By Daniel Tenreiro
Wednesday, January 13, 2021
Four in ten Americans agree at least partially with the
claim that the 2020 presidential election was rigged. Some believe it so
wholeheartedly that they dressed up in Viking costumes, painted their faces,
and caused a world-historical commotion. Imagine putting your feet up on Nancy
Pelosi’s desk, pocketing her mail, and then smoking a cigarette in the Capitol
rotunda. Picture yourself swinging from the rafters of the House gallery like a
chimpanzee. What could drive you to such mad antics?
Those proffering explanations for last week’s events
blame either Trump or the Washington establishment. Each side attributes the
fault lines in American society to political disagreements, and each naturally
sees policy as the corrective. Those blaming the president would deploy an army
of censors and social workers: Keep dangerous information away from the
deplorables and put them in diversity workshops to extirpate their nutty ideas.
Those more sympathetic to Trump’s supporters, on the other hand, would take
their ostensible grievances seriously: restrict immigration, bring back
manufacturing jobs, and voila.
But if the carnival at the Capitol tells us anything,
it’s that politics is totally irrelevant. Look at the face of the Trump
supporter carrying a podium through the Capitol rotunda: He waves at the
camera with a gleeful smile, swaddled in a parka and beanie like he’s on his
way to play pond hockey. I’ve seen this face before at frat parties and
football games: “Wow, this is epic,” he’s thinking.
To dismiss his demands is a mistake — if only because
he’s proven willing to risk his life for them — but to take them at face value
is laughable. Like Don Quixote tilting at windmills, he is fighting for sport.
“The thing is to turn crazy without any provocation,”
Quixote tells his sidekick, Sancho Panza, when asked what compelled him to give
up his quiet countryside existence and playact knight errantry in the mountains
of Spain. A rich bachelor wasting away on his vineyard in La Mancha, the
protagonist of Miguel de Cervantes’s novel grows frustrated with the smallness
of life. He yearns instead for the toil, anxiety, and arms of the chivalric
romances he spends his days reading. Unable to make his dream a reality, Quixote
opts to pretend: He mounts a ragged horse, costumes himself in a rusted
breastplate, and sets off in search of eternal fame.
To tell Quixote that he lives in a fantasy is to
vindicate his quest, for he asserts autonomy precisely by rejecting reality.
Besides, “There are always a lot of enchanters going about among us, changing
things and giving them a deceitful appearance, directing them as suits their
fancy, depending upon whether they wish to favor or destroy us.” A more
articulate Trump could have recited this line to explain away the paucity of
evidence for widespread electoral fraud.
Trump is — as Vladimir Nabokov said of Quixote — “a crazy
sane man, or an insane one on the verge of sanity; a striped madman, a dark
mind with lucid interspaces.” And since he descended the escalator at Trump
Tower to announce his candidacy in 2015, he has invited Americans into his
fantasy world. The president built his career on the willful denial of reality:
from the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City (a pipedream, financed with $700
million in junk bonds, which professionals warned was doomed to fail) to The
Apprentice (a literal fake reality) to a presidency spent playacting caudillismo.
In negotiations with Trump’s obstinate inner child, the real world never called
his bluff.
The Sancho Panzas who stormed the Capitol have joined
Trump for the ride. Sancho — an illiterate, obese, rustic laborer — enlists in
the quest after being promised the governorship of a rich island. Though
skeptical of his master’s claims, the squire follows him out of a mix of
curiosity and greed. Over time, Sancho comes to worship Quixote, despite having
no interest in chivalric romance himself: “I have never read any history
whatsoever, for I do not know how to read or write, but what I would wager is
that in all the days of my life I have never served a more courageous master.”
Trump’s base found its courageous master. It doesn’t
matter if he builds the wall or bombs Iran or brings back manufacturing jobs:
The movement is an end in itself, the agenda a mere means. In an interview
with National Review’s Ryan Mills, the “Q Shaman” whose Viking garb won
frontpage coverage in national newspapers, put it clearly: “Donald Trump asked
everybody to go to D.C., didn’t he?” Indeed, he did.
Like Quixote and Sancho, Trump and his followers have
proven hopelessly ineffectual. As shocking as the storming of the Capitol was,
it was also a stark display of the impotence of the MAGA movement. In a movie,
various parts of this live-action roleplay might have been a scene of slapstick
comedy. The rioters won nothing from their quest but blood and bruises.
But the fantastical nature of the riot — its obvious
detachment from a real political agenda — is precisely what makes it an
intractable problem. Indeed, five people, including a Capitol police officer,
died in the chaos. Only in a world of virtual reality could a band of merry
pranksters see an act of domestic terrorism as a kind of practical joke, an
extension of the fantasies of Roman rebellion they playact online. Whereas,
say, the Weather Underground could see the conclusion of the Vietnam War as the
end of its raison d’être, the MAGA fantasy has no terminal point.
What makes Quixote innocuous is that he inhabits only a
fantasy. The windmills he construes as villains are, in fact, windmills. In the
21st-century information environment, reality bleeds into fantasy. The
social-media feed serves as a Rorschach inkblot enabling anyone to construct
his own personal reality. Observers have long worried that “deep fakes” —
doctored images and videos that appear real — would fuel mass disinformation
campaigns. It turns out authentic videos do the trick.
At the behest of politicians, tech CEOs have attempted a
quixotic fix by banning Trump and banning Parler, the MAGA alternative to
Twitter. Quixote’s niece tries something similar: She burns his library.
Perhaps getting rid of the books that are driving him mad will restore his
sanity. No dice: The destruction only validates Quixote’s sense that he is
under attack, driving him further into madness.
What does restore his sanity is defeat. Quixote
ultimately recants his delusions on his deathbed. Battered by reality, he
realizes the jig is up. One wonders whether, summoned to a court in the
Southern District of New York, or else facing the possibility of
post-presidency unemployment, Trump will do the same. If the analogy holds,
Sancho Panza will not: The delusion has taken root.
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