Historically informed commentary on the news and events of the day.
This what your Occasional Commentary Blog Ad will look like to visitors! Of course you will want to use keywords and ad targeting to get the most out of your ad campaign! So purchase an ad space today before there all gone!
Customize the title link
Place a detailed description
It appears here within the content
Approved within 24 hours!
If not completely satisfied, you'll receive 3 months absolutely free;
No questions asked!
The family separations are a statement of intent: the Trump regime will soon target American citizens for systematic internment, exile and extermination.
The Trump administration is what an incipient American dictatorship looks like. You can see it in the abdication of congressional oversight, and the rapid concentration of political power into a hierarchical executive branch characterized by corruption, intrigue and paranoia. You can see it in the transformation of Fox News into a party-aligned organ of state propaganda, and the cult-like way its viewers regard the current president. It’s visible in the swift and sudden exchange of America’s traditional international allies for new relationships with the world’s most repressive regimes. It’s there in the stacking of hyper-factional judges across federal and state judiciaries. The alteration of the census and purging of the voter rolls. The transformation of ICE and the Border Patrol into an American secret police, working not on behalf the state or its citizens, but Trump himself. You can see it the Trump regime’s constant efforts to remold facts and reality around predetermined and obviously false narratives, and the way it consciously works to undermine any sense of shared American identity or common weal.
These are all known and well-theorized waypoints on the road to despotic government. So what lies ahead is even more worrisome. Because eventually, all tyrannies resort to systemic violence and terror against their own citizens. Eventually, they all use the machinery of the state to methodically hurt and kill as an instrument of rule.
The so-called “zero-tolerance” policy of separation and imprisonment of the children of asylum-seekers on the southern border is a major milestone on the road to authoritarianism, and a preview of the Trump regime’s malign trajectory. (Not for nothing, but “zero tolerance” also happens to be a popular slogan on the Russian far right.) As usual, the origins and purpose of this terroristic policy are obscured in a thick fog of lies and contradictions. The Trump administration has claimed that it is merely following existing law. But seeking asylum here is not illegal and has never resulted in the separation of families until now. The president has blamed the Democrats in congress, but “zero-tolerance” for asylum-seekers is a policy-level change coming directly out of Trump's Justice Department. Attorney General Sessions claims that the rending and imprisoning of children separately from their parents is necessary to discourage others from seeking asylum here. But even if there were any public benefit to punishing asylum-seekers—and there is not—Sessions is also lying about the purpose of this policy.
The intended audience for this terror-theater isn’t the people fleeing violence in their own countries. It’s the people watching Fox News—Trump's Republican base. The policy's purpose is to vindicate, through cruelty and violence, the conspiracy theories and fictions that undergird the Trump regime. Specifically, the fiction that aliens are trying to sneak in and destabilize the country, and that they are aided by Democrats, who are trying to undermine Trump himself.
Witness Fox’s coverage of the family separations this week, for which a uniformed Border Patrol official was brought onto the set of Fox and Friends to falsely assert that it is illegal to seek asylum in the United States. A bold-faced, easily-debunked lie, but it’s all Fox viewers will ever hear. “Those people” are different and have done something bad, so we are justified in putting their children into concentration camps, and anyone who criticizes the policy is just trying to damage our Leader." The bloody simple-mindedness of this narrative turns the entire episode into an ideological weapon. This, they are being told, is what you voted for. This is what you want. Each fresh outrage radicalizes Trump’s supporters a bit further. Every howl of protest elicited from progressives is proof that their team is winning. Is there any reason to believe that their response will be different when the Border Patrol just starts shooting people?
In The Origins of Totalitarianism (still one of the most important treatments of the rise of fascism and Stalinism in the mid-20th century) political theorist Hannah Arendt tried to distinguish between despotic systems (which have existed for millennia) and totalitarian systems, examples of which can only be found in the 20th century. One of the key differences between these systems, Arendt contends, lies in how they use political violence. Authoritarian regimes use measured violence as a tool to force compliance and liquidate rivals. But totalitarian regimes require unending and unreasoning democidal savagery to bolster the fictions on which they rest. The goal of totalitarian political violence, according to Arendt, is a citizenry of willing executioners and victims: “as though their plurality had disappeared into One Man of gigantic dimensions.”
