The Fascists Next Door

Richard Spencer (Image Source)

Milo Yiannopoulos (Image source)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Richard Spencer looks like a mild-mannered sort, and he sounds like a mild-mannered sort. In an alternate reality, he would be a bank manager, a realtor, or work some other inoffensive white-collar job. He’s actually the current president of the innocuous-sounding National Policy Institute based in Arlington, Virginia. Its motto is, “For our people, our culture, our future.” He is also the executive director of Washington Summit Publishers.

Sounds innocent, right? Maybe nationalistic, but not exactly dangerous.

Except the NPI is a white supremacist and white nationalist organization, and Washington Summit Publishers is a white supremacist publisher that produces and distributes books about race, eugenics, and white nationalism. A cursory glance at the websites of these organizations makes them seem reputable, based in honest academia, but it’s a stylish mask worn by hate.

Spencer himself is a white nationalist, and one of his better-known beliefs is that of, “peaceful ethnic cleansing” to allow for the creation of a white homeland. Allow that to sink in, when has there ever been a “peaceful ethnic cleansing?” A cursory glance at this list shows that in all recorded history there has never been a “peaceful ethnic cleansing.” The very idea is at best naïve, and at worst implying a campaign of coercion and intimidation that forces the targeted groups to leave the area (which isn’t peaceful).

For those of you who may not recognize the name, he’s the guy who got clocked in the head on inauguration day just before he proudly displayed his Rare Pepe pin.

Or maybe you know him as the guy who who threw a victory rally on the night of Trump’s election, where he finished his speech with a sieg heil and the words, “Hail Trump, hail our people, hail victory!” But don’t worry, he went on to defend the gesture as, ironic.

Make no mistake: Richard Spencer is dangerous. Not only because of his rhetoric, but because of how he portrays himself.

We’re used to a certain image of white supremacists and far-right extremists. They carry barely-legal firearms, wear field jackets from surplus Army stores or wife-beaters, shave their heads, and speak in double-negatives. Their bases of operations are remote hideouts in the woods and comprised of ramshackle cabins. Richard Spencer doesn’t fit the bill, and that makes him seem like the guy next door. Never mind the fact this guy quotes Nazi propaganda and is a raging anti-Semite; the important thing is he looks and sounds like a normal guy. Then again, the same could be said for Trump. He looks like an aging businessman, and talks like a racist uncle after a few too many on Thanksgiving. Harmless, right?

For over 70 years, fascism and anything like it has been forced underground. When it popped up in the wild, it existed like a domesticated animal that had gone feral. Now? Now it’s back wearing a suit and tie, and it speaks like a politician. It makes nationalism, racism, isolationism, and authoritarianism not only seem palatable, but downright rational.

Another example of this is Milo Yiannopoulos, a senior editor for Breitbart News (the de facto press of the alt-right and Steve Bannon’s old employer before he joined Trump’s court). At first glance, he’s a metropolitan, sassy, ideologue that seems more content with disturbing sensibilities than upending democracy. He’s a shock jock, that claims he’s for the freedom of speech. The problem there is that Yiannopoulos hides behind such a powerful idea, the idea of free speech. By asserting that he is for free speech, anyone who is against him must also be against free speech. It makes it easy to disregard him, or see him as right-wing troll that’s trying to make a point.

Here’s the problem with simply ignoring Spencer’s attitude regarding minorities and his resurrection of Nazism, here’s the problem with writing off Yiannopoulos as a “right-wing troll”: it normalizes their actions. It numbs people to the reality that a person, like Spencer, can spew hateful vitriol without consequence. Should he be shot? No. Should he be imprisoned? Also, no. Should he be shouted down and forced back to whatever xenophobic hole he crawled out of? Absolutely.

It’s irresponsible to approach this kind of insanity with handwringing and the trotting out of, “Well, everyone has an opinion.” Yes, and people who had similar opinions produced some of the worst atrocities in human history. It doesn’t mean Spencer should face prosecution, but it shouldn’t be treated as acceptable or normal for this kind of dialogue to exist.

So, what’s the proper action?

On the one hand, if it’s ignored it can grow in the background like a vicious cancer left untreated. On the other hand, if it’s ignored, it can’t reach a larger audience and gain power.

Or, are Spencer and Yiannopoulos treated as man-children seeking attention, or are they treated as legitimate threats to democracy and progress? Again, it’s a catch-22: if they’re mocked they can gather power behind the scenes, but if they’re ridiculed it could strip them of their power.

