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The apocalypse of politics
Daniel Silliman
The end of the world!
Apocalypse! The holocaust of every good and decent thing you've
ever cared about! The final battle in the great war between
all that is right, good and honorable against the dark and depraved
beasts that oppose us.
But your gift of $25 today, committed
supporter, can save us.
This is American politics.
You may not believe me but on
my desk sits a small stack of fundraising letters, all of which
follow this formula: 1) Terrible things will happen if those
terrible people win the next election; 2) You are important
and can stop terrible people and all things terrible by supporting
us.
Some of the letters are more vitriolic
and some are less. President George
W. Bush's letter only mentions stopping the liberal agenda once
while the state GOP's letter speaks of a liberal invasion intent
on destroying what you've worked so hard for.
It's a peculiarly American method
because there is this constant underlying vision, a vision driving
the style of every writer of political mass mailings: Common
American people care, and think they have the power to shape
the world.
The staple of United States politics
on every wing is that the enemy is out there and the enemy is
among us. This paranoid apocalypsism weaves through American
history, showing strong in the Cold War, in the political competition
between Nixon and Kennedy, in World War II, even in the Civil
War and the Revolution.
We believe, with our best Puritan
theology gone political, the greatest evil is from within. We
believe-cue John Wayne pulling up his boots-we have the power
of good and strong men to win.
But politics are like that. If
one recasts the allusions to Puritans and cowboys to something
Russian, one has a pretty good picture of Russian politics.
Maybe we write about reactionaries, maybe about Commies, Fascists,
Rush Limbaugh or Diane Fienstein, but it's all the same: stir
and rally, allude to the horrific baby-eating opponent, show
an image of a golden city, and tell the dear committed supporter
what to do.
Politically, I came of age in
the Clinton era and my political résumé is strong.
I was the head of my county's Young Republicans, at 17 I was
the youngest Bush delegate in my state convention, worked on
conservative campaigns from the county to state to the national
level, held office in the county party and was asked to consider
running for a state seat.
I was a young and rising politico.
Then I fell off the wagon. Because you know what? After eight
years of Clinton the world didn't end. It didn't even get very
bad. "Oh," said the
radio I'd listened to for four years of intensely followed politics,
"but if Gore gets in… If we don't stop them…
Did you hear about the liberal-homosexual-Clinton-Communist-U.N.
agenda?… If Hillary gets a shot at power…"
I saw that the world of politics
is a world of ghosts and bogeymen.
In the real world things are never
indubitable. In the real world no one sits in a dark tower and
plots evil. In the real world $25 won't stave off doom. The
political spectrum is a violent simplification of the real world.
George Bush's biggest fan in the
world is my little brother, who has every picture of him the
local paper ever saw fit to print cut out and pasted on his
bedroom wall. George Bush's biggest
opponent in the world is my cousin, of the same age as my brother,
who has learned every snide remark and every G.W. joke. Which
makes sense, because the world of 8-year-olds is a world of
characters, a simplification of heroes and villains, cowboys
and Indians, us and them.
But then another letter asking
for a donation from my formerly political self is delivered
and I realize I'm being asked to believe in a ghost, a wicked
witch and a monster under the bed.
Every election campaign is like
the War to End All Wars all over again and I'm a veteran. I'm
a little shattered and a little frustrated at my former naiveté
and little cynical about the whole system.
Every election cycle has the kick
of Y2K-all the lights are on and all that chatter is just giving
me a headache.
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