Event “Trump”: Lessons 3 and 4
Coming back to the American topic… How on Earth did the condemned, ridiculed, belittled, diabolised man with a cheeky fringe emerge victorious, against all bets, prophecies and bedside fables? The solution to that conundrum could be seen in the melodramatic aftermath. Cameras and keyboards of “correspondents” were busy either filming or describing hysterical mortals, especially students, who were crying, swearing, threatening, fainting, convulsing and theatrically exhibiting other expressions of emotional fury. Later on the frustrated troops moved onto more physical techniques to externalise polarity, like breaking windows, demolishing police cars, burning Trump effigies, beating up Trump-connoisseurs. The posttraumatic stress disorder drifted somehow to remote South Africa, where small groups of Clinton-fanatics, with eyeballs weirdly protruded, were sharing horror in creepy whispers: “It can’t be!”; “It’s dreadful!”; “What’s going to happen now?!”; “Oh my God!” Those reviews of events somehow did not enlighten Greg as to the concrete causes of the terror, so he interrogated panic-stricken individuals closer: “What’s wrong?”; “Why do you mourn her?”; “Why is Trump so bad?” Replies were undeniably telling: “Markets will collapse!”; “It’s awful for global economy!”; “Social stability is finished!”; “Peace is history!”; “She was the best suited for the job!”; “He is a racist, misogynist, sexist, homophobe, xenophobe!” Like Clinton-admirers in the USA, they were echoing previously proliferated by the main stream media axioms, without suggesting basic rationalisations.
Possibly the most serious blunder in Clinton’s campaign was to outsource news choirs to sing hymns worshipping the future queen: “She is well acquainted with the procedures.”; “She has worked in government for years, hence she has loads of experience.”; “She is well connected on the international arena.”; “She is not radical, so geared up to maintain our liberal, all-inclusive, friendly, progressive, harmonious, necessary policies and wars.” They were not introducing a human being, but a crucial element to run the accustomed routines – she had morphed into a definition of status quo, a pivotal cog in the systemic machine, a “thing”. She had absolutely no faults, notwithstanding evidence to the contrary (evidence that was relentlessly swamping the internet) – she was perpetually pardoned, dusted, bleached and again glorified in editorial psalms. No shortcomings, embarrassing defects, inadequacies… Not an innocent episode of infidelity during summer holidays, not a singular disgusting habit, not even an ugly mole above the right nipple… Nothing, zero, zilch – just implied purity, perfection, blamelessness. Nobody ever praised her for ordinary character traits – she was not funny, astute, soft, conscientious, slack, serene, nervous, charismatic, boisterous, lovely etc., but fitting, suitable, able or well-matched. In due course she evaporated as a person and became invisible – only the organisational skeleton (the establishment) was left there, elevated up on the pedestal, polished, sparkling, set for congregations to venerate.
It reminded Greg of scenes from the communist parades in the sixties and seventies, when marching Polish workers were carrying banners filled with tantalizing quotations: “Together we will build a prosperous and happy socialist Poland!”; “We greet women who toil for peace and success of our motherland!”; “Equality, freedom, brotherhood, tolerance!” We all know how it ended… Noble postulates frequently collide with the folks’ natural predispositions or preferences – they tend to produce disasters if enforced by law.
On the other hand, Trump was advertised as a character – however appalling, but a character. He was an avalanche of deficiencies, bulldozing traditional order on all imaginable planes. He talked his mind and skipped utilisation of broadcasting intermediaries to translate his outbursts into palatable chants. In fact, he explored the fundamental business rule of gaining as much of gratis exposure as possible by letting press and TV to just cite him – that approach gave the guy tonnes of attention. From pieces of his Twitter posts, utterances during interviews, proclamations during rallies, dug up documents about his earlier setbacks, hasty confessions about his former abuses – from all those sensational bits – media, to the ovations of clappers, formed a voodoo of the name Trump, much more tangible than oratorio titled “Clinton is the saviour”. He capitalised on that unexpected gift, materialising himself even more in multitude of ways: he was giving solid ideas versus Clinton’s assurances; he was spontaneous whereas she was coached; he had a vision, contrasting sharply with her comforting sermons filled with structured jargon; he was open to criticism but she got stuck in constant denial; he addressed American hearts as she kept lecturing on collectivization, so he demonstrated selectiveness against her… populism (sic!). The longer they were wrestling, the more he was growing as a palpable human, while she was dissolving in the fog of philosophically sounding dogmas. By vilifying Trump, the PR apparatus (the mutated news) was deifying him by stealth. It was hard to imagine that burying Clinton alive was coincidental – Greg could not conceive a better plot to endorse a radical so slyly, but he had presumably watched too many Hollywood movies with dramatic twists.
