There’s often a difference between what people tell you are their biggest concerns at the Republican National Convention – the economy, the border and the gnawing feeling that good, ordinary people have been forgotten – and where their emotional energy lives.
On Monday, one of the procedural tasks before the circus really got under way was the adoption of the Republican platform. Watching Tennessee Senator Marsha Blackburn rhyme off the broad planks on the packed Milwaukee convention floor was a real-time applause meter.
Securing the border, getting inflation under control, restoring energy dominance and boosting military strength all got polite applause that landed somewhere around a five out of 10. “Protecting our Second Amendment rights” clocked a solid eight. But it was when Ms. Blackburn bellowed “keeping boys out of girls sports” and “protecting life for the born and unborn” that she buried the needle.
Senator Marsha Blackburn speaks during Day 1 of the Republican National Convention at the Fiserv Forum in Milwaukee, Wis., on July 15.Mike Segar/Reuters
There’s also a strange temporal quality to the laments at the convention, which will continue until Thursday evening, when Donald Trump is expected to formally accept the party’s nomination for president.
People constantly contrast the bucolic days of the first Trump administration – when you couldn’t walk down the street without someone just handing you a great job, when gas was cheap as water and when water tasted better than it does now – with what they see as the current Biden-Harris hellscape.
“The Democrats say instead of owning a home, you’ll rent a 400-square-foot studio apartment. Instead of owning a car, you’ll rent a scooter using some app,” said Charlie Kirk, founder of campus conservative powerhouse Turning Point USA, from the convention stage.
“Their vision is this: limit your dreams. Give up. Aim lower. Be content with less.”
Republican presidential candidate and former U.S. president Donald Trump points at the crowd with Ohio Senator and Republican vice-presidential candidate J.D. Vance, and Rep. Tom Emmer, R-MN., during the Republican National Convention on July 16.Paul Sancya/The Associated Press
Mr. Trump’s supposedly halcyon first presidential term ended 42 months ago, and even the most industriously terrible leader could drive the nation only so far into the ditch in that time. But that’s beside the point.
There is this figure who pops up over and over in conversations and imagery at the convention. He’s benevolent, humble, restrained, kind, self-sacrificing and always concerned for the lesser people around him. In photos, he always looks to be in dignified repose rather than perpetual motion.
I’ve come to think of him as Papa Trump. Because he looks like Donald Trump, and he appears doing things Donald Trump has done, but he is otherwise unrecognizable to non-Republican eyes. This Papa Trump seems to fulfill simultaneously the role of a father and Santa Claus, a bringer of wonderful things who wants nothing in return except your happiness.
Tuesday’s theme was “Making America safe again,” and the evening program opened with whatever is the terrifying opposite of a sizzle reel: a pounding drumbeat over video clips of horrifying crimes allegedly committed by border crossers, tales of fentanyl pouring into the country and statistics about how many people no longer feel safe in their own neighbourhoods.
The video finished with a spotlight arcing through a night sky to project an urgent help signal on the clouds: “TRUMP.”
One answer to why Papa Trump and the bat signal exist was on the vast concourse in front of the arena on Tuesday afternoon. Mr. Kirk was there broadcasting his show live. His guest was House Representative Cory Mills of Florida.
The two of them cheerfully lobbed deep-fried conspiracies back and forth about Saturday’s attempt to assassinate Mr. Trump at a Pennsylvania rally – maybe it was “DEI morons” who’d screwed up, maybe the law enforcement officials on the scene were suspect – before sagely agreeing that what they really wanted was to put to rest any notion that some dark scheme was at work.
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Not far away, a little while later, alternate delegate Don Pollock and his wife, Carmen, from Galveston County, Tex., were wandering the concourse in search of a bathroom. The two big problems they want addressed are the economy and the border.
But that is far from all that worries them. They feel like elites have built a world that benefits only them and leaves everyone else screwed over – it’s something Mr. Pollock’s father warned him about 50 years ago, and now it’s right out in the open, they said.
They don’t think of Mr. Trump as an elite because he made his own money – with a boost from his dad, Ms. Pollock allows – and because money isn’t really the point: “Elite is when you think you’re better than everybody else,” Mr. Pollock said.
When they heard about the shooting in Pennsylvania, well, Ms. Pollock doesn’t want to say what her first thought was. Then, with a nudge, she does, laughing a little: “Hillary is at it again. Which is not a very nice thought.”
Since all the government workers tend to be Democrats, Mr. Pollock said, he wasn’t sure he would want the Secret Service protecting him.
Ms. Pollock has her doubts about the FBI, too: “You do not know if they’re going to knock on your door. I mean, it’s that bad.”
But why? Why would the FBI bang down the door of some random citizens who hadn’t done anything wrong?
“First of all, I’m a Republican,” she said. “It looks like that’s enough.”
Republican presidential candidate, former U.S. president Donald Trump, waves to supporters on the second day of the Republican National Convention at the Fiserv Forum on July 16 in Milwaukee, Wis.Leon Neal/Getty Images
This was a common sentiment on the convention floor: First they came for my president, maybe next time it will be me. And Mr. Trump – or maybe it’s Papa Trump in that case – tells his followers exactly that, constantly.
Even in a giant convention hall full of other people who think like you, it must be so exhausting to think you’re one of a select group burdened with the knowledge of how bad it is. Threats around every corner, with the very people and entities who are supposed to provide protection or ferret out the bad things the most suspect of all.
And the thing is, they’re right. They’re all right, every last one of them who thinks they’re seen as a mark; that someone is telling them one thing and doing another; that some dark, greasy scheme has made them the unwitting prize tumbling out of the gumball machine.
They’re completely right about all of it. They’re just wrong about who’s doing it to them.