It doesn’t matter whether the targets of that violence present any real threat, or whether the regime’s rationalizations for violence against them make sense. “Practically speaking,” Arendt writes, “the totalitarian ruler proceeds like a man who persistently insults another man until everybody knows that the latter is his enemy, so that he can, with some plausibility, kill him in self-defense.” Does that sound familiar?
Donald Trump’s natural style of leadership is totalitarian—charismatic, fraudulent, arbitrary, terroristic and depraved. He frequently demands "loyalty" of his subordinates, by which he means blind obedience and total self-abnegation. So his henchmen are every bit as craven as he is. His regime expertly serves up a constantly changing buffet of political targets (primarily ethnic communities) upon which his supporters can train their rage and frustration. He has suborned entire federal law enforcement agencies into the Trumpist project, particularly ICE and the Border Patrol, and possibly the FBI. With the help of his media propagandists, congressional enablers, and autocratic clients overseas, Trump's cult of personality is growing in both size and strength. These are tremendous assets for any aspiring dictator. And Trump has a major incentive to operationalize them, in order to stave off the outcomes of future elections and the Mueller probe.
Terroristic violence is inherently attractive to Donald Trump as an instrument of power and control. His family separation policy is a trial balloon to gauge the political costs of using it. If the Democrats don't manage to win at least one house of Congress this fall, that violence will have fulfilled its purpose as an electoral strategy, and 2018 will likely have been the last free election in the US for quite some time. After that, the Trump regime will broaden and escalate these kinds of terror-based policies to target a wider range of communities and populations. That's what dictators do.
These kids are going to save lives. Maybe they'll change everything.
These kids are going to save lives. Maybe they'll change everything.
Glance at the history of this country, and you’ll notice that humiliation and shame have long been potent weapons of racial oppression, social alienation and disenfranchisement. Many of the important liberal advances in our history are stories of transcending shame and stigmatization, from the civil rights movement to the feminist and LGBT movements.
But there are also moments, scattered throughout the history of modern progressivism, in which shame became a weapon of liberation, justice and equality. Moments in which it was invoked specifically to confront those who oppressed others for their own ends, and then lied about it. In these moments, shame became a call to conscience, and a call to arms.
In 1829, abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison publicly rebuked a New England merchant named Francis Todd for profiting off the transportation of slaves. Todd sued Garrison for libel and had him jailed. But Garrison had found both his calling and his method. While sitting in a Baltimore jail pending the adjudication of his case, he penned a defiant defense of his actions, including the following:
So long as a good Providence gives me strength and intellect, I will not cease to declare, that the existence of slavery in this country is a foul reproach to the American name; nor will I hesitate to problem the guilt of kidnappers, slave abettors, or slave owners, wheresoever they may reside, or however high they may be exalted. I am only in the alphabet of my task; time shall perfect a useful work.
Garrison became one of the most vocal and strident opponents of slavery before its abolition in 1865, and a savage critic of its defenders. His unrelenting advocacy in the face of the death threats, jailings, and the bounty placed on his head by the state of Georgia only added to his celebrity, and thus to the power of his cause.
In 1892, Ida B. Wells documented the complicity of the South’s “leading citizens” in the practice of lynching, and punctured the myth that lynching was anything other than white terrorism in the service of racial subordination.
In 1902, Ida Tarbell’s straightforward prose thoroughly exposed the unfair business practices of John D. Rockefeller, leading to the forced disintegration of his Standard Oil monopoly.
In 1955, after a Chicago teenager named Emmett Till was tortured and murdered in Mississippi, his mother Mamie Till-Mobley buried her son’s mutilated body in a glass-topped casket, forcing the nation to confront the brutality that underpinned Jim Crow. Till’s murderers never saw justice for their crimes, but his memory galvanized a movement.
Eight years later, the black children of Birmingham marched against segregation, and transformed public safety commissioner Bull Connor, along with his dogs and firehoses, into potent symbols of the country’s failure to guarantee the rights of citizenship for people of color.
There are so many more exemplars of this kind of love and courage, some recorded, but many lost to history.
