thebulwark--2020-10-04--The Other Democratic Party

The Other Democratic Party

Four years after Trump ’ s victory , scholars are still struggling to understand his appeal , especially in the many working-class communities that had previously supported Obama .
Observers usually say this surprising partisan flip is due to some noxious mix of racism , authoritarianism , and diseases of social despair .
Such explanations have one thing in common : They all assume these citizens must have serious psychological or character deficits .
But what if this analysis is rooted partly in scholars ’ social isolation from Trump ’ s admirers ?
In an effort to bridge that divide @ @ @ @ @ @ @ three blue strongholds that unexpectedly voted Republican in the 2016 presidential election : Ottumwa , Iowa , a small industrial city with a meatpacking plant ; Johnston , Rhode Island , a suburb of Providence ; and Elliott County , Kentucky , a small rural community with a history of coal mining and tobacco farming .
We soaked up the political culture of these Democratic hamlets by interviewing residents and by hanging out in bars , churches , coffee shops , diners , and town council meetings .
We found that Trump is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Although he ran as an outsider , he resembles some of the most beloved political insiders .
In these places , the political culture has long been Trumpian .
Their most beloved Democratic leaders are crass , thin-skinned , and nepotistic .
They promise to take care of their people by cutting deals–and corners , if necessary .
In these respects–and others–they continue to practice a forgotten tradition of boss politics in the Democratic Party .
Understanding this forgotten tradition is critical both to Democrats who hope to rebuild a broad-based working-class @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to revamp their party once Trump finally fades from the scene .
The local patron–or boss–has long embodied the Democratic Party for his loyal voters in the places we studied .
Elliott County ’ s judge/executive ( an elective executive position ) David Blair was the Democratic machine for decades .
He remains popular there , even after being forced out of office in 2011 due to corruption charges .
Mayor Joe Polisena , meanwhile , controls Johnston ’ s powerful Democratic machine .
In Ottumwa the boss tradition faded years ago when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the mayor ’ s office .
Yet it lives on in the fond memories of the city ’ s old-timers .
To the dismay of many in Ottumwa ’ s small professional class–whom Parker calls the “ Indian Hill people ” ( after the local community college ) –they continue to elect him to the office of county supervisor .
The boss and his supporters are held together by a paternalistic social contract , one that exchanges promises of protection and provision in return for respect and loyalty .
It ’ s a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the patriarchal , working-class family .
Boss rule also includes a degree of tolerance for corruption .
“ Getting the job done ” in the service of loyal supporters is what matters , which means that scrupulousness about the law or maintaining tidy distinctions between public and private boundaries can interfere with good governance .
In these communities , the “ Democratic ” label does not even suggest a commitment to progressive views on race , gender , guns , or immigration .
On many such issues , in fact , the Democrats @ @ @ @ @ @ @ even staunchly conservative .
Rather to be a Democrat long meant that one was part of a paternalistic social contract , one brought to life through an informal network of alliances .
For almost three decades , for example , David Blair was Elliott County ’ s judge/executive until he was forced out of office by the federal government on corruption charges .
Blair was indicted for currying favor with voters by providing them public gravel for the upkeep of private backroads on their farms .
But he remains popular .
A number @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him for personally helping constituents out , including hiring them when they needed jobs and using his own company ’ s equipment to clear snow .
He first became a local patron decades ago through his connection to the carpenter ’ s union , which allowed him to become a critical gatekeeper for jobs .
“ All the boys came to me who wanted in the carpenters ’ union , ” he told us .
“ They were just farm boys .
I ’ d take them up there [ to union headquarters @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and send them to Cincinnati to work .
They could earn good money up there then.
” Later Blair continued this strategy when he bought his way into a pipefitters ’ union .
And when Blair eventually acquired a coal business , his ability to offer jobs to loyal supporters expanded once again .
Like Blair and machine politicians everywhere , Polisena is inundated by a constant stream of favor seekers .
Unlike boss rule in Johnston ’ s old days , Polisena says he tries to help his constituents , so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him to break the law , which they sometimes do .
“ People come in here .
They ’ ll ask for something off the wall .
I tell them .
.
.
.
‘ I can ’ t do that [ often because it ’ s illegal ] , but I can do this , ” the mayor told us .
In exchange , Johnston ’ s Polisena–much like Blair in Elliott County–demands loyalty .
“ If you ’ re not a Democrat in Johnston , you would never get anything , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ street swept , ” one local told us .
True or not , that ’ s what Johnstonians believe .
For this reason , Johnstonians often only expressed reservations about the mayor ’ s rule “ off the record.
” One accounted for their reluctance by saying , “ You know how this town is.
” Trump fashions himself more an old-style Democratic boss in the mold of a Blair or Polisena than a modern Republican .
Like these men , Trump offers his supporters not a grand ideological vision , but rather @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by cutting deals–and corners if need be .
These boss-centered Democratic communities and the Trump White House have also indulged in nepotism .
Many are appalled that Trump was set to appoint his daughter Ivanka and her husband Jared Kushner , who are neither public health experts nor economists , to the Council to Reopen America .
But in the towns we visited , extended family ties are often the basis of common enterprises , including politics .
In Johnston a handful of family cliques control town politics .
Thus , it seemed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trump ’ s relatives would play important roles in his administration .
As one Johnstonian told us , “ What do you want his kids to do ?
” “ They ’ re backing their father.
” The Democratic machine in Johnston has been stitched together by extended ties that link families across generations , including the Lombardis , the Uccis , and the Delfinos .
Mayor Polisena ’ s son–Joe Polisena , Jr.–was just recently elected to the town council .
This continuity of families in politics builds trust and familiarity among @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to tune in to Elliott ’ s political nepotism , since the locals at first seemed disapproving of the practice .
We spent over a month in 2018 listening to citizens criticize judge/ executive Carl Fannin for hiring his son as his deputy .
Yet it eventually became clear that the offense was not the nepotism itself so much as the personality of this particular son .
It turned out that every judge for the past half-century had hired his oldest son as his deputy with few complaints .
So the problem was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , it was that he had hired his son .
In Elliott County even lower-level public officials are expected to bring their families on board .
After assuming office , county clerk Shelia Blevins hired her sister , Jeannie Moore , as a deputy clerk without having advertised the job .
She explained , “ The former clerk left office [ in a corruption scandal ] , and all of her employees left with her , and so I started fresh .
Because I was learning and I just needed somebody that I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , [ my sister ] was there with me and had my back.
” Corruption , more generally , has been a feature of Democratic boss politics , including the cases we studied .
It grows out of a social contract between the boss and his supporters that rests on personalism and reciprocity rather than meritocracy and ideology .
Therefore , voters are often forgiving of corruption .
When Ottumwa ’ s Jerry Parker was arrested for running a gambling operation from his home , he refused to step down from public office @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ] –I gambled , ’ ” he told us , “ ‘ I have a bigger jury out there than the twelve people trying me here .
I ’ ll let them try me at the next election.
’ And I won bigger at that election [ after the arrest ] than any other.
” Parker believes he won because of his prior work on behalf of the town ’ s working-class , particularly his efforts to control annual flooding that plagued Ottumwa ’ s southside neighborhoods .
“ They never forgot that.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ dismayed when Blair reached a federal plea deal for paving private roads and driveways with public gravel .
Some were even bewildered by the corruption charges .
“ If the county isn ’ t helping you with your gravel and your road , what ’ s it doing ?
” one asked rhetorically .
Another complained : “ At least when he was in , if you needed a load of gravel you could get one.
” Such examples do not seem idiosyncratic .
Other studies of working-class Democratic communities that embraced Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In Youngstown , Ohio , for example , U.S. Representative Jim Traficant is still adored by many of the city ’ s white working-class citizens even after he was expelled from Congress convicted on ten felony counts , including racketeering .
According to sociologist Justin Gest , locals in Youngstown are so forgiving because Traficant is regarded as a “ championed martyr who has the audacity to stand up for the working man.
” As one of his admirers told Gest : “ Jim Traficant did a lot for this Valley .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ accused of were ] just bartering .
He went to jail for it , but he cared a lot about the working man–the little man , the small businessman , that ’ s what built this valley.
” Similarly , in Luzerne County , Pennsylvania , for instance , political corruption has long been a norm .
As one state investigator recently described the region , “ It ’ s like shooting fish in a barrel in Pennsylvania .
You just turn over a rock .
You are guaranteed to find something.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ long been shaped by honor culture .
Honor cultures are common around the world and in most working-class places in the United States .
They have been called “ hillbilly justice ” in Appalachia , “ the code of the street ” in poor Black neighborhoods , and “ toxic masculinity ” by feminists .
What they all share is an understanding that one must never ignore a slight .
One must defend one ’ s reputation–or honor–by always responding to insults .
A failure to respond is always interpreted as weakness , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Joe Polisena , is a devotee of this honor culture .
During frequent town council meetings Polisena is regularly greeted by a small group of locals who criticize his rule .
Polisena doesn ’ t follow Michelle Obama ’ s advice by going “ high ” when they go “ low.
” Instead , he calls critics “ malcontents , ” even “ douchebags.
” Thanks to Johnston ’ s honor culture , Polisena believes that he has no choice .
“ You can ’ t be nice when people are trying @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he told us .
Why not , we asked .
“ It shows your weakness , ” he replied .
“ And then they ’ ll just roll over you.
” Stephen Ucci , Johnston ’ s representative in the Rhode Island state house , told us that he also meets constituents he “ can ’ t back down from ” without losing their “ respect.
