Donald Trump: My Part In His Victory

As we rapidly approach Donald Trump’s inauguration as the 45^th President of the United States of America, I feel it’s time to present you with the fruits of the soul-searching I’ve been doing since the election.  Simply put, I’d like to share with you my reflections upon the critique of Trump I put forth in 2016, and my growing conviction that discourses such as mine, emanating from the left-wing academic sphere, proved a major contributory factor towards him winning the most powerful office in the world (and towards, Brexit, come to that).  Think of it as my mea culpa, for all the good it’s worth.

In case you’re not aware, between 2012 and early 2016 I spent my time working towards a PhD in English Literature.  At its core, it was an investigation into politics in Salman Rushdie’s novels.  My chosen theoretical lens was the concept of biopolitics developed by the French philosopher Michel Foucault.  ‘Biopolitics’ covers technologies including the use of statistics, public health initiatives and sanitation programmes, through which states (often coercively) seek to produce the highest possible amount of healthy, self-regulating citizens that maximise economic output and societal order, and the minimum number of subjects whose unruliness and/or poor health make them threats to this productive ideal.  My argument was that not only could this notion reveal new aspects of Rushdie’s increasingly pessimistic engagement with twentieth-century political history, but that the ways in which Rushdie depicts biopolitical techniques can problematise received notions of how biopolitics operates in reality.  This was my life for over three years, sad as that may seem.

In those years I became much more interested in and knowledgeable about Foucault, about whom I didn’t know a great deal when I began the project.  One of my missions in 2016 was to speak at a conference devoted to Foucault’s life and thought.  Happily, not far into the year I saw a call for papers related to one such conference, mooted to take place in Scotland in June.  I’m not going to tell you which one, but suffice it to say, it was one of the many dozens of Foucault conferences that take place in June each year in Britain (we in Foucault Studies call it “la saison de la raison”, which never fails to raise a laugh!)  Now all I needed to do was think of an idea for a paper.  I didn’t want to just present an extract from my PhD, partially because I wasn’t sure if any of the sections on Foucault could be satisfyingly condensed down into a 20-minute window, and also because after all the time spent researching, writing and defending my thesis I couldn’t stand the sight of the damn thing.

The breakthrough moment came to me when I was sitting at home watching CNN in my pants at 3am (you get into some weird habits in that months-long interregnum between your funding running out and actually getting awarded your doctorate, as I’m sure many of my colleagues can attest).  Ahead of the New Hampshire primary in the then-nascent race to win the Republican nomination, the news anchor was presenting the results of a poll that found that 67% of Iowa Republicans believed that, out of a crowded field, Donald Trump was the candidate who best fit the description: ‘tells it like it is’.  I found this utterly baffling, because to me his pronouncements seemed oblique and peppered with demonstrable falsehoods, such as the notion that America had an unemployment rate of 42%.  My mind still fogged with the concepts I’d spent years studying, I began to think about Trump in terms of Foucault’s work on speech.  Drawing on a term used by Ancient Greek philosophers like Isocrates and Plato, Foucault drew a distinction between good parrhēsia – simple, sincere, fearless and public-spirited speech that aims to work towards the common good – and bad parrhēsia, which apes good parrhēsia’s form but is borne out of self-interest.  Aha, I thought.  Trump’s supporters think he practises good parrhēsia, but it’s actually the bad kind.  I had my idea, and soon enough my proposal was accepted and I was booking flights to Scotland.  I was pretty certain I’d get on the bill; Trump was in the news every day.  He was topical as hell.  The way I saw it, by June he’d either be knocked out of the running for the GOP nomination, or he’d be the official candidate and we on the left would be engaged in a discussion about what the vocal minority prepared to give him their votes meant for our ideals going forward.  I never dreamed for a minute he’d actually become president.

You can find the paper I gave online if you look hard enough.  I’m not going to link you to it, as I’m more ashamed of its contents than anything else I’ve written in my entire life.