In the Trump era, it’s hard to imagine what it would take to shame the Republicans into making more just and inclusive policy.. There's not much that progressives can do to discredit Trump and his party that they haven't already done to discredit themselves. Like all authoritarian movements, the underlying goal of Trumpism (i.e. modern conservatism) is to acquire and wield a kind of power that, like its namesake, can neither be embarrassed nor constrained.
But it’s worth noting that not all of the acts of moral witness listed above achieved immediate change. Nor did they do much to sway the minds of the oppressors themselves. That wasn’t their aim. The reason these moments of moral courage matter, and that we remember them today, is because of the purpose, energy and determination they inspired in other like minded people.
Earlier this month, students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, scene of the deadliest high school shooting in American history, traveled to the Tallahassee to implore the radically pro-gun Florida legislature to ban the sale of semi-automatic rifles with high-capacity magazines. That such a reasonable demand seems radical is a testament to how far to the right we are on guns.
For that, they have already become targets of online harassment and death threats. They’ve been dismissed as “crisis actors” by the far-right fringe. The mainstream media assures them that nothing will persuade Congressional Republicans to take meaningful action on gun control. Which is probably true—the modern Republican Party is largely impervious to shame and deeply entangled with the gun industry.
But even though the students are meeting with elected officials, they're really talking to the rest of us. Their moral witness injects momentum and urgency into the flagging effort for sane gun laws. Those who agree with them (the majority) will come out to the polls in force during the upcoming election. Perhaps more importantly, the students’ assumption of responsibility for preventing future massacres is a powerful counterexample to the sociopathically self-centered and short-sighted politics of Trumpism.
The student activists of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School are not afraid, and they don't have time for our stupidity when it comes to guns. They’ve set an example that will reverberate for a long time to come.
One wonders what an observer as keen as Ulysses Grant would say about our present moment. Probably not "lol, nothing matters."
I am particularly struck by how well Grant captures the sense of excitement and consumable drama that accompanied the run-up to the Civil War. The Union’s final unraveling took place in an environment of wall-to-wall propaganda, disinformation and hysteria. Southerners consumed a steady news diet fetishizing abstractions like state sovereignty, slavery and aristocracy, and purporting to unmask Northern conspiracies behind every proverbial corner. Popular anger over the 1850 Fugitive Slave Act fed a rising tide of resentment against slavery in the North. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s 1852 anti-slavery novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin sold 300,000 copies in its first year. Which was a lot, relatively speaking.
There were rallies and parades. At meeting halls and taverns, Americans marinated in the latest outrages perpetrated by the Other Side, and thrilled to the stem-winding speeches of local orators and broadsides in partisan newspapers. Voter turnout in the 1860 election approached 84%. Each startling political development seemed to follow on the heels of the one before it, whipping up a dizzying atmosphere of political theatricality. Regardless where one’s sympathies lay, in other words, the dysfunctional politics of sectionalism was entertaining as hell.
Against such a backdrop, it must have been hard to muster much concern for the threat of war. There was (with the exception of the Kansas territory) no fighting in the streets. There was no mass exodus to other countries so as to spare husbands, sons and brothers from the looming cataclysm. America’s most recent war—the invasion of Mexico in 1846—had been a romp. Few believed that half of the white men from many Southern towns and hamlets would be dead within four years. Few imagined that they might themselves perish in battle, near obscure creeks and villages whose names would be sanctified by their blood.
There is little doubt in my mind,” Grant wrote,” that the prevailing sentiment of the South would have been opposed to secession in 1860 and 1861, if there had been a fair and calm expression of opinion, unbiased by threats, and if the ballot of one legal voter had counted for as much as any other. But there was no calm discussion of the question. Demagogues…declaimed vehemently and unceasingly against the North; against its aggressions upon the South… They denounced the Northerners as cowards, poltroons, negro-worshippers; claimed that one Southern man was equal to five Northern men in battle; that if the South would stand up for its rights the North would back down.”
The traditions of truthfulness, political restraint and forbearance—traditions that underpinned the American federal system—needed to be destroyed almost as a precondition for secession. To that end, Southern extremists used the threat of secession as a political cudgel, seizing on various pretexts to provoke constitutional crises and extract economic and political concessions. As the Southern slavocracy set about undermining the union, they were actually helped by the unexpected entertainment value of their efforts. The more extreme their tactics and rhetoric, the more riled up everyone got, the weaker the federal government became, and the nearer they came to their goal of separatist confederacy. The road to disunion was paved with bullshit.