” One Sunday morning at Brewed Awakenings , Johnston ’ s local coffee klatch , Ucci recalled that he was approached by an angry constituent .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Get outside !
’ I get in the parking lot and I just lay into him.
” “ I think that ’ s what people respect in this town , ” Ucci added .
Ottumwa , at first blush , seems far removed from the Italian-America suburb of Johnston .
It ’ s a midwestern , industrial town that is miles from a major city .
But there , too , honor culture shapes political life .
During the 2016 Democratic primaries a fight nearly broke out between pro-Clinton Jerry Parker , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Alex Stroda , a Sanders ’ precinct captain .
“ Forty years ago , I would have punched him , but I ’ m older [ now ] , ” Parker told us .
“ Solving problems with violence , ” Stroda added , “ is sort of ingrained in the nature of Ottumwa .
.
.
.
There ’ s no ignoring an insult.
” Like all communities governed by an honor culture , citizens in Ottumwa suffer consequences when they let an insult go .
A Trump enthusiast named Brenda ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ years in a corn-processing plant .
The working-class technicians loved tormenting the new engineers , often young men just out of college .
Everytime one newbie made a mistake , Brenda recalled , an older technician barked : “ You ’ re a dumb fuck , say it !
” Brenda waited for the retaliation required by an honor culture .
“ I was thinking , ‘ Man , stand up for yourself , don ’ t let him do that to you .
.
.
.
Put that guy in his place @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t fight back , Brenda thought , “ that ’ s the end of you , bud.
” And it was .
The young man quit .
His reputation–or honor–could not be salvaged .
The culture of honor was so pervasive in Ottumwa that we stumbled upon it unexpectedly at times .
As we sipped coffee in the lobby of our hotel one morning , a handful of men from a local union gathered in a noisy dispute over changing workplace norms .
When the supervisor informed his employee that he could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he responded in disbelief : “ I was just fucking with him.
” To which the supervisor responded sympathetically : “ It is not called fucking with people anymore .
It ’ s called harassment .
.
.
.
It ’ s just the way it is , and it sucks.
” In Elliott County , like Appalachia generally , honor culture is powerful too , though it lacks some of the bluster commonly found outside of the American South .
Isolated in the Kentucky hills , local residents have long been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protection from the police .
That means that they are familiar with the individuals and families that one should be careful “ not to cross.
” After a family with a reputation for toughness was robbed , one of our informants told us with a chuckle : “ That was a mistake !
” The victims figured out who the thieves were and went to retrieve their things–at gunpoint .
The journalists who parachuted into Trump country in the wake of the 2016 election kept stumbling over honor cultures in these working-class hamlets @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Brad Todd divided the citizens they interviewed into seven different archetypes even though many of these ostensibly varied Trump voters shared an appreciation for the president ’ s toughness .
The voters they spoke with said Trump had “ balls , ” “ didn ’ t back down ” or “ take crap , ” “ meant business , ” possessed a “ fighting spirit , ” “ came from a place of strength , ” and didn ’ t apologize .
Citizens in the communities we studied routinely praised Trump in similar @ @ @ @ @ @ @ told us over eggs and coffee one morning : “ I hate to say it but Bush and Obama were pushovers .
With Trump , he ’ s not a pushover .
You ’ re going to deal hard with him.
” Our softer , ethnographic research is supported by harder survey data .
The 2016 American National Election Survey found that new Trump voters—those who either did not vote or voted for Obama in 2012—were especially likely to admire Trump ’ s tough persona .
These voters were particularly likely to say @ @ @ @ @ @ @ strong leader.
” Critics who reduce this desire for “ strong ” men to an authoritarian personality miss the cultural context in which such desires are embedded .
Trump didn ’ t so much widen a split in the American psyche : one democratic , the other proto-facist .
Rather he exploited a cultural divide that pits the “ honor ” culture of the working class against the “ dignity ” culture of the professional class .
That divide helps us understand why Democrats in the leafy college town where we live abhor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ towns we studied adore him .
In the former , Trump ’ s thin skin and relentless counterpunching is seen as a sign of a disordered mind , while in the latter those qualities are simply normal .
Trump ’ s respect for these Democrats ’ culture of honor is arguably what distinguishes him most from other modern presidents .
As Bob Woodward recounts in his book Fear , Trump once told a personal friend : “ Real power is fear .
It ’ s all about strength .
Never show weakness .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ strong .
Don ’ t be bullied .
There is no choice.
” Thus , the president seemed “ more like the working person , ” as one Trump Democrat put it .
Another echoed this : Trump , he said , is “ not a politician .
He ’ s a regular guy .
He ’ s a rich regular person.
” This sense of social proximity matters .
As political scientists Christopher Achen and Larry Bartels have argued , social identities shape voting behavior more than policy preferences or ideology .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ language .
Of course , it sometimes happens that overlapping social ties pull them in different partisan directions .
In the 2016 election , working-class Democrats had to either choose a candidate who shared their partisan identity or one who spoke their language .
Many opted for the latter .
To see the Democratic Party in these places , therefore , is to catch glimpses of a forgotten tradition of machine boss rule in the Democratic Party .
The party ’ s traditions have not just been shaped by establishment figures like Bill @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez .
It has also been the party of men like Richard Daley , Jim Traficant , and Rod Blagojevich — and less nationally prominent figures like Joe Polisena , Jerry Parker , and David Blair .
We tend to forget about this tradition because it has been extinguished from major cities and college towns long ago .
But this boss tradition enjoyed a longer life–and still fights for its survival–in small Democratic communities where bossism faced fewer foes .
Trump fits more comfortably in this Democratic tradition @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or “ bosses ” who sought the presidency , such as Meg Whitman , Carly Fiorina , or Mitt Romney .
Trump ’ s persona is one that resembles not the bosses of corporate America but rather the local political bosses ( and mob bosses ) that once ruled and influenced Democratic machines .
Like them he is crass , thin-skinned , nepotistic , and promises to be the patron–or “ don ” –of his loyal supporters .
Trump also offered up this older , boss-centered vision of politics at a time when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the national party was still their patron .
Thus , when Trump promised to take care of his people , many understood that he was referring to their community–and perhaps to members of the white working-class more generally .
As political scientist Ashley Jardina found , “ Trump capitalized on white identity because many white voters saw him as restoring and protecting their group ’ s power and resources.
” Trump did so at a time when the power of local Democratic patrons was weakening and at a moment when many white , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ social threats .
But if Trump fits comfortably in this boss tradition , it ’ s also not one that imports well into the national orbit .
Honor culture , for example , functions much better in small communities marked by familiarity .
Not only do locals know who “ not to mess with , ” thick social ties can help defuse conflicts .
When that same culture of honor was exported into more impersonal settings by Trump disputes were more likely to end in violence .
At his campaign rallies , for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to fight those who tried to disrupt them .
Typical was a speech Trump gave in Iowa : “ If you see somebody getting ready to throw a tomato , knock the crap out of ’ em , would ya ?
Seriously.
” In impersonal contexts like this one , political violence escalates much faster than in intimate settings like Johnston , Ottumwa , or Elliott County .
Similarly , governance by credentialed technocrats—rather than family members—is important to good national government , given the complexity of problems in its orbit .
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ counties where governance by trusted community members with extensive local knowledge is often adequate to address local challenges .
Elliott County ’ s Michelle Oney is a good example of this tendency .
From humble beginnings , Oney became one of the county ’ s most impressive magistrates thanks to her intelligence and work ethic .
Compared to interlopers with college degrees who pass through the county ’ s school district on their way up the professional ladder , locals like Oney are more valuable public servants .
It is also difficult to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by local bosses into national office .
Often the best Trump has been able to do is a poor imitation , like emblazoning his name on stimulus payments as if he were personally cutting checks .
We should also resist the temptation to read Trump ’ s personal deplorableness into his admirers or this forgotten Democratic tradition .
Even the most Trumpian politicians we profiled in our book are far better public servants than our president .
Joe Polisena , for example , cares deeply for the town of Johnston and has , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mayor .
Trump is only a hollow , cartoonish version of men like Polisena .
Whether Trump ’ s Democrats will discern the difference between admirable political bosses like Polisena and posers like Trump in the upcoming election , is still anyone ’ s guess .
One thing is more certain : If liberals hope to pull these working-class whites back into the Democratic fold , it would help if they don ’ t reduce enthusiasm for Trump to merely racist or authoritarian impulses .
Doing so promises to deepen the diploma divide @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like San Francisco and Wellesley from places like Ottumwa , Elliott , and Johnston .
Perhaps Biden would win the election in November without appealing to Trump ’ s Democrats simply by increasing turnout among minorities and suburban voters .
Polling data suggests Biden might be well on his way to doing so .
But even if that turns out to be true , the Democratic Party still needs to ask itself a more existential question : What kind of party does it want to become ?
Does it want to try to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ so , it needs to better understand the lure of boss politics that once helped to anchor the New Deal coalition .
The GOP , meanwhile , has an opportunity to turn these Democrat Trump loyalists into reliable Republicans .
If they are successful , Republicans must somehow make room for a constituency with strong misgivings about free trade .
New Republican voters in 2016–those who either did not vote or supported Obama–were especially like to favor protectionist policies .
More generally , Republicans must make peace with the large social welfare state @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Republicans ’ biggest challenge , though , may be more rhetorical than substantive .
The party must eventually distance itself from a loathsome president , while also courting a constituency that idolizes him .
This essay is an excerpt from Trump ’ s Democrats , by Stephanie Muravchik and Jon A. Shields

