Notes on Trump at the UN

Notes on Trump at the UN

Covering Trump’s speech at the UN General Assembly yesterday was one of the wilder experiences I’ve ever had as a journalist.

Have you ever noticed Trump’s slack-armed amble when he mills around during important gigs? It’s such a blatant admission of his indifference to the events he’s witnessing and shaping. He looks like he’s been told to be somewhere but he’s not sure why. He’s not opposed to being there, but he’s not committed to it either. That is, until the moment that he steps up to the podium and he speaks. And then his body comes alive with such force that it’s almost as if it’s a different person. He barks and points and sneers and flashes his teeth. It almost seems as if he’s a ventriloquist manipulating his own body. But then he misses and stumbles over words, and places the emphasis on the wrong part of sentences, and you remember that the passion has less to do with the language than it does with him harnessing the power of the scene. He is animated by the spectacle, given life by the authority to command. He is pantomiming the American affect, and revealing its darkest essence.

(Cross-posted on Facebook.)

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Notes on election night

It was after midnight when we accepted that Donald Trump was going to be president of the United States. After an evening of cycling through desperate hope and nausea, there wasn’t much to say. Kyle and I finished our whiskey and I got up to leave.

I stepped outside, inhaled deeply. I wondered if I looked different now.

My conflicting emotions erupted with such perfect simultaneity that they canceled each other out and I was left simply feeling blank.

I walked into a bar and ordered a beer. It was Williamsburg, so people were generally well-dressed and unfazed. A white woman walked through the door and embraced her black friend, crying. After a few sips I left for the subway.

Inside the Bedford stop was a group of young black teens waiting for the train. One boy said that Trump’s election meant police would have even fewer qualms about gunning black people down in the streets. Another reckoned he should probably buy his own firearm.

One of the girls in the group of teens pointed and giggled at a white woman who appeared to be drunk, further down the subway platform. The woman was offended and yelled something loudly about how everything was not OK at the pointing girl. The girl continued to laugh, then the woman yelled louder, and then they got in each other’s faces. It’s unclear how it de-escalated, but the woman eventually stormed off.

Then a pair of white women struck up conversation with the group of teens, assuring them that protest movements would prevent things from getting too bad. The kids seem unconvinced. One of the white women then asked them if they liked to dance, and started miming step dance moves. They lost interest.

As the train arrived, they were approached once more. Another white woman came up and told one of the girls in the group that she liked her outfit. As the girl turned to get on the train, the woman reached out and stroked the girl’s hair. The girl recoiled, then stepped into the subway car.

When we got on the train, the boys danced for money. I handed them whatever cash I had in my wallet and got off at First Avenue. I wondered if they felt they looked different.

Worse is not better

I can’t believe that around this time one year ago we were debating the merits of Bernie Sanders adopting reparations for the black community for his economic platform.

Material and mental resources are finite, and a lot of energy on the left is now being spent figuring out how best to respond to Trump’s breed of reactionary authoritarianism. I think the Leninist “worse is better” arguments I saw floated in the run up to the general election were — in addition to being ethically problematic and under-appreciative of what it takes to inspire some kind of revolution — neglectful of how time and energy defending things as they are takes time and energy away from envisioning how they can be. Cross-posted on Facebook.

Two parties or four?

Watching Chris Christie endorse Trump was a bit surreal yesterday. Whether he did it for a coveted cabinet position or because it was one of the first signs that the GOP establishment is accepting the inevitability of the Trumpocalypse, it drove home the absurdity of the two-party system, which requires the forging of very odd alliances. The 2016 cycle has exposed that the public would at the moment be best served by at least 4 parties in a multi-party parliament setting:

Free market traditionalists (GOP establishment)
Nationalists (Trump)
Multicultural neoliberals (Clinton)
Social democrats (Sanders)

Black Panthers at the Super Bowl

Were the Black Panther-themed costumes during Beyonce’s performance an example of her being politically edgy or more a sign that corporate pop culture is so powerful that it can accommodate the iconography of anticapitalist black nationalism without seeming to implode from its internal contradictions? If she feels safe dancing with panthers, then have they been defanged? Beyonce’s performance elicited worshipful gaze and a chorus of affirmation, with cries that she slayed and that she deserved her title as queen of pop culture. How should we square that with a nod to a group whose raison d’etre was to slay queens and kings, to destroy empires?

I’m not somebody who thinks that pop can’t be subversive, or that one should dismiss an artist because of contradictions. But in this case, I am skeptical of the messenger (although I fully admit I have huge gaps in knowledge of her music) and especially the setting — presumably hundreds of largely apolitical people okayed this idea and thought it wouldn’t threaten one of the most lucrative ad spaces in American history. The identitarian turn in contemporary pop culture helped make this safe. But does its emphasis on consciousness rather than actual power also make it impotent? What do people think?

The real problem with the Oscars

The biggest problem with the Oscars isn’t that they’re so white. It’s that they’re a garbage institution with garbage taste and values. Every year thousands of provocative new films grace the world and the Oscars do things like nominate Seabiscuit or American Sniper for best picture or award Crash or The Hurt Locker with best picture, and a few obvious directors and movies dominate the ceremony in a manner that turns what could be a celebration of artistic diversity into a prestige dick measuring contest that largely cements the cinematic and sociopolitical status quo.

The best critique isn’t pointing to films that have minorities and were “snubbed” — as Freddie DeBoer has pointed out, “there’s just no way to prosecute these arguments without insisting that your aesthetic taste is objective.” The stronger critique, the one that provides the most promise in the long run, is that the Oscars’s selections should reflect diversity in form and origin and style and intellectual leaning and political sensibility and social context / goal — ethnic diversity will naturally emanate from that process. That’s the best way to avoid strong-arming vacuous institutions into degrading rituals of tokenism which we’ll be sure to see in the coming years.

Better yet, let’s just scrap the whole thing — between the cost of the crowd’s clothing and producing the show, you could probably pay for a good chunk of reparations. Then let some smart people who are more interested in expanding artistic horizons than serving as guardians of mediocrity and celebrity start something from scratch.