However, at the time I was incredibly excited.  Two days poring over the finer points of Foucault’s oeuvre sounded like Heaven.  Additionally, they’d booked some big cheeses in the Foucault Studies field as keynote speakers.  This was going to be awesome.  Then I received an email attached to which was an updated programme including a name which jumped out at me horrifyingly, like a monster lurching out of a darkened alley.  If he wasn’t notorious then, he certainly is now.  I’m talking about Milo Yiannopoulos.

I was bitterly opposed when the conference organisers announced that Yiannopoulos was going to be making an appearance.  However, the message sent out accompanying the news of his booking reminded us in no uncertain terms that universities were designed as fora for the free exchange of ideas and not “safe spaces” where students can be inured from concepts and figures with which they disagree or find distressing, and that extremely conservative thinkers (the term “alt-right” was less in vogue at the time) have the right to air their views at any time, any place and at any academic symposium they see fit, even outside their discipline.  The committee’s formal extension of an invitation to Yiannopoulos merely set in stone the ancient right of which any public figure may avail themselves; to command an audience on our hallowed campuses and have their discourse listened to and engaged with.  So that set my mind at ease, as you can imagine.  But in the days leading up to the event, doubts began to creep back into my mind.  Here was a man who used his public platform to vomit up hate speech against any and all who opposed him, who had said abominable things about just about every minority and disadvantaged group you could name.  He’d even said some awful stuff about gay people, and he was one!  But I was, and still am, a fervent believer in the liberal idea of free speech, which meant that I wasn’t going to petition to have him no-platformed in the style of some no-mark NUS potentate, or drum up a protest outside the venue like the far-left anarchists who arguably represent the greatest threat to civil order in our country.  I was going to use my words to fight his, and I was going to emerge victorious.

The first day of the conference passed without incident.  My academic colleagues set forth a conveyor belt of engaging, intellectually rigorous and challenging presentations.  I became increasingly unsure that my understanding of Foucault could compete with theirs, but comforted myself with the knowledge that Trump was topical and therefore I’d be able to raise some laughs at his expense.  As for Milo, I barely saw him and he barely saw me.  He’d brought an entourage of his friends with him, and they kept themselves to themselves; wise, in this mostly liberal stratum.  It wasn’t until the second day that I finally got a chance to speak to him, to tell him what I thought of him, as he loitered near the lunchtime buffet and mentally debated whether to take the last chicken vol-au-vent or to be daring and move on to the mini lemon cheesecakes.  But I decided to be civil; after all, that’s what the reasoned debate I cherish so dearly is based on.  And as per the conventions set out in Academic Statute 412H/A (2015 Revision), debating him is what I was obliged, as a scholar, to do.

“Hello, Milo.  Pleased to meet you,” I smiled politely.

“There is no such thing as rape culture in the west.  Get a hold of yourself,” he replied.

I didn’t quite know what to say to that.  “I must say, I find that very offensive.”

“This is the logic of the left.  You’re not allowed to hate anything a black person does, ever, or you’re a racist.  https://twitter.com/ChippedKelly/status/755409739971002369,” Milo spat acidly.

That was it.  I was gone.  Who was I fooling?  This was Milo Yiannopoulos.  He’d spent two years studying English Lit at Cambridge, which easily outstripped my eight years at various Russell Group institutions.  He was Technology Editor for a website.  His arguments were pithy, well-informed and intellectually brilliant.  I never should have tried to beat him at his own game.

I felt like a prize failure.  But I had a chance to take my revenge.  For I was going to be speaking at the same time as him.  I had been placed on a panel loosely based around the theme of “Foucault and Revolution”, to take place two rooms along from where Milo would simultaneously be giving a presentation entitled “Reading Why Feminists Are All Fat, Ugly Bitches Through Foucault’s College de France Lectures”.  The darling of the far right might have had millions of Twitter of followers hanging on his every keystroke, but the left-wing academic world was my domain.  It was inconceivable that he’d draw more of a crowd than I did.

Sure enough, no fewer than forty-seven conference attendees packed the room where I was speaking, whereas poor Milo had to make do with just eleven.  Okay, he’d got his mates to join him, as well as the evangelical contingent from Bob Jones University and the delegation of laid-off Michigan steelworkers that had made the trip over.  But he hadn’t ensnared my people.  The liberal elite were my audience, and I was going to give them what they wanted.

