By Kevin D. Williamson
Thursday, July 28, 2016
People will always tell you the truth about what they
really want, if you listen.
Donald Trump wants to be an aristocrat. This is
understandable, given that the Trumps are essentially a less interesting and
less accomplished version of the Annenbergs.
Like Moe Annenberg, Fred Christ Trump built a fortune and
a little bit of a name, but there was a lot of mud on him: The Mayflower types looked down on the arrivistes and their immigrant parents
(both of Fred Trump’s parents were born in Germany, but being German was
unfashionable, so he pretended to be of Swedish origin; the Jewish Annenbergs
were born outsiders among the Main Line WASPs), and both the Trumps and the
Annenbergs have been linked
to organized crime. Both families made the leap from rich to wildly rich
via the same definitively American medium: television, Donald Trump as a
reality-show grotesque and Walter Annenberg as the publisher of TV Guide. They had money, fame, power,
political connections — everything a man could want, except for a pedigree.
Trump speaks of his father slightly derisively as a man
whose vision never went much beyond Brooklyn and Queens, while Donald Trump’s
adventuring extended all the way across the East River: A “kid from Queens” who
stormed Manhattan armed with nothing other than his family’s business
connections and a few hundred million dollars’ worth of real estate. The
Trumps’ story and the Annenbergs’ story are great American tales, but, for some
families, a great American success story isn’t enough. The United States is a
country in which titles of nobility are constitutionally suppressed, but the
Kennedys still fancied themselves lords living in a new Camelot. Walter
Annenberg maneuvered to have himself named ambassador to the Court of St. James’s
and built Sunnylands, the great American palace.
Donald Trump has a funny fixation on a particular title
of nobility: baron. “John Baron,”
you’ll remember, was one of the imaginary friends Trump invented to say nice
things about him to the press, whose good opinion Trump has always
(conservatives beware) coveted above all things. That wasn’t a random choice —
he’d later name his youngest son “Barron.” Southerners may have a few Dukes and
Earles in their family trees, but Barron is a much less assimilated name. Trump
is a little like Michael Jackson in his late royalist phase, when he named his
son Prince Michael Jackson II.
Trump being Trump, he has spent years driving home the
point — “I am the new aristocracy!” — with his usual vulgar aesthetic, all that
ersatz Louis XIV furniture and his mania for gold-plating and gold-leafing
anything that sits still for more than 20 minutes, including the seatbelt
buckles on his airplane. Of course he went bankrupt trying to build a Taj Mahal
in Atlantic City: For a man obsessed with building golden monuments to himself,
the prospect of playing Mughal emperor must have been irresistible.
(Of course our great businessmen call themselves
“moguls.” Of course. And what do you suppose Trump’s Secret Service codename
is?)
If you want an indicator of whether a President Trump
(good God) would resurrect old American republican manners and reverse the
presidency’s decline into caesaro-papist monstrosity, consider that the man
apparently really wants to be known as Baron von Trump. You can imagine a Trump
State of the Union address as being something like a Japanese imperial
enthronement as performed by the World Wrestling Federation. Kingly? Given his
resemblance to an impulsive Lewis Carroll character, he is more like the Man
Who Would Be Queen.
Maybe he’ll pick up a nifty Charles C. W. Cooke accent,
like Madonna.
Down the road in Annenberg’s old stomping grounds,
practically everybody agrees what’s going on: The Boston Herald, the Daily
Mail, the Observer, Fox News, the
Economist, the Sacramento Bee, the Irish
Independent, the Toronto Sun, the
Omaha World-Herald, and forty dozen
other outlets all described Hillary Rodham Clinton’s nominating convention as a
“coronation.”
Mrs. Clinton is of course the great royalist in the race,
her entire political career having been a tribute to her surname. It’s a human
instinct that simply refuses to die decently: Having submitted to one member of
a family, natural-born serfs desire, intensely, to submit to another member of
the same family. Jack and Bobby Kennedy were one thing, and I’ll even give you
Teddy: But Patrick J. Kennedy II of Rhode Island and the (this is not made up)
Congressional Boating Caucus? Are you kidding? There are dachshunds that
inspire more confidence.
But apparently the Clintons are to be our royal family.
Even poor dopey Chelsea has given up the pretense of doing anything useful with
her life and has retired to the foundation, the great refuge of shiftless heirs
and idiot sons-in-law. The Clintons are a strange choice: The Kennedys at least
had aristocratic hobbies (boating
caucus — seriously), and even the Trumps have the baronial weakness for huge
tracts of land (in Queens, no less). President Clinton was only a jumped-up
hillwilliam who, like Lyndon Johnson dealing with an irascible Robert Byrd, was
nearly undone by his inability to control the Exalted Cyclops. My colleague
Michael Walsh might argue that they’re more like a crime family than a royal
family, though some of the crusty old libertarian types aren’t sure there’s
much difference.
It’s a funny old world: HBO viewers are transfixed by a
fantasy story in which the Yorks and Lancasters are transformed into the Starks
and Lannisters, fighting a fantastical War of the Roses with dragons. In the great
contest between the House of Trump and the House of Clinton, sensible patriots
are rooting for casualties.
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