On a slightly more philosophical note, how did Spencer and Yiannopoulos get to this position? Spencer isn’t an uneducated man, he received a bachelor’s degree in English literature and music from the University of Virginia, and a master’s in the humanities from the University of Chicago. He studied at the Vienna International Summer University, and spent time at Duke University studying modern European intellectual history for a doctorate degree. That’s a far cry from the denizens of backwoods Nazi hamlets. It would be folly to try and psychoanalyze him, but you still have to wonder how someone like him becomes a raving proponent for one of the worst political ideologies in human history. Maybe after getting dumped from The American Conservative he got radicalized at Taki’s Magazine? Based on this profile done by Mother Jones it seems Spencer misread Friedrich Nietzsche and got drawn in by a white nationalist/supremacist at the University of Chicago. It doesn’t really explain why he fell in with that sordid crowd, but it gives some more clues. What about Yiannopoulos? He didn’t graduate from college, but he still attended college. He’s not uneducated. Maybe it’s ignorance, or maybe it’s simple, animalistic fear of the unknown? That doesn’t paint the full picture, though, because they’re just two guys spouting off about far-right politics.

So, how did we get here? How did America look at people like Spencer, or at Yiannopoulos and decide that they were at least acceptable? Some would argue it began on September 11^th, but that’s an all too simple conclusion. Certain parts of fascism have always existed in the American DNA, like a defective hereditary gene just waiting for the right moment to surface; anti-intellectualism, big business in bed with government, and persistent militarism are just some of the pre-cancerous symptoms. It’s the ultimate dark side of a capitalist democracy, waiting to rear its ugly head when the people start to believe the game is rigged against them. Still, Americans don’t have short memories, we’re just naïve sometimes. Groups like the Ku Klux Klan, or the American Nazi Party wouldn’t find traction with a larger audience. They’re too brash, too despised, and almost too comical to be taken seriously. What about young, clean-cut demagogues like Richard Spencer and Milo Yiannopoulos? Sure, they’re saying some pretty awful stuff, and it’s a little disconcerting, but look at how they’re dressed, and listen to how they talk, why, they could be the guy next door…

Adam’s debut novel, In the Land of God, is available on Amazon as both a paperback and an eBook.

The night before the end of the world; Clinton comes to campus; Gunfire or fireworks?

The living room slider is open, and as I sit here and type this I can here the pop, pop, poppopopop of…I don’t know what in the distance. The paranoid part of me thinks it’s gunfire, it sounds enough like the distinct crackling of gunfire, but the other part of me knows it’s just fireworks. Some preliminary celebrations, or letting off steam. I suppose it doesn’t matter at this point. If people really want to kill each other over this election, then let them. I am far beyond done with this election. I haven’t even had to endure the incessant political ads on television, so my heart goes out to those of you who still watch TV.

I’m genuinely surprised nothing crazy happened today. No Russian geeks tried to dump the equivalent of a dead body in our bed concerning Clinton, and no major media outlet picked up a story that Trump dines on barbecued infants as part of some Satanic ritual. I’m also surprised that no major violence broke out between protesters here in quiet Grand Rapids. I’m sure some insults were hurled, but I’m talking real blood-spattering, bone-breaking violence. Especially considering both

Clinton came to Grand Valley today, and I decided to go check it out. The line went far beyond the field house, past the bookstore, down the sidewalk, around the parking lot and toward the back of the field house. It would be an understatement to say that they came unprepared. The field house has a capacity of a little over 4,000 people, and it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of sanity to say there were at least that many people waiting in line when I arrived at 2:40.

I waited in line with my dutiful Shanice for about an hour and a half, and by 4 o’clock it became apparent we weren’t getting inside the field house. No matter. The showing itself told me two things:

a) Clinton has a lot of support at Grand Valley

and

b) Everyone is exhausted from this election

The first part is pretty self-evident, but the second part needs some explanation. During my time standing in line I saw only one anti-Hillary protester, and even then he wasn’t exactly pro-Trump either. He bore a crudely written sign about how Clinton was somehow involved with the water contamination at Camp LeJeune. I didn’t get the chance to talk to him about her involvement with that, but at the same time it didn’t seem all that credible given the problem began in the 1950s and ended in the 1980s. The only tenable connection is that the Clinton administration (Bill Clinton, that is) may have screwed up the VA during the ‘90s. That’s not really Hillary’s faulty, though. Apparently there were some pro-Trump/anti-Hillary protesters up near the entrance of the field house, but I didn’t bother to check them out. Why bother? There’s no point, because like I said, it’s all a routine at this point. The battle lines have been drawn, and we all know what each camp has to say about the other.