Emboldened by my victory over my adversary, I spoke confidently, animatedly and without hesitation.  The early stages of the paper went fantastically well as I clearly and accurately delineated the difference between good and bad parrhēsia and why the terms were important to my argument.  After I was finished someone questioned whether Trump’s idiotic and self-serving words constituted bad parrhēsia or rather no parrhēsia at all, but I think I defended my viewpoint very well.  I didn’t spend all those years reading Foucault for nothing.

The problems started when I got to the parts about Trump.  Try as I might, I couldn’t stop myself from “doing a voice” when I quoted from his speeches.  I don’t mean an impression of how Trump talks, a la Alec Baldwin on Saturday Night Live, but an intonation dripping with contempt that left my audience in no doubt as to what I thought of my subject when I mocked his coarse vow to “load Guantanamo up with bad dudes”, or his infantile and Manichaean distinction between “winning” and “losing”.  I’d only done a silly voice while giving an academic conference paper on one other occasion, when I used the notion of biopolitics to explain invasion storylines in professional wrestling.  Needless to say, the voice I imitated was that of Hulk Hogan.  Another figure I tragically underestimated until it was too late.  We left-wingers all thought the Hulk Hogan sex tape was hilarious.  We killed ourselves laughing when he said the words, “I ate like a pig”, and guffawed superciliously at his few pathetic thrusts even on the twentieth viewing, didn’t we?  But when he teamed up with noted anti-democracy billionaire and Trump supporter Peter Thiel to sue Gawker, the website that published the video nasty, and destroyed it just like he destroyed Andre the Giant at Wrestlemania III and Tiny Lister in the box office smash No Holds Barred, suddenly the joke wasn’t so funny.

I should have learned from that, but I didn’t, and the result was a grave miscalculation.  For while my liberal academic colleagues nodded approvingly at my philosophical analysis and doubled over in laughter at the specially selected Trump quotations I had intentionally chosen to make him sound as ridiculous as possible, the small group of Pennsylvanians in the “Make America Great Again” baseball caps at the back of the room were feeling something else entirely.  In contrast to the stereotype of the angry, disaffected and inarticulate Trump supporter, they were silent and dignified as they watched me lay into their hero.  They didn’t boo or hiss, and they didn’t even ask questions related to my theoretical methodology during the designated question period; they simply stood, chastened and quivering as this liberal intellectual elite belittled the man they hailed as their saviour.  Up until that point, I think they could have been convinced to cast their vote for Hillary Clinton in spite of what their choice of headgear suggested about their political leanings, but I have no doubt in my mind that my arrogant mockery simply drove them further away from her and into Trump’s bewigged embrace.  Hillary; I’m sorry.  I truly am.  I helped hasten your downfall.  We liberal academics need to realise that our words have consequences, and that castigating and criticising Trump only makes him more popular.

But I hadn’t yet had that epiphany.  Instead I was striding from the lecture hall like a conquering general, being praised and backslapped to the high heavens by my fellow delegates.  I glanced briefly down the corridor to see a clearly miffed Milo Yiannopoulos glowering at my rejoicing retinue then, without giving the vanquished provocateur another thought, we all walked into town for a curry.

That lamb madras with garlic naan and pilau rice would soon turn to ashes in my mouth.  For the date was 23^rd June.  The harbinger of Trump’s triumph was about to arrive.  It was the day of the Brexit referendum.

It was one of the worst nights of my life.  My Facebook friends and I stayed up until the early hours watching aghast as a litany of Leave majorities rolled in: Newcastle, Wakefield, Leeds.  We comforted ourselves with disbelieving, petulant statuses such as “Tell me this is a dream”, “OMFG HOW IS THIS HAPPENING?!” and “Fuck Broxbourne”.  Our liberal social media bubble had failed utterly to prepare us for the shock of a Leave vote.  After all, the opinion polls which showed both sides roughly neck and neck were kept completely secret from the public.  Tabloid editors had been remarkably candid about their shared belief that their decades of solidly anti-immigration coverage stood very little chance of influencing their readers’ opinions, and UKIP had flopped hard in the previous year’s elections to the European Parliament.  How were we to divine the full extent of our compatriots’ hostility to the EU from our left-wing echo chamber?  There was no way of knowing.

