By Peter Savodnik
Sunday, March 20, 2022
The right-wing provocateur Candace Owens
recently tweeted to her three million followers that Ukrainian President Volodymyr
Zelensky was “a very bad character who is working with globalists against the
interest of his own people.” Tucker Carlson, the most influential conservative
in America, has been called “essential” viewing material by Russian propagandists. Republican Rep. Madison
Cawthorn, from North Carolina, called the Ukrainian government “evil.” And Donald Trump praised Vladimir Putin’s “genius” and “savvy.”
Meanwhile, the ladies of The View called on the Justice Department to investigate Carlson and former
Democratic congresswoman Tulsi Gabbard for pushing Kremlin “propaganda” about
the United States building bio labs in Ukraine. Keith Olbermann dubbed Carlson
and Gabbard “Russian assets”—and suggested they be arrested. Rep. Sean Patrick
Maloney, who runs the House Democrats’ reelection committee, said this month, “‘We’re Zelensky Democrats. And they’re Putin Republicans’
would be my bumper sticker.”
None of this was an argument about Russia
or Ukraine or what the United States should do to stop the bloodshed or further
the national interest. It was a match of molten word-bombs in which everyone
spoke in tongues. It was unbelievably stupid.
You could trace the stupid to the former
Soviet Union, which I’d spent much of the first decade of this century living
in and reporting on. There was something about Russia that resonated with the
American right. They thought it was the last redoubt of white, Christian
civilization, which was a joke. As the novelist Vladimir Voinovich once told
me: “During Soviet times, everyone was a communist, and there were no
communists. Today, everyone is a Christian, and there are no Christians.” That
didn’t matter. It was a powerful myth.
One story: In December 2007, I spent three
days in Kiev—at the time, pretty much everyone spelled it Kiev—with several
American men looking for Russian brides. Technically, they were looking for
Ukrainian brides, but it was all the same to the Americans, who included three
Larry’s, a Jack, a James and a guy named Ty Cobb who told me he’d been a
professional football player. (That was a lie.) I told them I was with GQ, and
I wanted to write an article about them. (That was not a lie.) They were with a
tour group called First Dream, which was led by another Jack, Jack Bragg, a
large, garrulous man from Dallas who was “on his third or fourth Natasha,” as
his translator put it.
The reason they had come to Kiev, Bragg
said, was that the women in Moscow and St. Petersburg had gotten uppity. If you
wanted to find love, you had to go where the girls were still really poor. They
weren’t that poor in Kiev, but they were poor-adjacent. The next stop on the
tour was a village an hour south of the capital. “That’s where they get pretty
desperate,” Jack explained.
Most of the Americans had never been to
the former Soviet Union, but they seemed to know a lot about it: They thought
that the men were manly and that the women were beautiful—submissive. Everyone
was white. Everyone believed in God. The president was tough. They had all seen
the photo of him, shirtless, fishing in a river in Siberia. They liked that he
spoke in short, brusque, sentences, even if they didn’t know what they meant.
He rarely smiled. He never hugged. He knew how to handle “his black people,”
which was how one of the Larry’s described the Chechens.
They owned small businesses (a car wash, a
tractor-repair company), they belonged to mega-churches, and they wore a great
deal of cologne. They were lukewarm on W. They had a dim view of Hillary
Clinton and no view of Barack Obama. They were Trump voters before there were
Trump voters. They had become convinced that America was rotten, that the
media, even Fox, were all liars, that you had to go far away to find a wife
because American women hated makeup and were faithless sluts, which sounded
like a riff on the old Catskills joke: The food is awful—and such small
portions!
Mostly, they were in love with Russia. The
idea of it. They had little desire to explore since they preferred the cartoon,
which was like a nostalgic dreamscape sense of a place that had never existed.
So when, in 2015, Donald Trump descended his gilded escalator with his
Slovenian wife—again, what’s the difference?—it was like coming home. Trump was
a man who didn’t hide his vulgarity. He embraced it. Like wife-hunting in Kiev.
What was impossible to see back then was
that the American left would morph into the yin to this right-wing yang. That
it would permit itself to become co-opted by the stupid. An equal and
opposite stupid. Like a Newtonian law.
Another story, this one from my hometown:
In April 2019, I was at the Paramount lot in Los Angeles to listen in on a
panel discussion featuring freshmen House Democrats. A few hundred Hollywood
people showed up to hear what the Democrats in D.C. were doing to save the
world from imminent destruction. They mostly came in Teslas and Ubers and Tesla
Ubers, and they waved at each other and texted and smiled and doomscrolled
Rachel Maddow’s and Adam Schiff’s Twitter feeds. Many, not all, felt like they
were on the inside, like they knew what was up. They had Nancy (Pelosi’s) cell
in their cell. And they, like, knew Ted (Sarandos), the head of Netflix, and
Bob (Iger), the head of Disney, and they’d chatted with Bill (Clinton) so many
times. Also Hillary. Also Joe and Barack and Michelle—omg was she not The.
Best?
The House Democrats came from swing
districts in the middle of the country—they had flown out to raise money, to
build their networks, to hobnob. They wanted to talk about healthcare and jobs
and college tuition, the issues they had pounded away at on the campaign trail,
the issues that had led to the Democrats’ 2018 takeover of the House. The
audience, which included several fundraisers, preferred to focus on trans
rights and the climate apocalypse. And Russia. There was a lot of talk about
Russia.
They were convinced that Robert Mueller
was wrong, or that he was lying, because Putin had obviously helped Trump. “How
is this not obvious?” a woman sitting next to me said. “The Russians want
Trump, which is like—Manchurian Candidate anyone?”
The Russia haters, like the Russia lovers
I’d met, did not care to know much about Russia. They just knew that they hated
it, and especially Putin. If it hadn’t been for Putin, everything wouldn’t be
going to shit.
There was a tension in their logic: On one
hand, they thought America was irredeemably racist, because it had elected
Trump. On the other hand, they thought Russia was responsible for electing
Trump.
Then came February 2022. The Russia haters
claimed that they hated Russia because Russia had attacked Ukraine, but that
was incorrect. In 2014, the last time Russia invaded Ukraine, the Russia haters
were silent. In 2004, during the Orange Revolution, when Ukrainians revolted
against the Russian-backed puppet regime in Kyiv—same thing. The important
thing was what came in between now and eight years ago: the 2016 election. The
Russophobia was an extension of our domestic politics. It was not a thoughtful
hate but an automatic reaction to whatever one’s political foe said or did.
In early 2022, hating Russia, which is the
flip side of loving Ukraine, is like brandishing one’s pronouns and triple-masking: it has become a
way of signaling that one believed whatever one was supposed to believe right
now. Tim Cook sporting the correct colors. Russian pianists barred from competition. McDonald’s pulling out of Russia. Ditto Ikea. Ditto Starbucks. Last
week, an old college friend who routinely shares his favorite porno clips,
blast-emailed a movie of a threesome that included a large-breasted Brazilian
with a blue and gold dildo.
No comments:
Post a Comment