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The Real Meaning of Donald Trump
He's a Sign of American Decline (Just Not in the Way You Think)
By Tom Engelhardt
"Low-energy Jeb." "Little Marco." "Lyin' Ted." "Crooked Hillary." Give Donald Trump credit. He has a memorable way with insults. His have a way of etching themselves on the brain. And they've garnered media coverage, analysis, and commentary almost beyond imagining. Memorable as they might be, however, they won't be what last of Trump's 2016 election run. That's surely reserved for a single slogan that will sum up his candidacy when it's all over (no matter how it ends). He arrived with it on that Trump Tower escalator in the first moments of his campaign and it now headlines his website, where it's also emblazoned on an array of products from hats to t-shirts.
You already know which line I mean: "Make America Great Again!" With that exclamation point ensuring that you won't miss the hyperbolic, Trumpian nature of its promise to return the country to its former glory days. In it lies the essence of his campaign, of what he's promising his followers and Americans generally -- and yet, strangely enough, of all his lines, it's the one most taken for granted, the one that's been given the least thought and analysis. And that's a shame, because it represents something new in our American age. The problem, I suspect, is that what first catches the eye is the phrase "Make America Great" and then, of course, the exclamation point, while the single most important word in the slogan, historically speaking, is barely noted: "again."
With that "again," Donald Trump crossed a line in American politics that, until his escalator moment, represented a kind of psychological taboo for politicians of any stripe, of either party, including presidents and potential candidates for that position. He is the first American leader or potential leader of recent times not to feel the need or obligation to insist that the United States, the "sole" superpower of Planet Earth, is an "exceptional" nation, an "indispensable" country, or even in an unqualified sense a "great" one. His claim is the opposite. That, at present, America is anything but exceptional, indispensable, or great, though he alone could make it "great again." In that claim lies a curiosity that, in a court of law, might be considered an admission of guilt. Yes, it says, if one man is allowed to enter the White House in January 2017, this could be a different country, but -- and in this lies the originality of the slogan -- it is not great now, and in that admission-that-hasn't-been-seen-as-an-admission lies something new on the American landscape.
Donald Trump, in other words, is the first person to run openly and without apology on a platform of American decline. Think about that for a moment. "Make America Great Again!" is indeed an admission in the form of a boast. As he tells his audiences repeatedly, America, the formerly great, is today a punching bag for China, Mexico... well, you know the pitch. You don't have to agree with him on the specifics. What's interesting is the overall vision of a country lacking in its former greatness.
Perhaps a little history of American greatness and presidents (as well as presidential candidates) is in order here.
"City Upon a Hill"
Once upon a time, in a distant America, the words "greatest," "exceptional," and "indispensable" weren't even part of the political vocabulary. American presidents didn't bother to claim any of them for this country, largely because American wealth and global preeminence were so indisputable. We're talking about the 1950s and early 1960s, the post-World War II and pre-Vietnam "golden" years of American power. Despite a certain hysteria about the supposed dangers of domestic communists, few Americans then doubted the singularly unchallengeable power and greatness of the country. It was such a given, in fact, that it was simply too self-evident for presidents to cite, hail, or praise.
So if you look, for instance, at the speeches of John F. Kennedy, you won't find them littered with exceptionals, indispensables, or their equivalents. In a pre-inaugural speech he gave in January 1961 on the kind of government he planned to bring to Washington, for instance, he did cite the birth of a "great republic," the United States, and quoted Puritan John Winthrop on the desirability of creating a country that would be "a city upon a hill" to the rest of the world, with all of humanity's eyes upon us. In his inaugural address ("Ask not what your country can do for you..."), he invoked a kind of unspoken greatness, saying, "We shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty." It was then common to speak of the U.S. with pride as a "free nation" (as opposed to the "enslaved" ones of the communist bloc) rather than an exceptional one. His only use of "great" was to invoke the U.S.-led and Soviet Union-led blocs as "two great and powerful groups of nations."
Kennedy could even fall back on a certain modesty in describing the U.S. role in the world (that, in those years, from Guatemala to Iran to Cuba, all too often did not carry over into actual policy), saying in one speech, "we must face the fact that the United States is neither omnipotent or omniscient -- that we are only six percent of the world's population -- that we cannot impose our will upon the other 94 percent of mankind -- that we cannot right every wrong or reverse each adversity -- and that therefore there cannot be an American solution to every world problem." In that same speech, he typically spoke of America as "a great power" -- but not "the greatest power."
If you didn't grow up in that era, you may not grasp that none of this in any way implied a lack of national self-esteem. Quite the opposite, it implied a deep and abiding confidence in the overwhelming power and presence of this country, a confidence so unshakeable that there was no need to speak of it.
If you want a pop cultural equivalent for this, consider America's movie heroes of that time, actors like John Wayne and Gary Cooper, whose Westerns and in the case of Wayne, war movies, were iconic. What's striking when you look back at them from the present moment is this: while neither of those actors was anything but an imposing figure, they were also remarkably ordinary looking. They were in no way over-muscled nor in their films were they over-armed in the modern fashion. It was only in the years after the Vietnam War, when the country had absorbed what felt like a grim defeat, been wracked by oppositional movements, riots, and assassinations, when a general sense of loss had swept over the polity, that the over-muscled hero, the exceptional killing machine, made the scene. (Think: Rambo.)
Consider this, then, if you want a definition of decline: when you have to state openly (and repeatedly) what previously had been too obvious to say, you're heading, as the opinion polls always like to phrase it, in the wrong direction; in other words, once you have to say it, especially in an overemphatic way, you no longer have it.
The Reagan Reboot
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