And in that sense at least, it’s hard not to see some parallels between the politics of the late antebellum and the present day. A deeply racist and corrupt party representing a factional white minority controls all levers of federal power. Like the Fire Eaters of old, today’s Republicans seem to view the destruction of comity and forbearance in federal politics almost as a goal unto itself. Trump is giving James Buchanan a run for his money as the worst president in American history. Republicans now deal heavily in conspiracy theories, and thrive on distrust in government. The American public, meanwhile, lives in siloed and polarized informational environments, and we are well down the road toward self-segregation on the basis of political affiliation. Our politics might be a car wreck, but we are all imbricated, and it’s hard to look away.
There is, of course, no direct comparison to be drawn between the sectionalism of the 1850s and contemporary politics. Nor is there any domestic issue that remotely approaches the import and sensitivity of the “slave question.” There is, however, a sort of gleeful and destructive recklessness to our present political moment that echoes the late antebellum era, when politicians scoffed at the notion that there could ever be a war between the states, and thus saw little harm in trying to start one.
Like the 1850s, it feels as though we live in an age of suspended consequence. Surely, there must be some limit to the Republicans’ ability to dissemble their way into power. Surely, there must be some terrible, world-altering price to pay for the damage being done to our union, and our ability to self-govern. In the late antebellum era, the costs of that recklessness utterly exceeded the grasp of the American imagination. Is this an "ante-something" era too? If so, what? And how bad will it get?
One wonders what an observer as keen as Ulysses Grant would say about our present moment. Probably not "lol, nothing matters."
The loved ones of the victims of mass shootings have earned the right to mourn.
—Nicole Hockley, Managing Director of Sandy Hook Promise and mother of Dylan Hockley, one of 20 first-graders murdered at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012.
After 4-year old Colin Holst drowned in an Austin swimming pool in 2008, his parents channeled their grief into advocacy by founding Colin’s Hope. The charity’s mission is to prevent the kinds of all-too-common water accidents that took young Colin’s life. In 2016, Colin’s Hope claims to have raised $80,000, engaged the services of more than 2,500 volunteers, given swim lessons to more than 600 Austin-area preschoolers, and donated 150 life jackets to loaner stations at area lakes. Colin’s Hope is at once a community resource, a vehicle of mourning, and a memorial to a little boy’s life.
Colin’s Hope is an uncommonly successful example of a certain genre of philanthropy: advocacy organizations originating from the experience of parental bereavement. The performance of philanthropy is a healthy and often-necessary form of grieving, allowing parents to honor, remember, or atone. By imparting meaning to otherwise inexplicable loss, it can even become a means of emotional survival. From a community standpoint, organizations like Colin’s Hope marshal the moral authority of bereaved parents to save, educate, and heal. The impulse to extract grace from tragedy—to spare others from similar pain— is a definitionally human, and humane, trait.
Perhaps for that reason—in the public sphere at least—parental bereavement was once generally held as sacrosanct; beyond question even when it came into contact with politics. But in December of 2012, the murder of 20 children and 6 teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary School pitted the custom of deference to parental grief directly against America’s maniacal fixation with firearms. The shocking viciousness by which the latter triumphed over the former compounded the nation’s collective trauma in Sandy Hook's aftermath.
Within days of the shooting, conspiracy theorists were skulking around the grounds of the now-shuttered elementary school with video cameras, trying to prove that the massacre was a hoax. Blog posts claimed that it had been a “false flag” operation staged by the federal government to promote gun safety laws. YouTube videos, questioning whether the victims had ever existed, rocketed to millions of views. By early January, 9/11 “truther” and Infowars founder Alex Jones had turned his website into a clearinghouse for all manner of Sandy Hook conspiracy theories, including a post alleging that Sandy Hook Elementary had been a recruiting center for the Church of Satan.