Four years after Trump’s victory, scholars are still struggling to understand his appeal, especially in the many working-class communities that had previously supported Obama. Observers usually say this surprising partisan flip is due to some noxious mix of racism, authoritarianism, and diseases of social despair. Such explanations have one thing in common: They all assume these citizens must have serious psychological or character deficits.
But what if this analysis is rooted partly in scholars’ social isolation from Trump’s admirers? In an effort to bridge that divide, we spent three years living in three blue strongholds that unexpectedly voted Republican in the 2016 presidential election: Ottumwa, Iowa, a small industrial city with a meatpacking plant; Johnston, Rhode Island, a suburb of Providence; and Elliott County, Kentucky, a small rural community with a history of coal mining and tobacco farming. We soaked up the political culture of these Democratic hamlets by interviewing residents and by hanging out in bars, churches, coffee shops, diners, and town council meetings.
We found that Trump is not an oddity in these Democratic communities. Although he ran as an outsider, he resembles some of the most beloved political insiders. In these places, the political culture has long been Trumpian. Their most beloved Democratic leaders are crass, thin-skinned, and nepotistic. They promise to take care of their people by cutting deals–and corners, if necessary. In these respects–and others–they continue to practice a forgotten tradition of boss politics in the Democratic Party.
Understanding this forgotten tradition is critical both to Democrats who hope to rebuild a broad-based working-class party and to Republicans who will need to revamp their party once Trump finally fades from the scene.
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The local patron–or boss–has long embodied the Democratic Party for his loyal voters in the places we studied. Elliott County’s judge/executive (an elective executive position) David Blair was the Democratic machine for decades. He remains popular there, even after being forced out of office in 2011 due to corruption charges. Mayor Joe Polisena, meanwhile, controls Johnston’s powerful Democratic machine. In Ottumwa the boss tradition faded years ago when city reformers pushed Jerry Parker out of the mayor’s office. Yet it lives on in the fond memories of the city’s old-timers. To the dismay of many in Ottumwa’s small professional class–whom Parker calls the “Indian Hill people” (after the local community college)–they continue to elect him to the office of county supervisor.
The boss and his supporters are held together by a paternalistic social contract, one that exchanges promises of protection and provision in return for respect and loyalty. It’s a model of politics that grows up from the patriarchal, working-class family. Boss rule also includes a degree of tolerance for corruption. “Getting the job done” in the service of loyal supporters is what matters, which means that scrupulousness about the law or maintaining tidy distinctions between public and private boundaries can interfere with good governance.
In these communities, the “Democratic” label does not even suggest a commitment to progressive views on race, gender, guns, or immigration. On many such issues, in fact, the Democrats we spoke with are moderate, some even staunchly conservative. Rather to be a Democrat long meant that one was part of a paternalistic social contract, one brought to life through an informal network of alliances.
For almost three decades, for example, David Blair was Elliott County’s judge/executive until he was forced out of office by the federal government on corruption charges. Blair was indicted for currying favor with voters by providing them public gravel for the upkeep of private backroads on their farms. But he remains popular. A number of county residents we spoke to lauded him for personally helping constituents out, including hiring them when they needed jobs and using his own company’s equipment to clear snow.
He first became a local patron decades ago through his connection to the carpenter’s union, which allowed him to become a critical gatekeeper for jobs. “All the boys came to me who wanted in the carpenters’ union,” he told us. “They were just farm boys. I’d take them up there [to union headquarters] and get them a union card, and send them to Cincinnati to work. They could earn good money up there then.” Later Blair continued this strategy when he bought his way into a pipefitters’ union. And when Blair eventually acquired a coal business, his ability to offer jobs to loyal supporters expanded once again.
Like Blair and machine politicians everywhere, Polisena is inundated by a constant stream of favor seekers. Unlike boss rule in Johnston’s old days, Polisena says he tries to help his constituents, so long as they don’t ask him to break the law, which they sometimes do. “People come in here. They’ll ask for something off the wall. I tell them . . . . ‘I can’t do that [often because it’s illegal], but I can do this,” the mayor told us.
In exchange, Johnston’s Polisena–much like Blair in Elliott County–demands loyalty. “If you’re not a Democrat in Johnston, you would never get anything, you wouldn’t even get your street swept,” one local told us. True or not, that’s what Johnstonians believe. For this reason, Johnstonians often only expressed reservations about the mayor’s rule “off the record.” One accounted for their reluctance by saying,“You know how this town is.”
Trump fashions himself more an old-style Democratic boss in the mold of a Blair or Polisena than a modern Republican. Like these men, Trump offers his supporters not a grand ideological vision, but rather a promise to take care of them by cutting deals–and corners if need be.
These boss-centered Democratic communities and the Trump White House have also indulged in nepotism. Many are appalled that Trump was set to appoint his daughter Ivanka and her husband Jared Kushner, who are neither public health experts nor economists, to the Council to Reopen America. But in the towns we visited, extended family ties are often the basis of common enterprises, including politics. In Johnston a handful of family cliques control town politics. Thus, it seemed normal to people we talked to that Trump’s relatives would play important roles in his administration. As one Johnstonian told us, “What do you want his kids to do?” “They’re backing their father.”
The Democratic machine in Johnston has been stitched together by extended ties that link families across generations, including the Lombardis, the Uccis, and the Delfinos. Mayor Polisena’s son–Joe Polisena, Jr.–was just recently elected to the town council. This continuity of families in politics builds trust and familiarity among local supporters.
It took us longer to tune in to Elliott’s political nepotism, since the locals at first seemed disapproving of the practice. We spent over a month in 2018 listening to citizens criticize judge/ executive Carl Fannin for hiring his son as his deputy. Yet it eventually became clear that the offense was not the nepotism itself so much as the personality of this particular son. It turned out that every judge for the past half-century had hired his oldest son as his deputy with few complaints.
In Elliott County even lower-level public officials are expected to bring their families on board. After assuming office, county clerk Shelia Blevins hired her sister, Jeannie Moore, as a deputy clerk without having advertised the job. She explained, “The former clerk left office [in a corruption scandal], and all of her employees left with her, and so I started fresh. Because I was learning and I just needed somebody that I knew for sure I could depend on, [my sister] was there with me and had my back.”
Corruption, more generally, has been a feature of Democratic boss politics, including the cases we studied. It grows out of a social contract between the boss and his supporters that rests on personalism and reciprocity rather than meritocracy and ideology.
Therefore, voters are often forgiving of corruption. When Ottumwa’s Jerry Parker was arrested for running a gambling operation from his home, he refused to step down from public office. “‘So [what?]–I gambled,’” he told us, “‘I have a bigger jury out there than the twelve people trying me here. I’ll let them try me at the next election.’ And I won bigger at that election [after the arrest] than any other.” Parker believes he won because of his prior work on behalf of the town’s working-class, particularly his efforts to control annual flooding that plagued Ottumwa’s southside neighborhoods. “They never forgot that.”
In Elliott, many locals were dismayed when Blair reached a federal plea deal for paving private roads and driveways with public gravel. Some were even bewildered by the corruption charges. “If the county isn’t helping you with your gravel and your road, what’s it doing?” one asked rhetorically. Another complained: “At least when he was in, if you needed a load of gravel you could get one.”
Such examples do not seem idiosyncratic. Other studies of working-class Democratic communities that embraced Trump also identified a legacy of political corruption. In Youngstown, Ohio, for example, U.S. Representative Jim Traficant is still adored by many of the city’s white working-class citizens even after he was expelled from Congress convicted on ten felony counts, including racketeering. According to sociologist Justin Gest, locals in Youngstown are so forgiving because Traficant is regarded as a “championed martyr who has the audacity to stand up for the working man.” As one of his admirers told Gest: “Jim Traficant did a lot for this Valley . . . [The crimes he was accused of were] just bartering. He went to jail for it, but he cared a lot about the working man–the little man, the small businessman, that’s what built this valley.” Similarly, in Luzerne County, Pennsylvania, for instance, political corruption has long been a norm. As one state investigator recently described the region, “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel in Pennsylvania. You just turn over a rock. You are guaranteed to find something.”
Democratic bosses and their supporters have also long been shaped by honor culture. Honor cultures are common around the world and in most working-class places in the United States. They have been called “hillbilly justice” in Appalachia, “the code of the street” in poor Black neighborhoods, and “toxic masculinity” by feminists. What they all share is an understanding that one must never ignore a slight. One must defend one’s reputation–or honor–by always responding to insults. A failure to respond is always interpreted as weakness, never magnanimity.
Johnston’s mayor, Joe Polisena, is a devotee of this honor culture. During frequent town council meetings Polisena is regularly greeted by a small group of locals who criticize his rule. Polisena doesn’t follow Michelle Obama’s advice by going “high” when they go “low.” Instead, he calls critics “malcontents,” even “douchebags.”
Thanks to Johnston’s honor culture, Polisena believes that he has no choice. “You can’t be nice when people are trying to take shots at you,” he told us. Why not, we asked. “It shows your weakness,” he replied. “And then they’ll just roll over you.”
Stephen Ucci, Johnston’s representative in the Rhode Island state house, told us that he also meets constituents he “can’t back down from” without losing their “respect.” One Sunday morning at Brewed Awakenings, Johnston’s local coffee klatch, Ucci recalled that he was approached by an angry constituent. “So, I tell him, ‘Get outside!’ I get in the parking lot and I just lay into him.” “I think that’s what people respect in this town,” Ucci added.
