By Shawn McCreesh
The dynamics that drove President-elect Donald Trump to his latest triumph will be scrutinized endlessly. Many citizens awoke on Wednesday astonished by his ability to secure another win. However, one thing is indisputable: Trump proved to be a remarkably adept campaigner.
Watching him closely on this third presidential bid offered a glimpse into his unique blend of humor, rage, hope, despair, and skepticism. He was a master communicator, transforming legal and existential threats into fuel for his self-crafted narrative. He attracted new followers while captivating his established base.
During numerous gatherings, I observed him connect with a diverse array of individuals across various locations. Suburban mothers in D.C., service members in Detroit, evangelicals in South Florida, Bitcoin enthusiasts in Nashville, college football fans in Alabama, firefighters in lower Manhattan. At events in Charlotte, North Carolina, Atlanta, Bozeman, Montana, Virginia Beach, Virginia, the Bronx, and beyond, I engaged in endless dialogues with folks who were quick to dismiss or justify any controversies surrounding him. People projected onto him what they wished to see and felt a sense of familiarity, believing he understood them just as well.
“He gets us,” a farmer from Smithton, Pennsylvania, shared with me on a September afternoon. It was a bewildering remark, yet one I frequently encountered in the most unexpected places. How could someone raised in privilege grasp the reality of this woman’s life? “He just knows where we’re coming from,” she remarked with a shrug.
We were within a barn at the time. Trump sat a few yards away at a large wooden table, surrounded by hay bales and a John Deere tractor. He led a dialogue centered on seed prices, fertilizers, shale, and animal feed. Farmers nodded as he highlighted the steep rise in costs due to inflation. “I feel very comfortable with the farmers,” he asserted. And they likewise felt at ease with him.
The bond many felt with Trump intensified following the assassination attempt in Butler, Pennsylvania, in July. Mark Zuckerberg, a Facebook co-founder, remarked that Trump’s resurgence and rallying cry of “Fight!” was “one of the most badass things” he had witnessed, a sentiment echoed by many. It was an intriguing turnaround: before this episode, Trump had only played the tough guy role on television, mingling with wrestlers and perfecting his Clint Eastwood glare. Now, he had undeniably shown toughness in front of the camera. People nationwide began to view him as a blend of Rambo and John Gotti. They shared memes and donned T-shirts featuring his mug shot or his bloodied visage. Americans are drawn to their antiheroes and action narratives. The campaign adopted this “badass” theme. When Trump revisited Butler in early October, military veterans parachuted into the rally as AC/DC thundered in the background.
Yet, beyond the merchandise and adrenaline-fueled spectacles, the shooting granted Trump an opportunity to connect with certain audiences on a deeper level. Prior to this incident, some religious followers had accepted Trump with reservations, viewing him as a flawed vessel at best. Now, some perceived divine intervention in his survival—how he had fortuitously turned away at the last moment, narrowly avoiding a bullet. A school bus driver in Butler expressed that she was now “1,000%” convinced that Trump was divinely chosen to defeat evil, and that his success was destined. This sentiment was reiterated frequently within the crowd. Trump leaned into this newfound perspective. His communication evolved. On social media, he shared images of St. Michael the Archangel fighting demons. He spoke about blood and made oddly religious gestures, like the time he bowed his head during the Republican convention to kiss the helmet of a fallen volunteer firefighter from Butler. Religious scholars and experts in Christian martyrdom conveyed their surprise at the sophisticated manners in which Trump was utilizing Christian symbolism. He had certainly evolved from simply posting “HAPPY GOOD FRIDAY TO ALL!” in 2020 and referring to “Two Corinthians” several years prior.
Trump’s ‘hateful’ tendencies
In July, Trump participated in a religious conference at the same venue in West Palm Beach, Florida, where he delivered his victory speech on Tuesday night. Young evangelicals from across the nation gathered there. Several admitted they were not entirely excited about Trump becoming the Republican nominee. A young man from Minneapolis shared his struggle with reconciling the former president’s “hateful” behavior.
Many felt similarly—individuals who wished he were different. Older voters at a Wisconsin rally expressed their discomfort when Trump mocked President Joe Biden’s age and frailty. Suburban mothers in Washington reacted negatively to Trump’s sexist remarks about Vice President Kamala Harris (one even labeled his posts “tacky”). Nevertheless, the majority appeared more focused on what they believed he could accomplish for them, rather than concerned about the offensive nature of his statements. Many supported him despite his “hateful” and “tacky” comments, rather than because of them.
However, hatred and fear wield significant influence, and Trump’s fear-mongering techniques escalated during this campaign. By the end, he was deploying artificial intelligence-generated imagery of brown-skinned individuals marching on hospitals and threatening women. His communication became so dehumanizing that actual people were barely depicted. Some of his supporters deemed this approach excessively “provocative,” as one young woman remarked to me in Atlanta in October.
Fear, however, kept many engaged. In July, at a dilapidated arena in Charlotte, I turned my chair away from Trump and the stage, observing the crowd as his rhetoric enveloped them. Expressions shifted as Trump started shouting about “child rapists” and “bloodthirsty predators.” No one was distracted or engrossed in their phones when he detailed the alleged horrors confronted by young women at the hands of migrants.
And yet, despite all the dark rhetoric, a sense of optimism persisted for those willing to embrace it. In the Bronx, in May, residents from the poorest congressional district in the U.S. found motivation in his recounting of personal successes, believing him when he expressed a desire for some of that prosperity to extend to them as well.
“Consider the future, not the past, but learn from the past,” he advised them. “Anywhere I go, I know that if I can build a skyscraper in Manhattan, I can achieve anything.” Hispanic and Black attendees cheered when he declared, “It doesn’t matter whether you’re Black, brown, or white, or any color at all—what matters is we are all Americans, and we will unite as Americans. We all seek better opportunities.”
How can this viewpoint be aligned with his later racist comments made at Madison Square Garden? Many speculated that this event would undermine his support from Black and Hispanic voters. In reality, he garnered larger numbers than ever before across the city. The shift to the right was particularly significant in Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx.