I’m not even going to talk about the protests.

All I’m going to say is do what you have to do, and don’t go crazy tomorrow. I don’t know if Trump will accept the results if he loses, but that’s beside the point. The actions of one man are, in the grand scheme of things, inconsequential, but the actions of a multitude of people can have dramatic, far-reaching consequences. So vote, but be gracious if you lose. Even if Trump wins I will grit my teeth, have a drink, and hope that nothing too insane happens. Maybe I’ll consider buying a bit of land in northern Michigan, building a house, and riding out the next four years.

From what I’ve read the rural parts of Germany and Japan didn’t do too poorly during the war.

How did we even get to this point? That’s what I’m still trying to wrap my head around. Maybe this is the result of apathy, the lack of critical thought, and dirty politics? I don’t have the answers, and I hope the answer isn’t that the People actually want to give authoritarianism a whirl.

I suppose come tomorrow night we will have our answer.

All I know is that tomorrow I will drive out to my polling location, cast my vote for Hillary Rodham Clinton, go home, and hope that the republic doesn’t eat itself by November 9^th. I wish that I could vote for Jill Stein, but the stakes are too high. It breaks my heart every time I look at the package of buttons and pamphlets Shanice received from the Stein people. Jill, if you ever read this, I just want you to know you are a victim of grim circumstances, and I would have voted for you in a heartbeat in a different time.

This is it. In seven hours we make the call about the leader of the United States, and the direction the world will take for the next four years.

A luta continua.

Trump Jr. speaks at Grand Valley; Chicago Cubs win the 2016 World Series; Any manner of insanity is possible now

On Wednesday, November 2, I walked into the Kirkhof Center at the Allendale Campus of Grand Valley State University expecting wall-to-wall people, protesters up the ying-yang, and the threat of a melee. Why would I expect this? Because Trump Jr. was there speaking at a rally.

Basically there to say, “Go vote for my dad, guys!” If those words had been spoken by a child, perhaps little Barron Trump, it would be adorable. Hell, if Hitler had had a kid and that kid said that it itwould be cute. I’d still say, “Sorry bud, no can do, but hey, points for trying!” Shit, I hope that kid makes it through this whole fiasco unscathed.

No, instead of a child it was a 38-year old man in a business suit that probably costs more than my rent, internet, and groceries combined and who looks like an extra from American Psycho. A few weeks ago I would have said it would have come off as a last, desperate grasp at votes, but things have changed.

After all, that same night the Chicago Cubs won the 2016 World Series in an 8-7, 10^th inning victory over the Clevlenad Indians. It’s been 108 years since the Cubs last won a World Series, and I suppose that means just about anything is possible now, including a Trump presidency.

Yes, even after Pussy-gate, after multiple media scandals, after all of it Trump could still win the 2016 bid for president of the United States.

I don’t want to sound alarmist, I just think it’s funny that if Trump wins and spells the end of American democracy then at least part of the blame will fall on Anthony Wiener’s horny bumbling. It would seem like a fitting end to this absurd election, and maybe 100 years from now we can look back on this moment in history and laugh. We’ll need a sense of dark humor in the wasteland.

I suppose all civilizations have to go through things like this. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t dealt with political crises before; Watergate, the Civil War, the federalist/anti-federalist debate, all of it worse than what we’re dealing with right now. If we can survive Nixon almost destroying all faith in the government I’m sure we’ll endure this too.

Even Germany, Italy and Japan rebuilt themselves after the war.

Never mind that darkness, back to the straight-reportage.

I went up the stairs and found a small group of students milling in the corridor.

“I’m not voting for Trump or Clinton, fuck that!” one of them said, “I’m voting third party.”

The small group clapped their buddy on the back and shoulders, showering him with encouragement and agreements. Oh to be naive and idealistic like that. If Trump wasn’t the candidate I would have been inclined to agree, but now it seems like an exercise in folly. I brushed past them and headed for the Grand River Room; the location of the rally.

I opened the door and a campus police officer, tall and gray-haired and probably older than my father, greeted me and said, “Room’s at capacity, can’t let anyone else in.”

He didn’t really say it though, it was more of a growl and a mutter. Before he closed the door all the way, I noticed there was still plenty of room for more attendees. I couldn’t blame the poor bastard for being jumpy. Pack enough heated and fundamentally divided people into a room and there’s bound to be bloodshed. What if things had gotten out of control? I seriously doubt that the university police could have handled a full-scale brouhaha.