Ottumwa, at first blush, seems far removed from the Italian-America suburb of Johnston. It’s a midwestern, industrial town that is miles from a major city. But there, too, honor culture shapes political life. During the 2016 Democratic primaries a fight nearly broke out between pro-Clinton Jerry Parker, a county supervisor and former mayor, and Alex Stroda, a Sanders’ precinct captain. “Forty years ago, I would have punched him, but I’m older [now],” Parker told us. “Solving problems with violence,” Stroda added, “is sort of ingrained in the nature of Ottumwa. . . . There’s no ignoring an insult.”
Like all communities governed by an honor culture, citizens in Ottumwa suffer consequences when they let an insult go. A Trump enthusiast named Brenda (not her real name) worked for years in a corn-processing plant. The working-class technicians loved tormenting the new engineers, often young men just out of college. Everytime one newbie made a mistake, Brenda recalled, an older technician barked: “You’re a dumb fuck, say it!”
Brenda waited for the retaliation required by an honor culture. “I was thinking, ‘Man, stand up for yourself, don’t let him do that to you. . . . Put that guy in his place right away.’” When he didn’t fight back, Brenda thought, “that’s the end of you, bud.” And it was. The young man quit. His reputation–or honor–could not be salvaged.
The culture of honor was so pervasive in Ottumwa that we stumbled upon it unexpectedly at times. As we sipped coffee in the lobby of our hotel one morning, a handful of men from a local union gathered in a noisy dispute over changing workplace norms. When the supervisor informed his employee that he could lose his job for bullying a coworker, he responded in disbelief: “I was just fucking with him.” To which the supervisor responded sympathetically: “It is not called fucking with people anymore. It’s called harassment. . . . It’s just the way it is, and it sucks.”
In Elliott County, like Appalachia generally, honor culture is powerful too, though it lacks some of the bluster commonly found outside of the American South. Isolated in the Kentucky hills, local residents have long been required to fend for themselves with little protection from the police. That means that they are familiar with the individuals and families that one should be careful “not to cross.” After a family with a reputation for toughness was robbed, one of our informants told us with a chuckle: “That was a mistake!” The victims figured out who the thieves were and went to retrieve their things–at gunpoint.
The journalists who parachuted into Trump country in the wake of the 2016 election kept stumbling over honor cultures in these working-class hamlets without noticing them. Salena Zito and Brad Todd divided the citizens they interviewed into seven different archetypes even though many of these ostensibly varied Trump voters shared an appreciation for the president’s toughness. The voters they spoke with said Trump had “balls,” “didn’t back down” or “take crap,” “meant business,” possessed a “fighting spirit,” “came from a place of strength,” and didn’t apologize.
Citizens in the communities we studied routinely praised Trump in similar ways. As one typical Trump Democrat told us over eggs and coffee one morning: “I hate to say it but Bush and Obama were pushovers. With Trump, he’s not a pushover. You’re going to deal hard with him.”
Our softer, ethnographic research is supported by harder survey data. The 2016 American National Election Survey found that new Trump voters—those who either did not vote or voted for Obama in 2012—were especially likely to admire Trump’s tough persona. These voters were particularly likely to say that the United States needs a “strong leader.”
Critics who reduce this desire for “strong” men to an authoritarian personality miss the cultural context in which such desires are embedded. Trump didn’t so much widen a split in the American psyche: one democratic, the other proto-facist. Rather he exploited a cultural divide that pits the “honor” culture of the working class against the “dignity” culture of the professional class. That divide helps us understand why Democrats in the leafy college town where we live abhor Trump, while many in the working-class towns we studied adore him. In the former, Trump’s thin skin and relentless counterpunching is seen as a sign of a disordered mind, while in the latter those qualities are simply normal.
Trump’s respect for these Democrats’ culture of honor is arguably what distinguishes him most from other modern presidents. As Bob Woodward recounts in his book Fear, Trump once told a personal friend: “Real power is fear. It’s all about strength. Never show weakness. You’ve always got to be strong. Don’t be bullied. There is no choice.” Thus, the president seemed “more like the working person,” as one Trump Democrat put it. Another echoed this: Trump, he said, is “not a politician. He’s a regular guy. He’s a rich regular person.”
This sense of social proximity matters. As political scientists Christopher Achen and Larry Bartels have argued, social identities shape voting behavior more than policy preferences or ideology. Voters assess whether candidates can speak their language. Of course, it sometimes happens that overlapping social ties pull them in different partisan directions. In the 2016 election, working-class Democrats had to either choose a candidate who shared their partisan identity or one who spoke their language. Many opted for the latter.
To see the Democratic Party in these places, therefore, is to catch glimpses of a forgotten tradition of machine boss rule in the Democratic Party. The party’s traditions have not just been shaped by establishment figures like Bill Clinton and Barack Obama–or by democratic socialists like Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. It has also been the party of men like Richard Daley, Jim Traficant, and Rod Blagojevich — and less nationally prominent figures like Joe Polisena, Jerry Parker, and David Blair.
We tend to forget about this tradition because it has been extinguished from major cities and college towns long ago. But this boss tradition enjoyed a longer life–and still fights for its survival–in small Democratic communities where bossism faced fewer foes.
Trump fits more comfortably in this Democratic tradition than do the many former Republican businesspeople or “bosses” who sought the presidency, such as Meg Whitman, Carly Fiorina, or Mitt Romney. Trump’s persona is one that resembles not the bosses of corporate America but rather the local political bosses (and mob bosses) that once ruled and influenced Democratic machines. Like them he is crass, thin-skinned, nepotistic, and promises to be the patron–or “don”–of his loyal supporters.
Trump also offered up this older, boss-centered vision of politics at a time when many of our subjects were wondering whether the national party was still their patron. Thus, when Trump promised to take care of his people, many understood that he was referring to their community–and perhaps to members of the white working-class more generally. As political scientist Ashley Jardina found, “Trump capitalized on white identity because many white voters saw him as restoring and protecting their group’s power and resources.” Trump did so at a time when the power of local Democratic patrons was weakening and at a moment when many white, working-class communities were facing existential economic and social threats.
But if Trump fits comfortably in this boss tradition, it’s also not one that imports well into the national orbit. Honor culture, for example, functions much better in small communities marked by familiarity. Not only do locals know who “not to mess with,” thick social ties can help defuse conflicts.
When that same culture of honor was exported into more impersonal settings by Trump disputes were more likely to end in violence. At his campaign rallies, for example, Trump often encouraged his supporters to fight those who tried to disrupt them. Typical was a speech Trump gave in Iowa: “If you see somebody getting ready to throw a tomato, knock the crap out of ’em, would ya? Seriously.” In impersonal contexts like this one, political violence escalates much faster than in intimate settings like Johnston, Ottumwa, or Elliott County.
Similarly, governance by credentialed technocrats—rather than family members—is important to good national government, given the complexity of problems in its orbit. It is less vital in small towns and counties where governance by trusted community members with extensive local knowledge is often adequate to address local challenges. Elliott County’s Michelle Oney is a good example of this tendency. From humble beginnings, Oney became one of the county’s most impressive magistrates thanks to her intelligence and work ethic. Compared to interlopers with college degrees who pass through the county’s school district on their way up the professional ladder, locals like Oney are more valuable public servants.
It is also difficult to import the personal, transactional politics practiced by local bosses into national office. Often the best Trump has been able to do is a poor imitation, like emblazoning his name on stimulus payments as if he were personally cutting checks.
We should also resist the temptation to read Trump’s personal deplorableness into his admirers or this forgotten Democratic tradition. Even the most Trumpian politicians we profiled in our book are far better public servants than our president. Joe Polisena, for example, cares deeply for the town of Johnston and has, in many ways, been an excellent mayor. Trump is only a hollow, cartoonish version of men like Polisena.
Whether Trump’s Democrats will discern the difference between admirable political bosses like Polisena and posers like Trump in the upcoming election, is still anyone’s guess. One thing is more certain: If liberals hope to pull these working-class whites back into the Democratic fold, it would help if they don’t reduce enthusiasm for Trump to merely racist or authoritarian impulses. Doing so promises to deepen the diploma divide, one that increasingly separates blue communities like San Francisco and Wellesley from places like Ottumwa, Elliott, and Johnston.
Perhaps Biden would win the election in November without appealing to Trump’s Democrats simply by increasing turnout among minorities and suburban voters. Polling data suggests Biden might be well on his way to doing so. But even if that turns out to be true, the Democratic Party still needs to ask itself a more existential question: What kind of party does it want to become? Does it want to try to rebuild a broad-based working-class party? If so, it needs to better understand the lure of boss politics that once helped to anchor the New Deal coalition.
The GOP, meanwhile, has an opportunity to turn these Democrat Trump loyalists into reliable Republicans. If they are successful, Republicans must somehow make room for a constituency with strong misgivings about free trade. New Republican voters in 2016–those who either did not vote or supported Obama–were especially like to favor protectionist policies. More generally, Republicans must make peace with the large social welfare state Democrats have made, especially Obamacare. Republicans’ biggest challenge, though, may be more rhetorical than substantive. The party must eventually distance itself from a loathsome president, while also courting a constituency that idolizes him.
This essay is an excerpt from Trump’s Democrats, by Stephanie Muravchik and Jon A. Shields


