A generous and confident Trumpism struts its stuff

The last time I attended a Republican National Convention, eight years ago, the mood was frenetic. That RNC began in the shadow of the shooting death of five police officers and the wounding of nine others by black Afghan war veteran Michael Xavier Johnson in Dallas, Texas, in retaliation for the police killings of Alton Sterling in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and Philando Castile in Falcon Heights, Minnesota. Before the convention, Trump’s top campaign adviser, Paul Manafort, shocked reporters by suggesting that the country’s violent climate of “lawlessness” was welcome news for the convention. The 2024 RNC in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, came in the immediate shadow of political violence, this time an assassination attempt on Republican nominee Donald Trump. But while the former was used to portray a white nation under siege, the latter was celebrated as the ultimate triumph of the MAGA movement and its invincible hero.

In 2016, Trumpism was still a hodgepodge of far-right groups that stood clearly apart from the party’s mainstream. Longtime party delegates, decked out in elephant paraphernalia, mingled uneasily with the aggressive insurgents on the streets of Cleveland, uncertain what would happen to their party whether Trump won or lost.

The 2016 convention in Cleveland kicked off with an outside “America First Unity Rally” featuring the likes of Roger Stone, Alex Jones and Breitbart editor and internet racist Milo Yiannapoulos — a cast of characters who whipped up a crowd of Infowars enthusiasts, white nationalists and Bikers for Trump. Inside Cleveland’s Quicken Loans Arena, it was “Law and Order Night” that night, with speakers railing against immigrants and protesters while defending the police in a show of authoritarianism far harsher than the usual fare at Republican conventions. Three parents took turns describing the deaths of their children at the hands of undocumented immigrants. Another speaker demanded an end to rampant crime and “anarchy” in the streets. Rudy Giuliani shouted about black protests at home and Muslim threats from abroad.

Outside of the 2016 convention, many Republican delegates and other party members I spoke with expressed a kind of melancholy about their candidate. Several openly admitted that he had not been their choice in the Republican primaries. Indeed, hesitation about Trump was expressed across a broad spectrum of GOP supporters, from “mainstream” Republicans to social conservatives to free-market libertarians.

Jan and Tina, two local Republican volunteers in their 70s, told me that the most important thing for them was party unity. When I asked them on what grounds they thought the party should unite, they both declined and turned the question back to me. I met with two Tea Partiers from Westchester County, New York—Howard, an office chair manufacturer, and Steven, a real estate attorney. They told me that the Tea Partiers in Congress had sold out their principles and that was why the Republican grassroots voted for Trump. When I asked if Trump shared their economic views, they said they hoped he would eventually. Nick and Tim, two members of the then-small “limited government” organization Turning Point USA, admitted that they weren’t sure whether they would support Trump, but that they felt it was important to stay in the party for now.

Then there were the exuberant Trump supporters, who were ecstatic about their candidate and saw him as a weapon of vengeance against Black Lives Matter protesters, illegal immigration, and Islamic terrorism. For example, I spoke to two men holding signs that read “Teamsters for Trump” and who had driven from New York City. They said they were there to represent “working man’s issues” to the Republicans. One of them complained to me about immigrants driving down wages, while the other described a “stinking mosque” down the street from his apartment that had “never flown an American flag.”

Eight years later, things look very different. The Republicans who gathered in Milwaukee for this year’s RNC showed neither hesitation nor populist anger. Instead, the convention had an air of authoritarian serenity. The physical space itself was dominated by metal fences, concrete barriers, and automatic weapons, so that convention-goers would be left alone. For starters, a several-block area in downtown Milwaukee itself was walled off around the convention center. Anyone entering this “hard perimeter” had to pass through a series of heavily secured checkpoints. Party elites and major donors had the equivalent of a “fast pass” to be whisked through security in black SUVs. On the other end of the spectrum were low-level event and hotel workers, who struggled to get to work. One hotel housekeeper I spoke to had walked 45 minutes around the perimeter in the intense midday heat to find a way to get to her job.

Much of the city outside the perimeter also felt under siege—patrolled by more than 4,000 foot, bicycle, and armed police from 126 law enforcement agencies in 24 states. On the first day of the convention, a homeless man was shot and killed by a squad of Columbus, Ohio, police officers a mile from the convention site. Such is the price Republicans pay for comfort and convenience in an economically struggling Rust Belt city. The combination of discomfort, restriction, controlled movement, and lingering threat of violence for those outside the privileged haven of peace felt like a manifestation of Trumpianism in miniature.

Unlike 2016, there were no off-site rallies with the likes of Alex Jones, Roger Stone, or Milo Yiannopolos. There were no militiamen or white nationalists making their presence felt around the convention. There were no crowds chanting, “Lock her up! Lock her up!” And there were no angry skirmishes with anti-Trump protesters. But there were also no GOP delegates who seemed unhappy or even hesitant about the party’s standard-bearer or who felt like they even had to make excuses for Trump. In 2024, every Republican is now confidently, ecstatically, a MAGA Republican.

In stark contrast to the constant noise in the air in Cleveland, partygoers mingled in downtown and the Third Ward, drinking at outdoor bars, taking group selfies in the street with right-wing celebrities like Celtics center Enes Kanter Freedom or standing in long lines at checkpoints, chatting casually in the hot July sun. Images of a bloodied, fist-pumping Trump on T-shirts, hats and posters sold like hotcakes alongside rhinestone-embellished MAGA cowboy hats and American flags with thin blue lines.

There was no need for Proud Boys, Three Percenters, or InfoWars enthusiasts outside the convention gates, because this is no longer an insurrection. In the months leading up to the 2016 convention, Roger Stone threatened to release the hotel room numbers of delegates who voted against Trump, jeopardizing their safety. This year, a delegate voting against their beloved leader is unthinkable. In 2016, the convention’s main stage featured speaker after speaker delivering dark whirligigs about the future of the nation, casting undocumented immigrants as murderous hordes, Black Lives Matter protesters as violent thugs, and Democrats as treasonous conspirators. Trump’s many Republican critics were largely ejected from the stage.

Today, Trumpism is expansive and confident in its projections of power. No longer a populist rebellion against the party’s neoliberal wing, it is a vision of hegemony that combines venture capitalism with economic nationalism. In Milwaukee, International Brotherhood of Teamsters President Sean O’Brien was a prime-time speaker at the convention — bolstering the party’s Bannonite populist wing, represented by the likes of Sen. Josh Hawley of Missouri and, more importantly, Trump’s vice presidential nominee, Sen. J.D. Vance of Ohio.

Likewise, the party now brazenly combines hard-line nativism with right-wing multiracialism. The first night featured speeches by Sen. Tim Scott of South Carolina, Rep. Byron Donalds of Florida, famous hip-hop model Amber Rose, Peruvian immigrant Vanessa Faura, and lawyer and GOP operative Harmeet Dhillon of California, who closed the event with a Sikh prayer. The ultra-self-assured MAGA Party doesn’t have to apologize to Wall Street scions and corporate donors when Vance calls them robber barons. Likewise, the RNC doesn’t have to answer to deeply offended evangelicals who call Dhillon a Satanist. Trump and his advisers can now mix and match political elements as they see fit. Even Democrats are hardly portrayed as the monsters they were portrayed as in 2016. They are merely annoying creatures—less a threat to the national body than a misplaced bullet that barely grazes its ear.

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