The families of the slain began receiving anonymous calls and emails questioning the reality of the massacre; threatening them with reprisal for being related to the murdered children. They were doxxed, and their addresses, phone numbers and other personal information became public information. This happened to many people, regardless whether or not they became involved in groups like Sandy Hook Promise which, much like Colin’s Hope, sought to mitigate the tragedy by training students and teachers to identify the behavioral warning signs of potential gun violence.
For two years, the Newtown was besieged by outsiders hoping to blow the cover off the supposed conspiracy behind the most deadly attack (so far) to take place in an American elementary school. Sightings of conspiracy theorists—their cameras creepily trained on Newtown children—became so common that a group of local fathers organized themselves to keep tabs on the interlopers.
The National Rifle Association did not question the fact of the shooting. Instead, Wayne LaPierre tacitly blamed the school’s administrators—some of whom died protecting students—for inadequately preparing their schools for armed combat. “The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun,” he famously intoned. LaPierre’s non-sequitur became a mirthless punchline in the mainstream press. But second amendment absolutists adopted it as a motto, and the NRA quickly turned it into a branding opportunity. For $19, LaPierre's organization will gladly sell you a t-shirt with his words, an image of a handgun, and the NRA logo emblazoned on front and back.
The immediate effect of this twin-pronged attack on the Newtown victims and their families was to stymie the handful of Sandy Hook-inspired gun reforms in congress, including proposed universal background checks. But the long term impact was arguably more damaging still. The intimidation campaign against Newtown effectively narrowed the boundaries of safe discourse in the aftermath of subsequent mass shootings, particularly for those most directly affected. It represented the social disenfranchisement of parental and community grief (h/t Kenneth Doka).
After Sandy Hook, victims and surviving relatives of gun massacres know that their experiences of violence and trauma no longer confer authority or privilege. They know that the only universally acceptable way to mourn their losses is in the dissembling vernacular of “tragedy,” which distorts gun violence into something inscrutable and inevitable, and negates all agency or responsibility for stopping it. Now is not the time to talk about how or why they died, our president’s press secretary presumes to tell them. Thoughts and prayers must suffice.
They know now that if they pursue healing through advocacy—particularly if they dare to suggest that gun violence is preventable—they will face savage emotional abuse. They will be slandered, gaslighted, projected upon, and intimidated. They know that few will rise to their defense, because after all, they are the ones “politicizing the tragedy.” Even if they say nothing at all, the mere fact of their victimhood is an implicit reproach to American gun culture, which renders them suspicious until they prove otherwise. After Sandy Hook, families of mass shooting victims are increasingly expected to actively abet the fiction that their loved ones died of something incomprehensible, instead of just another angry man with a gun.
The rest of us have apparently largely accepted the emotional disenfranchisement of mass shooting survivors and their families as a natural feature of our political discourse. The results of the post-Sandy Hook campaign of intimidation are visible in the muted reactions to the ever-more spectacular acts of gun violence that have taken place in the years since. In the wake of the October Las Vegas shooting that left 58 people dead, media bully and abuser Alex Jones gets high-profile TV treatments, even as he insists that it—like Sandy Hook—was "as phony as Obama's birth certificate." Meanwhile, one pro-gun control commentator helplessly concludes that the gun debate has become so toxic that it's pointless to discuss it further.
But denying the voices of mass shooting victims and their families because you don’t think their words are politically productive is cowardice. Failing to confront people like Alex Jones because you are afraid of conflict with them only serves to sanction their emotional disenfranchisement of the already-bereaved. We have allowed these people to marginalize an increasingly common manner of death in America because it might infringe on their hobby. We have surrendered the terms of our public discourse to the vilest among us.
As long as American children continue to be killed by guns, their families will seek to spare others from similar pain by trying to stem the spread of deadly weapons. To trample on this humane impulse, as the Sandy Hook hoaxers have done, is cruel and depraved. Even if you don't believe in gun control, stand up for the right of the victims of gun violence to disagree with you. Stand up for their right to mourn.
Among its other ruinous effects, Graham-Cassidy would turn Medicaid into a slush fund for state governments. We know this because it's happened before.
