By Kevin D. Williamson
Thursday, June 18, 2020
The QAnon conspiracy nuts are likely to send a member to
Congress in the coming election, with witless Georgia lunatic Marjorie Taylor
Greene currently running 20 points ahead of her Republican primary opponent in
the coming August runoff. Greene is the perfect personification of the
Republican Party in the Age of Trump, a ridiculous but well-moneyed redneck who
believes that the Washington Post operates as a propaganda office
directed by Beijing, who brandishes a mall-commando black gun in a campaign
commercial while braying that Antifa had better “stay the hell out of northwest
Georgia” — I hear Euharlee is a real anarchist hot spot — who calls for treason
charges against Nancy Pelosi, and who has famously advanced a genuinely bonkers
conspiracy theory in which Donald Trump (Q is his prophet) is secretly battling
a vast army of Satanic pedophile cultists in an apocalyptic confrontation that
will end with everyone from George Soros to Bill Kristol shipped off to Guantanamo
Bay.
Party of Lincoln, y’all.
There are some Republicans who do not want to be
associated with that kind of horsepucky. When the Washington Post wrote
up Greene’s candidacy, House leader Kevin McCarthy, whip Steve Scalise, and
conference chairwoman Liz Cheney all declined to comment on their likely future
colleague. President Trump, being what he is, never refuses to comment, and he
took to Twitter, the presidential pocket pulpit, to label her a “big winner.”
But if the rotting rump of respectable Republicanism is
embarrassed by this, the Trump-ensorceled rank-and-file whackadoodles are not.
The GOP has nominated a QAnon nut, Jo Rae Perkins, to run for a U.S. Senate
seat in Oregon. Her campaign put out a statement trying to distance her from the
QAnon bughouse, and she disavowed her own campaign’s disavowal. “My campaign is
going to kill me,” she told ABC. “Some people think that I follow Q like I
follow Jesus. Q is the information, and I stand with the information resource.”
(“Some people think”? Do you or don’t you?)
Trump is, in addition to being president of these United
States, the nation’s leading conspiracy goober, having been a prominent Obama
birther, a dabbler in anti-vaccine kookery, an endless whiner about the “deep
state” that opposes him, a trafficker in ridiculous lies about Joe
Scarborough’s supposedly murdering an employee, a Seth Rich truther, a Jeffrey
Epstein truther, a Vince Foster truther, etc. Donald J. Trump thinks Ted Cruz’s
father helped assassinate John F. Kennedy.
Donald J. Trump thinks windmills cause cancer.
Trump often couches his idiotic accusations in cowardly
terms: “many people are saying,” etc. But he also speaks in classical, Henry
Ford–style conspiracy tropes, as in his claim that Hillary Rodham Clinton “meets
in secret with international banks to plot the destruction of U.S. sovereignty
in order to enrich these global financial powers, her special-interest friends,
and her donors.” Trump is not an anti-Semite, much to the dismay of some of his
disappointed admirers, but that is the language of old-school Jew-hating
conspiracy theory. It is no surprise to see Trump’s champion in Georgia posing
with a former Ku Klux Klan leader who endorsed her specifically on the grounds
that she is a QAnon believer.
For the embrace of conspiracy lunacy by figures such as
Donald Trump and Marjorie Greene, up there on the barricades in northwest
Georgia, there are basically two possible explanations: One, they actually
believe this crap and hence are manifestly unfit for the offices they occupy or
seek; two, they do not actually believe this crap but are willing to traffic in
it in order to achieve personal, political, or financial ends.
Some of that is pretty obvious: In the same video in
which Greene talks up the QAnon conspiracy stuff, she keeps referring viewers
to a Facebook page with which she was associated, one that is followed by more
than a quarter of a million people. On it, you can read such interesting
content as hybrid vaccine–Bill Gates conspiracy talk, including claims that
Gates has been banned from several countries “for poisoning their citizens,
causing them to become sterile by his pushing everyone to be given virus shots
from companies he owns a majority of shares in.” Conspiracy talk is a proven method
for building up a social-media following, which, in these depraved times, can
provide the basis of a political career or a path to fortune as an
“influencer.”
Jo Rae Perkins is the nominee in Oregon, Marjorie Greene
is probably going to Congress, and Donald Trump is president of the United
States. The strategy works: But why does it work?
Conspiracy theories provide the postliterate culture with
two things people desperately want: stories and communities.
When Trump was confronted with the image of police
treating roughly a 75-year-old man in Buffalo, N.Y., he immediately went
looking for a conspiracy theory, and found one provided by One America News
Network, a pseudo-journalistic right-wing grift outfit that acts as a
clearinghouse for certain kinds of conspiracy material. Citing OANN, Trump
wrote that the Buffalo protester “could be” — could be — “an ANTIFA
provocateur.” The man, Trump claimed, was trying “to scan police communications
in order to black out the equipment.” Again citing OANN, the president said the
event “could be” — could be — “a setup,” that “he fell harder than was pushed.”
One of the functions of conspiracy theories is to create a simple narrative of
good guys and bad guys. In this case, anybody on the other side of the barrier
from the police, with whom Trump instinctively identifies, is presumed to be a
bad guy, and so the old man bleeding from his head must have — a priori — done
something to deserve it.
No evidence? No problem. That’s an old conspiracy-theory
convention: The lack of evidence is evidence!
That grotesque oversimplification is not a shortcoming of
the conspiracy theory but the point of it, whether the worldview in question is
Donald Trump’s or Antifa’s. The actual world and the problems in it are complex
and often require a great deal of applied effort and education to comprehend on
even a superficial level — you could, for example, spend a lifetime studying
vaccines or international trade in a professional capacity without reducing the
associated policy complexities to a Rubik’s Cube that you learn how to solve.
Most of the people in Congress or seeking seats in Congress have neither the
ability nor the inclination to do that intellectual work — and the ordinary Asinus
americanus scrolling through Facebook has very little incentive to do it.
Economists call this “rational ignorance,” meaning in this case that the
asymmetry between the work a person would have to do to learn about an issue
and the power that same person has to use such knowledge to effect changes in policy
makes remaining ignorant the more rational investment of time and effort.
What you will see if you observe QAnon more closely is
that it is only partly a conspiracy theory; what it is, at heart, is a very
close-knit and self-reinforcing community based on a mythology — which is to
say, a cult. We need not necessarily take “cult” here pejoratively.
QAnon and other similar cults may be more or less innocuous, or they may be
dangerous. The community of belief serves a simplifying function, too, even if
its doctrines may be esoteric and pedantically developed, as in the case of
Marxism and its stepdaughter, feminism, two modes of analysis that are,
fundamentally, conspiracy theories, casting as the antagonist shadowy and
amorphous forces (capital, patriarchy) that can be redefined and adapted as
needed. The doctrine is only a means to create community. The QAnon cult’s
claims about any particular development or fact are not what the movement is
built upon, which is why debunking QAnon claims has little effect on QAnon
cultists. The point of QAnon isn’t the Q story but what Jo Rae Perkins calls “Q
people.” It is not the Luciferian pedophilia but the slogan “WWG1WGA” — “Where
We Go One, We Go All” — that now crops up at Trump rallies alongside MAGA, its
functional (and perhaps moral) equivalent. The cult simplifies the social
complexities of modern life not by offering a dogma within which to analyze
uncertain questions but by providing community relations to act as a kind of
heuristic in their own right. You know how to feel about something because you
know how “Q people” feel about it — WWG1WGA. It’s veganism or Scientology for
dopey right-wingers.
See you in Gitmo.
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