thebulwark--2020-10-04--For Those Feeling Discouraged: There Are No Lost Causes

My family has a tradition every Christmas holiday season , watching the Lord of Rings trilogy in succession .
Extended version of course , so it takes a long time !
Even though Tolkien began writing in 1937 , one part feels very 2020 to me .
The words are from the hero Bilbo Baggins , who has been living in the proximity of a great evil for a long time , carrying a tremendous burden .
“ I am old , Gandalf .
I don ’ t look it , but I am beginning to feel it in my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ thin , sort of stretched , if you know what I mean : like butter that has been scraped over too much bread .
That can ’ t be right .
I need a change , or something.
” I also “ need a change , or something.
” You probably need a change , and feel stretched out , too .
I won ’ t detail all that feels wrong with America , because I only have so much time .
But if bad news were rain , 2020 would be a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yours—one of decades of trying and too often failing—to move our great nation ahead , to allow us to achieve our destiny .
Take one example .
When I was at Harvard , my friend David French and I started the Society for Law , Life , and Religion , which ran for a couple decades , but Harvard hardly transformed into a hotbed of pro-life appreciation and faith .
In 2006 , I decided to throw my energy into backing a former governor from the commonwealth of Massachusetts : with David and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and made a movie , Mitt .
But Mitt Romney lost that nomination fight—and then lost again six years later .
Along the way , I created various organizations to promote solutions to our problems .
In 2016 , it was Better For America , standing against the rise of Trumpism .
In 2017 and 2018 , I founded Uniting America and ran for Senate in Massachusetts , thinking that perhaps I could help derail extremism in America by defeating Elizabeth Warren and standing against Trumpism .
So , like many of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and losing for years .
Recently , I was pretty down about how it seemed like the bad guys were winning .
Then , a friend said , “ You ’ re kind of like Saint Jude.
” Believe me , it ’ s not everyday someone compares me to a saint .
I basked in a moment ’ s glory .
Then , it hit me .
This is the “ patron saint of lost causes ” we are talking about !
Perhaps a kind way of saying I ’ m a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as Judas Thaddaeus , was one of the twelve apostles along with the “ other ” Judas , Iscariot .
Many say he became known as Jude when New Testament translators sought to distinguish him from Iscariot .
That ’ s understandable .
You wouldn ’ t want to be confused with “ that guy.
” According to tradition , he is the “ patron saint of lost causes , ” because most Christians were afraid to invoke him for fear of praying to “ that guy ” who betrayed Christ .
Consequently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ help anyone and interceded in the direst of circumstances .
Like Jude , many of us are struggling with our identity .
Some of us have described ourselves as conservatives or Republicans , evangelicals or Christians .
Some of us are tempted to step away from these names , as a man sits in the Oval Office claiming to advance our causes , and under the cover of a deep Trumpist darkness others of “ faith ” or “ conservatism ” do the same .
We want to distance ourselves from the divisive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in our name , which is understandable .
You don ’ t want to be confused with “ that guy.
” In all my past efforts , I ’ ve tried to tweak the margins of American Christianity , culture , and politics .
I ’ m past that now .
After the decline of church and state over the past decades—accelerating these past few years—we need to rebuild our principles of faith , morality , and the republic .
As John Adams famously said : “ Our Constitution was made only for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inadequate to the government of any other.
” Starting with people of my Christian faith : We have lost our standing and witness in our society .
We have lost it with good reason , because we are as racist , materialist , politicized , and polarized as the culture around us—and unfortunately sometimes “ leading ” the way in those dark categories .
Because of all that and more , I am calling for an American Awakening , and have launched an organization—and written a book—that lays out the road to get @ @ @ @ @ @ @ become a moral and religious people—starting with my people of faith—and then advance that in our republic .
American Awakening will launch the First Principles Project this month to reground the church ’ s engagement in the public square by offering a suite of practical resources : the best sermons and speeches from spiritual and thought leaders over the last decade , current sermon outlines , full sermon texts , and a video sermon series for this 2020 season .
In order to rebuild , we need a new biblical framework through which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , it isn ’ t enough to stand for good things , you have to stand against the darkness .
Which brings us to the launch of Christians Against Trumpism and Political Extremism , an organization dedicated to doing just that .
Bottom line , it is time for fundamental reform , to finally recall who we are as people of faith and people of the republic , and re-ground and lean into the darkness of the days .
It ’ s easy to despair , but I have some good news : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Eliot put it best in 1929 .
“ If we take the widest and wisest view of a Cause , there is no such thing as a Lost Cause because there is no such thing as a Gained Cause , ” he wrote .
“ We fight for lost causes because we know that our defeat and dismay may be the preface to our successors ’ victory , though that victory itself will be temporary ; we fight rather to keep something alive than in the expectation that anything will triumph.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ virtues transcend this moment , this year , this White House .
As we assume the mantle to fight for them , we ’ ve already won .
We ’ re carrying the torch from one location to the other .
The fact that we ’ re carrying the torch through this present darkness doesn ’ t make the journey less important .
It makes it more important : for our country and our souls .
It ’ s an honor to live in important times , one in which loving your neighbor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a revolutionary act , both in my church and in our country .
We were born for this moment .
As much as we lament what is happening in our nation , we are a part of this nation—and we ’ re not going anywhere .
Yes , things are bad .
But we have been here before , in even darker times .
Frederick Douglass overcame the slavery of his youth to become the greatest of all American ideals proponents .
Abraham Lincoln led a nation through a bloody Civil War because @ @ @ @ @ @ @ last best hope for the world.
” Martin Luther King sat alone in a Birmingham prison while his fellow congregants told him to abandon his mission for America to finally make good on its promissory note that “ all are created equal.
” Two out of those three died for that cause , which is in part what makes them our heroes .
But millions of other Americans also sacrificed their lives for this—so many whose names we do not know—and tens and hundreds of millions more fought for and built this foundation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ those trying to live , and fight , and strive toward virtue , look to the cloud of witnesses who have gone before us : Douglass and Lincoln and King , and so many others who led us beyond the darkest of days .
In the world of faith , look to the story of Judas Thaddaeus , he of so-called lost causes .
Or , even better , look to the story of Judas Iscariot , who appeared to be winning and profiting for a time but ultimately was no match for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and perfecter of our faith .
Because of all of them , this cause is worth fighting for , and the weight of our current circumstance makes our anchoring commitments to faith , hope , love—and belief in the foundational principles of the republic—shine that much brighter .
For my part , I have decided I must remain in this fight for as long as I have life and breath , and invite all Christians to stand with us against the dark shadow of Trumpism , and reclaim our name and the great @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of our Lord , the one who sacrificed all to set us free .