The Graham-Cassidy bill is the Republicans’ latest effort to “repeal” Obamacare. Named for its two Republican Senate sponsors, the bill doesn’t just end the exchanges, subsidies and mandate that make the ACA work. It bundles all federal expenditures for both Obamacare and Medicaid into block grants, and disburses that money to state governments to use basically as they see fit. It will let states waive the ACA provision that prohibits insurers from gouging people with preexisting conditions, or selling junk plans that don’t cover basic and essential services.
As it currently exists, Medicaid is administered through state governments. But it relies on guaranteed federal funding, which adjusts as need levels rise and fall in individual states. Block grants would instead disburse federal Medicaid funding according to a preset allotment formula. That formula purposely underfunds Medicaid so that it does not keep pace with inflation over time. Eventually, the entire program will collapse.
And that’s the point. Put aside all of the insultingly disingenuous rhetoric from Republicans about states being in a better position to administer healthcare for their citizens. They want to murder Obamacare and Medicaid. They always have. Block grants are just the means by which they intend to do it.
But in the near term, the Graham-Cassidy bill—if it passes—will send a large chunk of grant money to the states. Beginning in 2021, much of it will be redistributed to states that refused to accept additional federal funding to expand Medicaid for their citizens in 2015. One of the biggest beneficiaries of this redistribution will be Texas, whose governor made much fanfare of his decision to reject expanded Medicaid funding for low-income Texans two years ago.
There are a lot of great pieces explaining why Graham-Cassidy is such a terrible policy proposal on the merits. Senate Republicans themselves can’t articulate a single compelling reason to pass it, aside from the fact that it gets rid of Obamacare and placates their donors. They know that their bill will kill people if it becomes law, and they’re probably aware that it makes universal health care more likely in the long term. But abstractions like "other people" and "the future" have never given these folks much pause.
Hopefully, this bill will go the way of previous repeal attempts. But let’s just imagine for a moment what the next five years will look like if Graham-Cassidy actually passes. Specifically, let’s imagine what it will look like in Texas, where I happen to live. If Graham-Cassidy passes, my state will receive a significant (if temporary) windfall with almost no strings attached.
Texas, whose legislature only meets every other year, and routinely fudges numbers with reckless abandon in order to pass its budgets. Texas, whose Senate passes the most transcendently reactionary bills in the country, and whose House membership includes this jackass. A state run by people so hostile to the very idea of public health assistance that they’ve already turned down billions of free federal dollars for exactly that purpose.
If Graham-Cassidy passes, these are the people who will decide what happens to Medicaid in Texas. These are the people who will control the money that currently sustains Texas’ dwindling number of rural hospitals, and provides health coverage to hundreds of thousands of poor children, parents, pregnant women, seniors, and people with disabilities. These are the people who are supposed to craft health care solutions that keep people insured, and prevent insurers and hospitals from ripping people off. They are the people whom Graham-Cassidy entrusts with keeping vulnerable Texans from dying for no good reason.
The best way to predict how that would turn out is to look at how Texas has (mis)used block grants in the past. The Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF) block grant program replaced the Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC) program as part of a major welfare reform effort in 1996. (Seriously, thanks again, Bill.) TANF block grants were supposed to be used by individual states to support poor families with children as parents looked for work.
But that’s not what Texas used its TANF money for. In fact, Texas ranks dead last among states for the share of TANF funds it spends on “core” program activities. According to the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities:
In 2015, for every 100 poor families with children in Texas, only 5 received TANF cash assistance, down from 24 in 2001. During that time, Texas slashed its spending on basic assistance and eliminated spending on child care, even as the number of families with children below 50 percent of the poverty line increased.
What did Texas do with the TANF block grants instead? It plugged budget holes, and redirected TANF money to unrelated state programs, such as its failing child protective services. In other words, Texas used its TANF grant money as a slush fund. As a result, the number of families with poor children in Texas has risen substantially over the past ten years, while the cash assistance caseload has dropped by almost half.
Past is prologue, and anyone who thinks that the Texas state government will do even an adequate job of administering federal Medicaid dollars is crazy or lying. My state’s example gives the lie to the Republican canard that state governments are better positioned to “provide solutions” when it comes to healthcare. The fact that Texas will get more money out of Graham-Cassidy than any other state just adds bitter insult to terrible injury.
Or if you prefer use one of our linkware images? Click here