “Look,” he said, “much of America is a hedonistic and secular society driven by equal parts pleasure and self-identification as an oppressed class. They live in a state of comprehensive dissatisfaction. True passion and sacrifice are unknown to them; public assistance mislabeled as justice is what they seek. The socialist philosophy of Senator Sanders is a good match for these excellent sheep that seem to be permanently matriculating at American universities. As mostly atheists, they have discovered moral superiority in victimhood and seek to nurture it.”
With that observation, Derek rolled down the window, put his arm on the door sill, and watched the city as we drove to the restaurant. He had that far-off look like he was dreaming of the rolling hills separated by scrub oak and the river valley half-covered in Douglas fir, pine, and manzanita; where fog rolls in instead of 20 percent shit dust. A valley we both still called home — and worth fighting for.
The restaurant had a modern open kitchen with chefs doing an intricate dance with flame and knives. The noise level was high and the crowd lively, but Derek was a full tour of hungry and concentrated on carving or tearing the pig’s head apart with a skill developed in the Valley woods where you eat what you kill. A knack these domesticated city-folk would never gain or understand.
When chef Cosentino saw Derek’s desert boots, he came out of the kitchen, shook our hands, and said he honored Derek’s service. As the restaurant was winding down, he brought over Cockscomb’s yellowfin tuna collar with the pectoral fin still attached, surrounded by roasted chilis and Thai basil. I couldn’t imagine a better way to honor this 60-pound wonder of nature we were about to devour than to eat it with our hands.
Derek humbly said “thank you” in word and deed by digging right in. As we gnawed on the tuna, he said, “I tell you, watching those chefs work in that open kitchen, they get teamwork and passion. Unit cohesion, if I’ve ever seen it. It creates space where a man can choose to sacrifice.” He frowned. “No one happily gives up a life, but to believe in something larger than yourself — something worthy of sacrifice… For us, that is a shared belief in freedom, equality expressed as justice, and to battle against any tyranny.”
With a nod to the chef, Derek said, “These restaurant chefs rarely let me pay a bill for these spectacular meals.” He shrugged. “Just means a bigger tip.”
“Whoa, there, Captain. You’re visiting me. I got this,” I grinned as we got up.
We took a short walk to my favorite locals’ bar, Finnegan’s Wake. Been here a hundred years and has the smell of stale beer, whiskey, and blood to prove it. The bartenders were all halter tops, lace, and legs: just our kind of place.
As we settled in at the bar, I took the chance to go back to politics. A topic I could not discuss with my co-workers here in Bolshevik Bernie-land without being cast out like a leper.
“You’d be surprised how many people are truly frightened of Trump here,” I said, attempting to entice Derek to share his view. “They all seem to believe Trump supporters are just ignorant bigots.” Derek rubbed his shorn high-and-tight hair and took a sip of his bourbon before looking me in the eye. “Trust me, Cuz, it’s human nature to call crazy what you don’t understand. I’ve had to send many people into harm’s way before learning that lesson in the Sunni tribal lands. Theirs is a steel-spined authoritarian culture no crazier than any other, just different.”
Derek sighed. “I serve with people from all over our great land, and most of them would be considered hard by your peers here. Hard is out of fashion in the coastal cities of Primary America. Most of my soldiers live by a simple code of ethics still practiced in the backwoods and Middle America. The goal is to get something done without selling your soul or destroying your reputation.
“Many of them are Trump supporters too. They admire discipline and purpose. Trump doesn’t drink, and he works at building things. The ten thousand million — that’s ten billion — dollars he has demonstrates that he works and wins even more than he talks. That’s what matters and what your Bay Area supporters of Sen. Sanders don’t get. It’s not the narcissistic pronouncements, plane, model wives or unique hairstyle that draws people to Trump. It’s his strong work ethic and he wins. You can smell it.
“I won’t deny his detractors see his pronouncements as dangerous and incendiary. I think these deliberately obnoxious catch-phrases offend the uninitiated, but are meant to draw attention to the flaccid platitudes and failed policies of the establishment more than to incite anger. Trump speaks the language of a united America. The world is a dangerous place and you have to be ready to fight. Fighting to win requires unit cohesion and a leader with a killer instinct.”
Into his intense gaze, I threw the greatest Trumpism out there. “What about the whole birther thing?” I sputtered.
His nostrils flared. “An interesting start to a political career if ever there was one. I doubt he realized he was a natural politician until he saw how many people would follow him based on that ridiculous call for a birth certificate,” Derek mused. “What was presented as a constant demand for a birth certificate was really a call to look at the upbringing of the ‘great black hope’ that had pushed aside the expected Democratic Party nominee in 2008. Hard to believe that was the same then-Senator Hillary Clinton, the standard-bearer of another semi-disenfranchised group — women. Astonishing how that lady just can’t catch a break,” he said, shaking his head.
Derek took a sip and watched our bartender sashay towards us. The brass button of her tight low-cut jeans moving in the opposite direction of her bare shoulders; a dance of distractions centered on a belly-button surrounded by a smooth, taut expanse of skin. “The birth certificate was irrelevant. Trump sought to demonstrate that Sen. Obama was not what his campaign claimed him to be with the PR blitz of Audacity of Hope. African-American grown, community organizer, yadda yadda. Sen. Obama’s membership in the African American community began as an adult and was only solidified by his marriage to a descendant of slavery and a life-long member of Rev. Wright’s African-American-liberation-theology church.
