Bob Graboyes writes about what he calls “Trump-et blasts” – that is, gratuitous anti-Trump statements in emails on a wide variety of unrelated subjects:
My friend’s note was merely one car in an endless freight train of similar emails rolling and rumbling into my inbox each day. In them, one can discern empirical regularities. Trump-et Blasts are never offered as hypotheses, opinions, or topics for discussion. Rather, they are always stated as Euclidean postulates—self-evident Truths that we surely agree upon and which warrant no discussion. Recipients of Trump-et Blasts have five possible Supreme Court-like responses: affirm, ignore, concur, dissent, or defer.
I’ve noticed these Trump-et blasts more in conversation than in emails to me, probably because almost everyone I know is aware of my politics and doesn’t bother with the random snipes in emails. It’s in casual talking that it comes out, especially if I’m part of a group. In a group, even if people know I disagree, they’re not catering to me. And why should they, actually? Often, it’s a group bonding experience, a sharing of what is considered tautological and the mark of their agreed-on virtue. I’m grandfathered into the group, as it were.
And that is why – as Graboyes describes – the critique of Trump is not really up for discussion on the merits. It’s an article of faith, and/or a thesis they believe has been proved beyond a reasonable doubt or perhaps beyond any doubt.
I wrote on a similar topic back in January of 2005, when I was rather new to the blogging game. It’s called “The fine art of insulting half your audience,” and can be found here. An excerpt:
It happens nearly every time. I’ll be reading a short story, let’s say, enjoying myself, lost in the experience—when suddenly, there it is: the gratuitous and mean-spirited and out-of-context slap at Bush, or at those who support him. It’s not as though the story is even tangentially about politics, either; it can be about anything at all, it doesn’t really matter.
The Bush-dissing will be thrown in when you least expect it, just to let the reader know—well, to let the reader know what, exactly? To let the reader know that the author is hip, kindly, intelligent, moral—oh, just about everything a person ought to be. And that the reader must of course be a member of the club, too—not one of those Others, the warmongers, the selfish and stupid and demonized people who happen to have voted for Bush.
Back when I was one of the gang, too, back when I was in with the in crowd (“if it’s square, we ain’t there”), did I notice when authors dragged in their political credentials from left field? Or perhaps it wasn’t quite as commonplace back then for them to do so?
At any rate, now it seems positively obligatory. I’m reading along, sunk deep within the story, bonding with the characters—and then, suddenly, it’s as though the author has reached a hand out of the pages of the magazine (OK, I’ll confess, sometimes it’s the New Yorker—yes, I still read it for the fiction, just as some people claim they read Playboy for the interviews) and slapped me across the face.
Authors, do you really want to do this? Because, with a single sentence, you’ve managed to alienate and offend (not to mention insult) up to half your audience.
More at the link.
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