He assimilated lesson number three: no scheme, however shrewd, would ever defeat a man with a plan. Passion with perseverance do matter and cannot be faked by elegantly printed policies or robotic exposés. Trump was authentic, but Clinton portrayed, sadly, a teleprompter masked as a female – a consequence of a merger between her, brainwashed mentors, dazed broadcasters and shabby donors.
If one wishes to prevail, one must not cheat…
So who were the disoriented simpletons voting for the beast, the brute, the misogynistic xenophobe with a tinge of sexism? Who were those tens of millions of deplorables, disgracefuls, lamentables? A girl encountered by Greg in South Africa – after the catastrophic elections – was definitely not one of the pitifuls. She was standing by the escalator in a shopping mall, yelling at the top of her lungs into the passerbys’ faces: “Save America! Bring back Barack Obama!” She was American all-round: snow-white teethed, equipped in big breasts, loud, determined and wanting money. The energetic lassie was offering some paraphernalia for cash, most likely to support the objective of her petition. Nobody understood her, as Barack was still a president – there was no need to drag the dude back to the White House.
She was doing everything wrong… South Africans are used to courteous invitations from advocates of altruism. Charitable angels, surrounded by their touching posters, always wait patiently and purr shyly: “Hello!”; “Excuse me, do you have a minute?”; “Hi, how are you?” Most pedestrians dash by (staring intently at urgent notifications, suddenly flooding their smartphones), or crawl far away along the walls, or change direction abruptly – there are varieties of tactics to evade being sucked into awkward discussions on benevolent initiatives. The American girl contravened all those tacit canons by audaciously bullying people into submission: “Save America! Bring back Barack Obama!” Straddling, throttling, battering each perambulator, shrieking frantically: “Save America! Bring back Barack Obama!”
Let us explicate… For a decade, South Africans have been powerless to kick out their own crooked president, Jacob Zuma (accused of more than seven hundred corruption, fraud, money-laundering and racketeering charges), so how can they assist with repairing political crisis (if any) in the USA? Furthermore, they are divided across racial, economic and religious lines, coerced to communicate in eleven official languages, unable to unite to sort out the smallest internal issue, permanently ready to forsake the inhabited terrain in case of a single gossip about impending foreign military attack – that random assortment is asked by a girl to fix some calamity across the Atlantic Ocean? Leave it to Trump, would you?! She should tan on one of the Clifton beaches in Cape Town, scoring dozens of muscular boys, rather than wasting precious sunny days on gathering never-coming support from a haphazard multicultural pack.
It occurred to Greg that the female missionary was trying to do some trick to reclaim her land from the paws of 61,943,670 pro-Trumpian miserables – from those lousy creatures, long-forgotten by the system based on debilitating regulations, galloping commercialism, bottomless welfare, enigmatic growth, eternal wars, messy urbanisation, oppressive globalisation, dictatorial centralisation, conveyer belt education, intrusive surveillance, social engineering, outsourced manufacturing, augmenting purses of wealthy, neglecting urgencies of locals. Those deserted souls had been gradually waking up from a state of hibernation – from a hypnotising dream, woven by the skilful fingers of propaganda gurus. They had been reinstating contact with the subconscious feelings about their nation saga and past comradeship, pondering reasons for vanished hopes, bygone safety, squandered capital, exhausted options, withered liberty, monotonous presence, uncertain future. Like ghosts they had risen from the thick mist of deceptive affirmations, then drifted slowly, silently, yet unwaveringly to the polls, to cast a vote for return of the normal, functional order; propelled not by detailed scrutiny of vague, humdrum and idealistic platitudes, labelled as “party programmes”, but by sincere allegiance, by faith in the native bond, by belief in resurrection of the once great country. A parade of spirits from the quondam eras, quiet but deafening, unnoticed but ubiquitous, presumed dead but breathing fire, asserted frail but tough – true patriots, tenfold mentally and physically tougher than chaotic clusters of trespassers, opportunists, exploiters and utopian theorisers. A procession of beautiful revenants who grasped intuitively that it was the last occasion to manifest their will peacefully, for there would be no next time for civil negotiations…
Unified by hearts, they illustrated that patriotism had forever been, and forever would be, the supreme force, obliterating any obstacles dressed by pretentious leaders in counterfeit vows. Greg could enjoy a rehearsal of a well known lesson (number four): don’t ever underestimate the commanding rule of loyalty to the fatherland, as ferocious action sprouts from it, powered by love. Nostalgic garbage? Not at all! It is identity, essential for the citizen’s completeness. If you do not buy it, try to cheer up a parent of an abused child – good luck for that mission. If the cry “USA!” does not boil your blood and does not bring goose bumps to your skin, then do not call yourself “American”, do not dub America “your home”, do not dictate what is the best for the American family, do not just park and demand from your hosts.