It was 4am by the time my head hit the cheap pillow in the student accommodation in which I was domiciled.  I was due up three hours later to catch a bus to the airport, but despite the imperative for sleep I barely got any, such was my trauma.  Things took a grimly surreal turn before my flight when I found myself stuck behind former Rangers and Scotland centre forward Ally McCoist in the queue to go through security.  He was wearing a navy blue polo shirt adorned with the logo of a company called Ticketus; I didn’t recognise it.

“You could have stopped all this, Ally,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

He turned and looked at me askance.  “What did you just say, pal?”

My nerve failed me, just as it had the previous day.  “I was a big fan of you on A Question of Sport, it’s shit with Matt Dawson and Tuffers.”  He laughed in agreement, we posed for a selfie and went our separate ways.  And then the campaign continued, and Trump became President-Elect, and you know the rest.

As for what I’ve been doing since the election, what I’ve been doing is fighting back in the way I should have done before the world changed forever.  I haven’t published any academic work since the conference, nor indeed have I written any.  It just doesn’t seem important now.  The cause is my everything.  I moved in with my girlfriend last August but we only exchange words over dinner.  I haven’t spoken to my best friend Dan in months, and glowing broadsheet reviews of his work in the West End have become my only means of finding out how he’s doing.  Dan, if you’re reading this; when all this is over, you can come round and we’ll play FIFA, just like old days.  I promise.

Instead of seeing friends and family, and chatting with people I love and care for, I spend nearly every waking moment online, trying to marshal fact and rhetoric so that I may convince people on the other side that my arguments are more compelling than theirs.  I’ve come to realise that only one thing can stop the rise of Trumpism, and it isn’t waving your placards in a thousands-strong march for women’s reproductive rights, it isn’t donating money to organisations that help refugees and it isn’t direct action against racist language and behaviour in public; it is debate.  And it’s debate conducted in the liberal spirit of compromise.  It’s having the grace to tell your enemies that their opinions, however hateful, are worthy of engagement and reverence, and it’s having the courage to tell ethnic minorities, women and LGBTQI people that we’re going to have to stop fighting so hard for advances in their civil rights, because our enemies aren’t going to respect us if we try so damn hard to impress our views on them.  When Twitter deleted Yiannopoulous’ account because of alleged racist abuse of the Ghostbusters actor Leslie Jones I spent weeks in a funk.  Not just because of this grave abrogation of his right to free speech, but because I would now never get to tell him what I wish I’d been courageous enough to say six months ago in Scotland: “@Nero, I respect the validity of your opinions however you choose to deliver them, welcome your contribution to the rigorous and informed discourse that our society so desperately needs, and above all salute your bravery in expressing yourself on behalf of the forgotten and marginalised white working class – however, I disagree with you on several key points.”  That’s more than 140 characters, but I’d have broken it up into more than one tweet.

Yet I have been having some productive encounters.  Just last week @DudeWeedLmao420 admitted that, on balance, African-Americans could just about be classed as people, and I managed to convince @HitlerWasRight that we share important common ground on the issue of rail nationalisation.  Baby steps, but I’m doing what I can for the left.  I believe with all my heart that if only we start telling racists, misogynists and homophobes that we’re listening, that their views are worthwhile, and legitimate, and just as valuable as our leftist ideals, then racism, misogyny and homophobia will be a thing of the past, nothing more than a bad memory.  What I know now is that it isn't right-wing 90s rabble rousers who are to blame for President Trump, nor is it eight years of obstructionist Republican politics that delegitimised not only Obama's presidency but electoral politics itself, nor is it the media which reported Trump's every utterance with only a modicum of fact-checking and critique, nor is it Trump's supporters, nor is it Trump himself; it's the left that's to blame.  That includes me, and this is my penance for the next four years.  But I can’t do it on my own.

Won’t you join me?