Some helpful tech flunkie told me there was room in the Pere Marquette Room to watch the rally via video on the projector screen. Two things went through my mind:

a) Screw it, it’s better than nothing at all

and

b) This feels more like a rock concert than a political rally.

Being the good, law-abiding citizen that I am, I obeyed the officer and shuffled down to the other room. When I entered the room I noticed that it was mostly full too, and that the majority of the attendees didn’t look like blatant Trump voters. That’s not meant as a generalization, but more as a direct observation. None of them wore the (in)famous Red Hat emblazoned with “Make America Great Again” or any other apparel. If there were any Trump supporters in that crowd they didn’t make it obvious.

In the back of the room there was a handful of people with some anti-Trump signs. Nothing too inflammatory or inspired, just the usual slogans (“Dump Trump!” or “Love trumps hate!” etc. etc.) I’m sure they’re passionate about what they believe in, but at the same time it almost feels routine. You have the protesters then you have the supporters. They have their respective catchphrases, one side shouts at the other and the other fires back, then everybody goes home. Something akin to trench warfare.

That’s not to say there wasn’t energy. Oh, no sir/ma’am.

On the projector screen I saw a sea of (mostly white…scratch that, overwhelmingly white) people, and a collection of Red Hats dotting that landscape. Evidently, somebody tried to get into the full room and a chant began:

“Lock the gates! Lock the gates! Lock the gates!”

My skin crawled, just enough to notice. The chant possessed an eerie, hive-mindedness quality, as if these people operated on some unknown collective brainwave that activated once you gave yourself over to The Donald. That crowd returned to its baseline collective hum of disjointed conversation. It was as if someone had kicked a hornets’ nest, and they got riled up, then resumed their neutral mood with the aggression waiting to be unleashed at the next provocation.

There was movement from off camera and the supporters began to chant again, this time it was:

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

Haunting memories of Nuremberg jumped to the forefront of my mind. We’ve seen the Black Shirts, the Brown Shirts, and now maybe it will be the Red Hats.

Even though it wasn’t Trump himself, the audience didn’t seem to care. The mere idea that someone directly related to Trump being in their presence was enough to get their pulse up and their tongues wagging. It felt like being at a sporting event before the players take the field. It appeals to the part of our brain that still wants to hit things with rocks and poke things with sticks. It’s the dark side of the human character and we all still have it, only showing it at appropriate times. The worst and most appropriate time, of course, being a political event.

Instead of Trump Jr. taking the stage it was two representatives from the Division of Inclusion & Equity. The man (who I think was Jesse M. Bernal) went to the lectern and delivered an introductory speech acknowledging the Republican students that coordinated the event and reminding everyone to respect Trump Jr.’s right to free speech and to abstain from protesting. Maybe he was sick, but he looked pale, sweaty, and his voice had the slightest shake to it. Maybe he doesn’t like speaking in front of crowds, or maybe the crowd he was addressing made him nervous. On the one hand I sympathized with him, he was trying to maintain calm and diffuse a potential time bomb. On the other hand I detested the calls for respect and abstention from protest. Provided it didn’t get out of hand, why shouldn’t the protesters get to have their say? I get it, “We aim high…” but would Clinton, or Stein, be given the same courtesy?

Still, the young Donald didn’t appear and my attention waned. There didn’t seem to be any threats of violence, and being the good modern Roman I am this bored me. I don’t want to sound bloodthirsty, but being an aspiring journalist a little conflict would’ve made for a more interesting story. Alas, Ares didn’t smile on me.

I left, went home, and made dinner. My phone buzzed twice on the way home, and for a brief second I wanted to believe that when I read the texts they would read, “Chaos has broken out…people and chairs everywhere…police immobilized with shock and disgust.”

Instead the first one read, “He finally got onstage (Time delivered 4:48)”

The second one read, “He just left (Time delivered 4:55)”

Seven minutes. Seven minutes of onstage time. What the hell could he actually say in that amount of time? Once the cheering and jeering died down what meaningful speech could he have given? I’m sure it amounted to nothing more than what I wrote earlier: Vote for my dad, because…y’know, he’s my dad.

I can’t fault him for supporting his father, but I can fault him for being late and being onstage for only seven minutes. I suppose none of it makes any difference, though. The front lines have been established and the respective coalitions have dug their trenches. The middle ground still exists, a no man’s land of swing states.

I suppose all of us, American and non-American alike, will see what happens November 8, 2016.

A luta continua.