My family has a tradition every Christmas holiday season, watching the Lord of Rings trilogy in succession. Extended version of course, so it takes a long time!
Even though Tolkien began writing in 1937, one part feels very 2020 to me. The words are from the hero Bilbo Baggins, who has been living in the proximity of a great evil for a long time, carrying a tremendous burden.
“I am old, Gandalf. I don’t look it, but I am beginning to feel it in my heart of hearts. I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. That can’t be right. I need a change, or something.”
I also “need a change, or something.” You probably need a change, and feel stretched out, too. I won’t detail all that feels wrong with America, because I only have so much time. But if bad news were rain, 2020 would be a cloudburst.
My story may be like yours—one of decades of trying and too often failing—to move our great nation ahead, to allow us to achieve our destiny.
Take one example. When I was at Harvard, my friend David French and I started the Society for Law, Life, and Religion, which ran for a couple decades, but Harvard hardly transformed into a hotbed of pro-life appreciation and faith. In 2006, I decided to throw my energy into backing a former governor from the commonwealth of Massachusetts: with David and Nancy French I created Evangelicals for Mitt, and made a movie, Mitt. But Mitt Romney lost that nomination fight—and then lost again six years later. Along the way, I created various organizations to promote solutions to our problems. In 2016, it was Better For America, standing against the rise of Trumpism. In 2017 and 2018, I founded Uniting America and ran for Senate in Massachusetts, thinking that perhaps I could help derail extremism in America by defeating Elizabeth Warren and standing against Trumpism.
So, like many of you, I’ve been battling and losing for years.
Recently, I was pretty down about how it seemed like the bad guys were winning. Then, a friend said, “You’re kind of like Saint Jude.”
Believe me, it’s not everyday someone compares me to a saint. I basked in a moment’s glory.
Then, it hit me. This is the “patron saint of lost causes” we are talking about! Perhaps a kind way of saying I’m a failure?
St. Jude, originally known as Judas Thaddaeus, was one of the twelve apostles along with the “other” Judas, Iscariot. Many say he became known as Jude when New Testament translators sought to distinguish him from Iscariot.
That’s understandable. You wouldn’t want to be confused with “that guy.”
According to tradition, he is the “patron saint of lost causes,” because most Christians were afraid to invoke him for fear of praying to “that guy” who betrayed Christ. Consequently, poor ole ignored Jude supposedly would help anyone and interceded in the direst of circumstances.
Like Jude, many of us are struggling with our identity.
Some of us have described ourselves as conservatives or Republicans, evangelicals or Christians. Some of us are tempted to step away from these names, as a man sits in the Oval Office claiming to advance our causes, and under the cover of a deep Trumpist darkness others of “faith” or “conservatism” do the same. We want to distance ourselves from the divisive racism and extremism currently sweeping the land in our name, which is understandable.
You don’t want to be confused with “that guy.”
In all my past efforts, I’ve tried to tweak the margins of American Christianity, culture, and politics. I’m past that now. After the decline of church and state over the past decades—accelerating these past few years—we need to rebuild our principles of faith, morality, and the republic. As John Adams famously said: “Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people—it is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.”
Podcast · August 15 2023 A.B. Stoddard: All the Ex-President’s Conspirators Donald Trump has been a low-rent mobster for his entire career, and now he’s getting…
Starting with people of my Christian faith: We have lost our standing and witness in our society. We have lost it with good reason, because we are as racist, materialist, politicized, and polarized as the culture around us—and unfortunately sometimes “leading” the way in those dark categories.
Because of all that and more, I am calling for an American Awakening, and have launched an organization—and written a book—that lays out the road to get there. It’s time to become a moral and religious people—starting with my people of faith—and then advance that in our republic.
American Awakening will launch the First Principles Project this month to reground the church’s engagement in the public square by offering a suite of practical resources: the best sermons and speeches from spiritual and thought leaders over the last decade, current sermon outlines, full sermon texts, and a video sermon series for this 2020 season. In order to rebuild, we need a new biblical framework through which civic engagement can be shaped.
Often, it isn’t enough to stand for good things, you have to stand against the darkness. Which brings us to the launch of Christians Against Trumpism and Political Extremism, an organization dedicated to doing just that.
Bottom line, it is time for fundamental reform, to finally recall who we are as people of faith and people of the republic, and re-ground and lean into the darkness of the days.
It’s easy to despair, but I have some good news: There are no lost causes. T.S. Eliot put it best in 1929. “If we take the widest and wisest view of a Cause, there is no such thing as a Lost Cause because there is no such thing as a Gained Cause,” he wrote. “We fight for lost causes because we know that our defeat and dismay may be the preface to our successors’ victory, though that victory itself will be temporary; we fight rather to keep something alive than in the expectation that anything will triumph.”
In other words, certain values and virtues transcend this moment, this year, this White House. As we assume the mantle to fight for them, we’ve already won. We’re carrying the torch from one location to the other. The fact that we’re carrying the torch through this present darkness doesn’t make the journey less important. It makes it more important: for our country and our souls.
It’s an honor to live in important times, one in which loving your neighbor and considering all as equals feels like a revolutionary act, both in my church and in our country. We were born for this moment. As much as we lament what is happening in our nation, we are a part of this nation—and we’re not going anywhere.
Yes, things are bad. But we have been here before, in even darker times. Frederick Douglass overcame the slavery of his youth to become the greatest of all American ideals proponents. Abraham Lincoln led a nation through a bloody Civil War because he believed that “America was the last best hope for the world.” Martin Luther King sat alone in a Birmingham prison while his fellow congregants told him to abandon his mission for America to finally make good on its promissory note that “all are created equal.”
Two out of those three died for that cause, which is in part what makes them our heroes.
But millions of other Americans also sacrificed their lives for this—so many whose names we do not know—and tens and hundreds of millions more fought for and built this foundation we stand on. So, for those trying to live, and fight, and strive toward virtue, look to the cloud of witnesses who have gone before us: Douglass and Lincoln and King, and so many others who led us beyond the darkest of days.
In the world of faith, look to the story of Judas Thaddaeus, he of so-called lost causes.
Or, even better, look to the story of Judas Iscariot, who appeared to be winning and profiting for a time but ultimately was no match for he who was Love, the author and perfecter of our faith.
Because of all of them, this cause is worth fighting for, and the weight of our current circumstance makes our anchoring commitments to faith, hope, love—and belief in the foundational principles of the republic—shine that much brighter.
For my part, I have decided I must remain in this fight for as long as I have life and breath, and invite all Christians to stand with us against the dark shadow of Trumpism, and reclaim our name and the great legacy and inheritance, in the name of our Lord, the one who sacrificed all to set us free.


thebulwark--2020-10-05--Meet the Swing Voters Who Embrace Conspiracy Theories

Sometimes people say really dumb things during focus groups .
As a moderator for nearly 20 years , I ’ m used to it .
The other night I was conducting a focus group following the Cleveland presidential debate , and a woman in Ohio claimed that Joe Biden is a socialist because “ he socializes with the public better than Trump does.
” She was neither joking nor being ironic .
This was not as bad as my favorite , from years ago , when a member of a focus group declared that it was impossible that 20 million @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of their income , because there were only 21.5 million people—total—in the entire United States .
Comments like these don ’ t actually bother me .
Anyone who has seen Jay Leno ’ s JayWalking routine knows that many of our fellow citizens are woefully uninformed about even the most basic subjects .
Now , being uninformed is bad .
But being conspiratorial is worse .
And the kind of comments I ’ ve been hearing in focus groups for the past few weeks aren ’ t merely ignorant—they ’ re pernicious .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ I interviewed 11 “ Obama-Trump ” voters across Ohio .
It was the latest installment of my firm ’ s monthly Swing Voter Project .
Over the course of three hours of conversations—90 minutes with six respondents , then another 90 with five others—I heard comments that nearly broke my poker face .
Without my inquiring about conspiracy theories or anything related , respondents offered these observations : • “ I came across a couple theories that [ Biden ] was wired up , and they showed some evidence [ at ] that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , possibly he was wearing contact lenses that were projecting things for him.
” • “ I call it a ‘ scam-demic ’ … .
I know this firsthand .
I have people in nursing homes .
People are not dying from COVID , they ’ re dying with COVID .
The numbers , and this is already starting to come out , have been fudged.
” • “ Another factor , and I don ’ t know how much truth there is to this , but it ’ s something that plays @ @ @ @ @ @ @ child predator ring that ’ s going around in Hollywood and how [ Trump ’ s ] got information on it and he may expose it .
That ’ s kind of important .
I have a small child… .
Here ’ s just one example : Celebrities will commit suicide , and then it turns out they ’ re working on documentaries about child predator rings.
” Two other respondents in that same session said they believed the child predator story , which is the root of the QAnon conspiracy theory .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ mention Hollywood predators in passing on September 22 during another election-related focus group .
A gentleman had been complaining that he could not get a fair shake , and then transitioned to what he wanted Trump to do as president : “ The only thing Trump can do for me is go after these 45,000 indictments they have against some of these pedophiles.
” Prior to that moment , I ’ d never heard pedophiles referenced in a focus group .
It was so out of context that at first I didn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Several minutes later I asked whether he was following QAnon on the internet .
He replied , “ You better believe it.
” He then said a lot of people were making claims about this problem , and that “ Hollywood is full of pedophiles.
” What I ’ m discovering in these focus groups is that when ordinary people espouse conspiracy theories , they are not shouting them from the rooftops , as in , “ NOW I AM GOING TO SHARE SOME CONSPIRATORIAL THINKING WITH YOU !
” Instead , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sounds like an otherwise normal argument .
The gentleman who thought Biden was wired for the debate and wearing special contact lenses was merely making the point he does not trust Biden .
Yet rather than rely on rational argument—or even his own subjective appraisal of Biden ’ s character—he leaned on fiction .
That need to justify a subjective verdict of Biden by employing a fictional fact-set is interesting , and possibly new—at least in the mainstream of American politics .
In recent days , the mainstream media have been filled with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ organizations such as Save the Children , and how Joe Biden is being accused of hiding technology to help him secretly win the debate .
It ’ s not clear whether this blossoming of conspiracy theories is being caused by technology , with the disintermediation of gatekeepers , or if it ’ s the latest evolution of the paranoid style in American politics .
Whichever it is , it ’ s not good .
A liberal democracy can endure a great many tensions between the people : different races , different religions , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ only if , at the bedrock level , everyone shares the same reality .

