gracchusdixit

In 1923, Adolph Hitler led an attempt to overthrow the  democratically elected government of Bavaria in what came to be called the “Beer Hall Putsch,” because it had been planned in one of the bierhallen for which Bavaria’s capital, Munich, is renowned.  When the putsch failed through the sheer incompetence of its planners, Hitler was arrested and sent to Landsberg Prison, where he spent his brief sentence writing the first volume of Mein Kampf—“My Struggle”—a book describing his world view and his political ambitions.  In this infamous and chilling work, Hitler did not seek to cloak his vision of an Aryan master race, his virulent anti-Semitism, or his vicious plans for the Jews, Slavs, and Gypsies of Europe.  Neither did he disguise his contempt for democratic and parliamentary institutions, which he intended to disrupt and destroy.  To give Hitler his due, he was utterly clear about what would happen if he ever gained power.

There were many at the time who dismissed the notion that Hitler’s words should be taken literally or that the man himself—with his clownish mustache, slicked-back hair, and melodramatic rhetoric—ought to be taken seriously.  The chance that such a man might succeed and actually implement his mad project seemed so unlikely, even preposterous.  Ten years later, when Hitler became Germany’s chancellor, and then its Führer, this incredulity proved to be tragically blind.  Hitler had been deadly serious.  He had meant every murderous word.

When I read Mein Kampf in my student days—and I remember it even now—it still cast its terrifying spell.  The year was 1966, and even though Hitler was long dead, the rise of Nazi Germany, the horror of the Holocaust, and the global cataclysm of the Second World War remained living memories.  My father was only in his 40s, had served in that war, and like many former soldiers, rarely cared to speak of it.  My older aunts and uncles, on the other hand, reminisced frequently about the rationing and the wartime work that finally ended the Great Depression, about Pearl Harbor and Normandy, about the boys in uniform who came home and those who did not.  Before meeting and marrying my father, my mother had dated another of those boys.  He disappeared somewhere in the Pacific.   Only once in her life could she bring herself to speak of it to me and then could barely get the words out.

Today, of course, such living and anguished memories are all but gone.  Hitler and the murderous philosophy he proclaimed in Mein Kampf are for most Americans mere historical artifacts, the relevance of which seems remote to those who did not live through the war, who did not experience its consequences first-hand.  This may be why it is difficult for so many Americans to see the parallels between then and now or to understand what is befalling our country.

In the dismal and tense weeks that elapsed between the election and inauguration of Donald Trump, there was endless hand-wringing among pundits and politicians about what had happened and why, about what this outcome might or might not portend.  The “I told you so” voices at both ends of the political spectrum castigated the news media and the Clinton campaign for taking Trump “literally but not seriously,” all the while they seemed to praise—or at least exonerate—his supporters for taking him “seriously but not literally.”

This inversion of opposing rhetorical phrases—which the ancient Greeks and Romans, who knew a thing or two about verbal tricks, called a “chiasmus”—was quickly embraced by Trump’s mouthpieces to distract and disinform.  Kellyanne Conway, inarguably the most duplicitous of Trump’s propagandists, chastised the media for judging Trump by what “comes out of his mouth” rather than “what’s in his heart,” as if she, the news media, or anyone else could possibly know what is in Donald Trump’s heart—assuming that he has a heart.

One thing at least is indisputable:  Trump’s critics and opponents did not take him seriously enough.  All the while they fretted and fumed about his offensive language, they did not give sufficient credence to the serious and dangerous possibility that he might actually be elected.  By fair means or foul, he is now ensconced in the White House, he and his gang are ruthlessly concentrating power in their own hands, and the country is already suffering the consequences.

It is no less indisputable that Trump’s supporters were mistaken to take him “seriously but not literally.”  During the campaign and after the election, many of them rationalized their candidate’s inflammatory rhetoric as mere political showmanship, just as they dismissed his vulgar and aggressive sexual boasting as “locker room banter.”  They clung to the belief that, once sworn into office, he would put aside his bullying promises and become more presidential.  He wouldn’t really impose a Muslim ban—that would be unconstitutional.  He couldn’t possibly deny health insurance to thirty million people—that would be shameful.  He wouldn’t actually build a ridiculous and unaffordable wall across the Mexican border, let alone arrest and deport millions of innocent immigrants who came here as children—that would be an act of deliberate cruelty.  He surely wouldn’t allow Republican ideologues to return the country to the dark ages of back-alley abortions, no matter what he may have said about “punishing the woman” during the campaign—that would be unthinkable.   Their hopeful plea was:  “Just give him a chance; let’s see what he does.”

In scarcely more than a week, the hopelessness of that plea has become abundantly plain.  We can now see Trump for what he is because of what he has already done.  The only consolation is that he didn’t waste time pretending or prevaricating.  He has quickly revealed himself to be precisely what he promised to be:  a demagogue, a racist, and a danger to the nation.

He must be taken literally and seriously.  And if we hope to save our democracy, he must be taken down.