“Within the shell of the ‘birther’ magic spell, Trump’s message was this: Obama used to go by ‘Barry’ and was raised by his white grandparents in Hawaii. His father went back to Kenya having left little more than his naming of the boy, Barack Hussein Obama. A name he would take up in his adult life, evidencing his multicultural heritage to the world. A product of a system of affirmative action created for the descendants of slaves but fully realized in the form of a boy born to a white mother, a free-African migrant father, and raised by white grandparents mostly in Hawaii.”
Derek saw my bewildered gaze and added, “By the shorthand of requesting a birth certificate, Trump highlighted the miracle of America where anyone can take advantage of the opportunities of this great land.”
He left unsaid that the first African-American president was not a descendant of slaves but a true-blue American success story of a more traditional sort (migrant father, meritocracy-educated, and humble beginnings). He is calling identity politics a sham. This was the message hidden inside the shell of requesting a birth certificate.
“Both the message that motivates supporters and angers opponents is real, however, wrapped in a magical shorthand perceived very differently by each side. Think of it as the two poles of a magnet. To opponents, Trump repels. ‘How dare Trump challenge our connection to our progressive champion!’ They see his mantra as evidence of racism. To his supporters, it attracts. Trump is denigrating identity politics that has co-opted multi-culturalism.” He looked at his empty glass and grunted, “Unfortunately, no one seems to look beyond that candy-coated shell and focus on the real issue…”
I signaled the bartender. Ashley, flawless olive skin, serious cheekbones, impossibly full lips, said in a husky voice purring up from behind her black lace push-up bra, “This one’s on me, boys,” as she pulled down from the top shelf a single-barrel bourbon and poured three shot glasses.
“Cheers,” she said as she sipped and stayed to listen. “It’s the same with build a wall or stop Muslim immigrants,” Derek continued, raising his glass. “All of these rallying calls are merely versions of MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. Trump calls his supporters back to our common national heritage: become a legal citizen. Submit to American cultural nationalism over your continued fixation on a discarded cultural heritage from abroad. Multiculturalism is permissible, but not essential. America first!
“I’m not denying we are an arrogantly secular nation with a suspicious Christian core. As Muslims include violent extremists — ”
“Feels like all of the extremists are Muslim,” I chimed in. Derek gave me his command stare again and bowed his head. “The USA must assure itself that those who would come here have no mal-intent,” he calmly asserted. “I can tell you that after four tours, there are as many good people in those dusty desert lands as this crazy city. Still… safety first.” He took another sip.
Ashley moved down the bar to attend to another customer. I watched her leave as Derek continued. “Trump questions the competency of the establishment by demanding redress of both illegal and legal migrations with a wall or a temporary ban.”
A couple sitting down the bar heard a bit of our conversation and chimed in tauntingly. “Yeah,” they snorted. “Make America great again.”
I winced, but Derek just flashed a predatory grin and said a bit louder, “This is his challenge to politically correct identity politics. Many of his supporters see it as the evil twin of multi-culturalism that is destroying our nation’s social cohesion from the inside. The ‘melting pot’ that had his family claim to be Swedish instead of German was the America that gave the Trumps success. He would reassert these roots of citizenship ‘Uber Alles’ — over everything else.” Ashley came by to refill our glasses and in a public display of self-assurance, she asked smoothly, “Do you think he believes what he says?”
Derek paused. “My greatest fear with Trump is assuming he has a plan. I doubt that he does. He is driven to seek power. He’ll find a way to victory and backfill a rationalization for it afterward.”
“Does it matter?” I asked. “Cuz, you need to step up and talk with your Bay Area peers. They just don’t get Trump. The parts of metaphor, vehicle and tenor are inverted by audience supporters/opponents. It’s as if the candy-coated shell of the M&M tasted bitter to one group and sweet to another, like the opposite poles of a magnet. Regardless of the magic candy shell, it is the substance slash center we must discuss. These messages resonate with many and deserve to be part of our national and electoral discourse.”
Derek got intense. “Metaphors strung together in an internally consistent system constitute a heroic simile — in this case, the Trump candidacy. Those that dismiss it as pandering to ignorant racists do so at the peril of our nation.”
He slammed the rest of his bourbon and stood up to give me a big hug.
“Thanks, Cuz, for everything. I needed to decompress outside of my command.” He looked at me as if for the first time. “You’ve become a man. I miss family and the Valley. Thanks.”
The rumble of my truck’s engine was the only sound on our drive back to the airport. As Derek hoisted his duffel and headed for the check-in gate he smiled. “Don’t forget to vote!”
I was able to develop my writing and learned to express myself in the narrative form under the tutelage of Zoe Mallory along with the creative writing students in Zoe Mullery’s class. This group has been meeting for three hours every Wednesday evening at San Quentin State Prison since 1999. If you want to know more, go to https://brothersinpen.wordpress.com/
A version of this story was published in http://www.lulu.com/shop/brothers-in-pen/brothers-in-pen-pens-up-dont-shoot/paperback/product-23702328.html
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