Sometimes people say really dumb things during focus groups.
As a moderator for nearly 20 years, I’m used to it. The other night I was conducting a focus group following the Cleveland presidential debate, and a woman in Ohio claimed that Joe Biden is a socialist because “he socializes with the public better than Trump does.”
She was neither joking nor being ironic.
This was not as bad as my favorite, from years ago, when a member of a focus group declared that it was impossible that 20 million seniors relied on Social Security for most of their income, because there were only 21.5 million people—total—in the entire United States.
Comments like these don’t actually bother me. Anyone who has seen Jay Leno’s JayWalking routine knows that many of our fellow citizens are woefully uninformed about even the most basic subjects.
Now, being uninformed is bad. But being conspiratorial is worse.
And the kind of comments I’ve been hearing in focus groups for the past few weeks aren’t merely ignorant—they’re pernicious.
On Tuesday night, via Zoom, I interviewed 11 “Obama-Trump” voters across Ohio. It was the latest installment of my firm’s monthly Swing Voter Project. Over the course of three hours of conversations—90 minutes with six respondents, then another 90 with five others—I heard comments that nearly broke my poker face.
Without my inquiring about conspiracy theories or anything related, respondents offered these observations:
“I came across a couple theories that [Biden] was wired up, and they showed some evidence [at] that debate. Also, somebody pointed out, possibly he was wearing contact lenses that were projecting things for him.”
“I call it a ‘scam-demic’…. I know this firsthand. I have people in nursing homes. People are not dying from COVID, they’re dying with COVID. The numbers, and this is already starting to come out, have been fudged.”
“Another factor, and I don’t know how much truth there is to this, but it’s something that plays in my head, is this whole child predator ring that’s going around in Hollywood and how [Trump’s] got information on it and he may expose it. That’s kind of important. I have a small child…. Here’s just one example: Celebrities will commit suicide, and then it turns out they’re working on documentaries about child predator rings.”
Two other respondents in that same session said they believed the child predator story, which is the root of the QAnon conspiracy theory.
Podcast · August 15 2023 A.B. Stoddard: All the Ex-President’s Conspirators Donald Trump has been a low-rent mobster for his entire career, and now he’s getting…
I’d first heard a respondent mention Hollywood predators in passing on September 22 during another election-related focus group. A gentleman had been complaining that he could not get a fair shake, and then transitioned to what he wanted Trump to do as president: “The only thing Trump can do for me is go after these 45,000 indictments they have against some of these pedophiles.”
Prior to that moment, I’d never heard pedophiles referenced in a focus group. It was so out of context that at first I didn’t know what to make of it. Several minutes later I asked whether he was following QAnon on the internet. He replied, “You better believe it.” He then said a lot of people were making claims about this problem, and that “Hollywood is full of pedophiles.”
What I’m discovering in these focus groups is that when ordinary people espouse conspiracy theories, they are not shouting them from the rooftops, as in, “NOW I AM GOING TO SHARE SOME CONSPIRATORIAL THINKING WITH YOU!”
Instead, the conspiracy theories are woven into what sounds like an otherwise normal argument. The gentleman who thought Biden was wired for the debate and wearing special contact lenses was merely making the point he does not trust Biden. Yet rather than rely on rational argument—or even his own subjective appraisal of Biden’s character—he leaned on fiction.
That need to justify a subjective verdict of Biden by employing a fictional fact-set is interesting, and possibly new—at least in the mainstream of American politics.
In recent days, the mainstream media have been filled with stories that show how QAnon hijacked respectable organizations such as Save the Children, and how Joe Biden is being accused of hiding technology to help him secretly win the debate.
It’s not clear whether this blossoming of conspiracy theories is being caused by technology, with the disintermediation of gatekeepers, or if it’s the latest evolution of the paranoid style in American politics.
Whichever it is, it’s not good. A liberal democracy can endure a great many tensions between the people: different races, different religions, different political views. But cohesion exists only if, at the bedrock level, everyone shares the same reality.


thebulwark--2020-10-06--The Weirdest 90 Seconds In Presidential History

Donald Trump ’ s photo op on the Truman Balcony following his return to the White House with COVID-19 is one of the most disturbing , absorbing , foreign images I can recall .
It does not appear to be of our time or place , and yet it is .
With respect to the great painter George W. Bush ’ s view of the Trump inauguration , I think this has to be the weirdest shit I have ever seen in my life .
If you haven ’ t seen it , just watch it now : First , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ strongly , very heavily .
This is a man who is still on several experimental medications for a deadly virus that is highly contagious and spreads through the air .
I guess he thought he would look “ weak ” with the mask ?
I would think that he would want to demonstrate that he has in fact “ learned a lot ” since contracting the COVID .
But apparently when all of the infected geniuses from the West Wing put their heads together ( over Zoom ) to hash out what the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ should be , “ lessons learned ” came in a distant second to “ übermensch.
” So we get a madman , his face pancaked under a 2mm coat of orange powder , jacked up on steroids , straining to breathe—and not caring a whit about those around him .
And I ’ ve got to hand it to him : Trump nails that image .
As the mask comes off the first thing you notice is the president ’ s complexion .
After two consecutive video appearances that revealed his Immortan Joe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ back .
Trump has an extremely prominent make-up line that goes from his right temple down to his neckline , separating the orange from his peaked , natural tone .
This is a change from his au naturel look at Walter Reed , which revealed him to be the sickly senior citizen he is—but also leant him a soupçon of humanity .
For me , that was actually an upgrade .
But I freely admit that I am not his target demo .
It is unclear how this transition change came to pass @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Walter Reed , his make-up kit got left behind .
Or maybe , once isolated , the president didn ’ t know how to put his own makeup on by himself ?
I imagine his makeup artist or unfortunate comms staffer , trying valiantly to explain to Trump how to apply foundation over Zoom , while the president fumbles , the whole time bleating about how stupid it was that other people wouldn ’ t want to touch his face due to his viral load .
Whatever the case , free of medical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ back and his next move on the balcony was to attempt to put his mask in his pocket very aggressively .
It took him five or six tries .
You can see him wince and get quite flustered .
After Trump successfully disposes of the mask , he takes two deep breaths to center himself before the still shots .
Very deep breaths .
Then he points at someone off camera , giving them the get out of here sign .
( Ask Chris Christie .
He knows all about it . )
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ another wince as if he had broken ribs .
After that he spends quite a while trying to button his jacket .
The drama builds to one mammoth , labored breath .
The type of breath you would take if you were a child who was about to enter into a competition in a swimming pool over who could last the longest underwater without drowning .
That heave gave him the stamina to move into a dramatic extended salute lasting 23 interminable seconds .
He salutes with D-list caudillo energy , channeling an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gasps of power .
Throughout the salute he holds an aggressive glare .
Then he steps back and looks deep into the distance .
Fully embracing his posture as the leader of a death cult , Trump turns and enters the White House .
Without a mask .
The coup de grâce ( for whom , we won ’ t know for a couple weeks ) , is Trump moving into an extremely congested , spittle-filled soliloquy—straight to camera— about how our Dear Leader may well now be “ immune ” from the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which is currently inhabiting his lungs , and his White House .
The show must go on .
Where , exactly , the rest of us go from here , I can not say .
What feats Republican senators will be asked to perform alongside Trump to prove their commitment we can not guess .
But in the words of Jim Jones , “ Mr .
Trump tried his best to give you a good life .
In spite of all that he tried , a handful of our people , with their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
”

Donald Trump’s photo op on the Truman Balcony following his return to the White House with COVID-19 is one of the most disturbing, absorbing, foreign images I can recall. It does not appear to be of our time or place, and yet it is. With respect to the great painter George W. Bush’s view of the Trump inauguration, I think this has to be the weirdest shit I have ever seen in my life. If you haven’t seen it, just watch it now:
Only days into his diagnosis, the first thing President Trump does when he gets back to the White House is take his mask off. pic.twitter.com/kyqvHcSbIl — Kaitlan Collins (@kaitlancollins) October 5, 2020
First, Trump takes off his mask, very strongly, very heavily. This is a man who is still on several experimental medications for a deadly virus that is highly contagious and spreads through the air. I guess he thought he would look “weak” with the mask? I would think that he would want to demonstrate that he has in fact “learned a lot” since contracting the COVID. But apparently when all of the infected geniuses from the West Wing put their heads together (over Zoom) to hash out what the optics of the president’s return should be, “lessons learned” came in a distant second to “übermensch.”
So we get a madman, his face pancaked under a 2mm coat of orange powder, jacked up on steroids, straining to breathe—and not caring a whit about those around him.
And I’ve got to hand it to him: Trump nails that image.
As the mask comes off the first thing you notice is the president’s complexion. After two consecutive video appearances that revealed his Immortan Joe old man pallor, the orangina is back. Trump has an extremely prominent make-up line that goes from his right temple down to his neckline, separating the orange from his peaked, natural tone. This is a change from his au naturel look at Walter Reed, which revealed him to be the sickly senior citizen he is—but also leant him a soupçon of humanity. For me, that was actually an upgrade. But I freely admit that I am not his target demo.
Podcast · August 15 2023 A.B. Stoddard: All the Ex-President’s Conspirators Donald Trump has been a low-rent mobster for his entire career, and now he’s getting…
It is unclear how this transition came to pass. Maybe when Trump was airlifted to Walter Reed, his make-up kit got left behind. Or maybe, once isolated, the president didn’t know how to put his own makeup on by himself? I imagine his makeup artist or unfortunate comms staffer, trying valiantly to explain to Trump how to apply foundation over Zoom, while the president fumbles, the whole time bleating about how stupid it was that other people wouldn’t want to touch his face due to his viral load.
Whatever the case, free of medical oversight, the Bad Orange Man was back and his next move on the balcony was to attempt to put his mask in his pocket very aggressively. It took him five or six tries. You can see him wince and get quite flustered.
After Trump successfully disposes of the mask, he takes two deep breaths to center himself before the still shots. Very deep breaths.
Then he points at someone off camera, giving them the get out of here sign. (Ask Chris Christie. He knows all about it.) Then he takes two more deep breaths—with another wince as if he had broken ribs. After that he spends quite a while trying to button his jacket.
The drama builds to one mammoth, labored breath. The type of breath you would take if you were a child who was about to enter into a competition in a swimming pool over who could last the longest underwater without drowning.
That heave gave him the stamina to move into a dramatic extended salute lasting 23 interminable seconds. He salutes with D-list caudillo energy, channeling an aging Pinochet or Trujillo in their last gasps of power. Throughout the salute he holds an aggressive glare. Then he steps back and looks deep into the distance. Fully embracing his posture as the leader of a death cult, Trump turns and enters the White House. Without a mask.
The coup de grâce (for whom, we won’t know for a couple weeks), is Trump moving into an extremely congested, spittle-filled soliloquy—straight to camera—about how our Dear Leader may well now be “immune” from the deadly virus that has killed 210,000 and which is currently inhabiting his lungs, and his White House.
The show must go on.
Where, exactly, the rest of us go from here, I cannot say. What feats Republican senators will be asked to perform alongside Trump to prove their commitment we cannot guess.
But in the words of Jim Jones, “Mr. Trump tried his best to give you a good life. In spite of all that he tried, a handful of our people, with their lies, have made our life impossible.”


thebulwark--2020-10-05--Stop Telling Joe Biden What to Do

Stop Telling Joe Biden What to Do

Ever since Joe Biden won his party ’ s nomination ( and before , in fact ) , the good folks on Twitter dot com and cable news and in the New York Times op-Ed section have been helpfully providing free advice to his campaign .
Joe Biden needs to get out of his basement !
Joe Biden needs to do more to appeal to young people !
Biden shouldn ’ t debate !
Biden should do more to counter Trump ’ s convention !
He ’ s pandering too much to the Left !
He ’ s pandering too @ @ @ @ @ @ @ needs to more forcefully condemn the riots !
( Yeah , that last one is mine . )
Now some of this is fine advice and some of it isn ’ t .
But one of the central features of Joe Biden ’ s campaign is the extent to which it ignores the Twitter feedback loop .
To its great credit , the Biden campaign does not lurch to satisfy the needs of the very online .
And it ’ s worked out pretty well .
Biden has maintained a historically stable lead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the past seven months , while maintaining a clear vision of why he was running and what his message is .
But despite the consistent good sense demonstrated by Biden ’ s campaign , outside observers are always on the edge of believing that Biden is about to blow the whole thing !
And now , even as the president of the United States tested positive for COVID , was admitted to the hospital , and saw his administration melt down in a hurricane of lies and infighting , some people are calling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pull the campaign ’ s negative ads .
Because he ’ s about to blow the whole thing !
Again !
An increasing number of Democrats are vocally urging Joe Biden ’ s campaign to resume running negative ads against Donald Trump , arguing that their party ’ s nominee should not relent even as the president remains hospitalized after contracting the coronavirus .
With Election Day less than a month away and early voting already in progress in key battleground states , some Democratic operatives said Biden must push forward with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a stable lead in the presidential race , especially as the Trump campaign has continued to air attack ads .
There are a few things to understand here .
For starters , Biden isn ’ t pulling all his ads or even reducing his spending .
He ’ s just taking down the negative ads about Trump and presumably replacing them with ads that make the affirmative case for why he should be president .
This is the opposite of “ relenting.
” It ’ s actually very smart .
Three reasons : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ argument .
Based on the hundreds of hours of focus groups I ’ ve done with Trump voters who rate the president as doing “ a very bad job , ” they are clear-eyed about Trump ’ s many deficiencies .
They know why they shouldn ’ t vote for Trump .
What they want to understand in order to make the switch is why they should vote for Biden .
Despite his decades in Washington , Biden remains undefined for many voters .
Putting more emphasis on helping voters understand why they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ way to make his closing argument to the remaining universe of undecideds .
( 2 ) Joe is the White Hat .
Pulling negative ads gives Biden buckets of positive earned media that help to cement what has been the central tenet of the campaign from the beginning : That Joe Biden is the good guy in the race .
One of Biden ’ s secret weapons going into the election are his favorable/unfavorable numbers , which are head and shoulders above Hillary Clinton ’ s in 2016 .
According to a recent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on fav/unfav , while Donald Trump is net -16 .
Now , Donald Trump ’ s favorable numbers have been stuck in the mid-to-low 40s his entire presidency .
But Biden has actually been improving his numbers since winter—even as Trump has dumped hundreds of millions of dollars in nuclear negative advertising on his head .
And in just about every race , the candidate people like more is the candidate who wins .
( 3 ) Non-state actors can still hammer Trump .
There are hundreds of special interest groups ( full @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Republican Voters Against Trump ) which are perfectly willing to go after Trump ’ s record and behavior , hammer and tongs .
For people who already hate a candidate , there is an emotional payoff from seeing an ad that completely roasts the guy .
That ’ s why it ’ s almost always the negative ads that go viral on social media .
The people who already hate Donald Trump get an endorphin hit when they smash the share button .
And from the standpoint of simple election mechanics , there @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ads .
When done well , they can measurably drive up negatives on your opponent .
( There ’ s a reason campaigns historically do so much negative advertising : Because it works . )
But Trump ’ s negatives are already very high !
And just watching the news is basically a negative Trump ad these days , given the state of reality .
For Biden to have a shot at the landslide victory he ’ s aiming for , he needs to win over the people who already dislike Trump , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Biden .
So a classy move—like pulling your negative ads while your opponent is in the hospital with a life-threatening disease—absolutely could help make people like you more .
As could Biden ’ s positive , closing argument ads themselves .
Especially since his positives are already heading North and the public already likes him more than the other guy by a huge margin .
So once again Joe Biden is right and the strategists who want to turn him into something he ’ s not are wrong .
If you ’ re @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he ’ s taking the high road .
It ’ s the right choice both morally and strategically .
And also : It ’ s nice to be reminded that sociopaths with narcissistic personality disorders aren ’ t the only ones who get to run for president .

Ever since Joe Biden won his party’s nomination (and before, in fact), the good folks on Twitter dot com and cable news and in the New York Times op-Ed section have been helpfully providing free advice to his campaign.
Joe Biden needs to get out of his basement! Joe Biden needs to do more to appeal to young people! Biden shouldn’t debate! Biden should do more to counter Trump’s convention! He’s pandering too much to the Left! He’s pandering too much to the Right! Joe Biden needs to more forcefully condemn the riots! (Yeah, that last one is mine.)
Now some of this is fine advice and some of it isn’t. But one of the central features of Joe Biden’s campaign is the extent to which it ignores the Twitter feedback loop. To its great credit, the Biden campaign does not lurch to satisfy the needs of the very online.
And it’s worked out pretty well. Biden has maintained a historically stable lead of between 5 and 9 points for the past seven months, while maintaining a clear vision of why he was running and what his message is.
But despite the consistent good sense demonstrated by Biden’s campaign, outside observers are always on the edge of believing that Biden is about to blow the whole thing!
And now, even as the president of the United States tested positive for COVID, was admitted to the hospital, and saw his administration melt down in a hurricane of lies and infighting, some people are calling for Biden to reverse his decision to pull the campaign’s negative ads. Because he’s about to blow the whole thing! Again!
From McClatchy:
An increasing number of Democrats are vocally urging Joe Biden’s campaign to resume running negative ads against Donald Trump, arguing that their party’s nominee should not relent even as the president remains hospitalized after contracting the coronavirus. With Election Day less than a month away and early voting already in progress in key battleground states, some Democratic operatives said Biden must push forward with the messaging that has helped provide him with a stable lead in the presidential race, especially as the Trump campaign has continued to air attack ads.
There are a few things to understand here. For starters, Biden isn’t pulling all his ads or even reducing his spending. He’s just taking down the negative ads about Trump and presumably replacing them with ads that make the affirmative case for why he should be president.
This is the opposite of “relenting.” It’s actually very smart. Three reasons:
(1) Fast-forward to the closing argument. Based on the hundreds of hours of focus groups I’ve done with Trump voters who rate the president as doing “a very bad job,” they are clear-eyed about Trump’s many deficiencies. They know why they shouldn’t vote for Trump. What they want to understand in order to make the switch is why they should vote for Biden. Despite his decades in Washington, Biden remains undefined for many voters. Putting more emphasis on helping voters understand why they should vote for him is the best way to make his closing argument to the remaining universe of undecideds.
(2) Joe is the White Hat. Pulling negative ads gives Biden buckets of positive earned media that help to cement what has been the central tenet of the campaign from the beginning: That Joe Biden is the good guy in the race.
One of Biden’s secret weapons going into the election are his favorable/unfavorable numbers, which are head and shoulders above Hillary Clinton’s in 2016. According to a recent WSJ/NBC Poll, Biden is net +2 on fav/unfav, while Donald Trump is net -16.
Now, Donald Trump’s favorable numbers have been stuck in the mid-to-low 40s his entire presidency.
But Biden has actually been improving his numbers since winter—even as Trump has dumped hundreds of millions of dollars in nuclear negative advertising on his head.
And in just about every race, the candidate people like more is the candidate who wins.
(3) Non-state actors can still hammer Trump. There are hundreds of special interest groups (full disclosure: including my own group, Republican Voters Against Trump) which are perfectly willing to go after Trump’s record and behavior, hammer and tongs.
For people who already hate a candidate, there is an emotional payoff from seeing an ad that completely roasts the guy. That’s why it’s almost always the negative ads that go viral on social media. The people who already hate Donald Trump get an endorphin hit when they smash the share button.
And from the standpoint of simple election mechanics, there’s a real value in negative ads. When done well, they can measurably drive up negatives on your opponent. (There’s a reason campaigns historically do so much negative advertising: Because it works.)
But Trump’s negatives are already very high! And just watching the news is basically a negative Trump ad these days, given the state of reality. For Biden to have a shot at the landslide victory he’s aiming for, he needs to win over the people who already dislike Trump, but aren’t yet sold on Biden.
So a classy move—like pulling your negative ads while your opponent is in the hospital with a life-threatening disease—absolutely could help make people like you more. As could Biden’s positive, closing argument ads themselves. Especially since his positives are already heading North and the public already likes him more than the other guy by a huge margin.
So once again Joe Biden is right and the strategists who want to turn him into something he’s not are wrong.
If you’re a Biden supporter, be proud that he’s taking the high road. It’s the right choice both morally and strategically.
And also: It’s nice to be reminded that sociopaths with narcissistic personality disorders aren’t the only ones who get to run for president.