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The Emotional Roots of Political Polarization
Some deeper introspection into how I got trolled.
At first I couldn't figure out what was so annoying about the article.
Maybe you saw it; for a few days this week it was the most-read post on The Atlantic's site: "Where I Live, No One Cares About COVID".
The author, Matthew Walther, lives in rural southwestern Michigan and usually writes for Catholic and conservative outlets. The gist of his article is summed up well by the title: In Walther's world, people already live as if the pandemic is over.
This was not news to me. This week my wife and I have been (very carefully) making our way down the East Coast to re-establish the decades-long Christmas-with-friends-who-now-live-in-Florida tradition that lapsed last year. We've seen the mostly unmasked travelers at the rest stops. (My college roommate and his wife caught Covid in 2020 after their own very careful road trip; they blame the rest stops.)
In North Carolina, we were the only diners who chose to sit on the restaurant's outdoor patio. A Florida lunch spot had only one outdoor table, which no one else wanted. In South Carolina, we bought the instant Covid tests that no CVS back in Massachusetts could keep in stock. When we asked about a limit on how many we could buy, the clerk looked at us strangely, as if we didn't understand that the whole point of retail is to sell as much as you can.
Believe me, the number of people living as if Covid isn't happening any more has not escaped my attention.
So why do I feel trolled by Walther's article? He isn't denying evident reality, as so many Covid minimizers do. He acknowledges that the virus is still spreading, and that hospitalizations are high, though they "are always high this time of year without attracting much notice". He backhandedly acknowledges the existence of variants, but claims not to be paying much attention.
COVID is invisible to me except when I am reading the news, in which case it strikes me with all the force of reports about distant coups in Myanmar.
He says (without much concern) that 136 people in his rural county have died of Covid, undermining the whole everybody-knows-everybody image urbanites have of the countryside. (He isn't saying "Aunt Josie died, but I never liked her anyway." 136 is just a number to him, like the "statistic" famously attributed to Stalin. I wonder how his Catholic sanctity-of-life sensibilities would react to hearing about 136 local abortions.)
His point isn't that none of this is happening, but rather that trying to avoid catching and spreading the virus yourself is too bothersome.
What I wish to convey is that the virus simply does not factor into my calculations or those of my neighbors, who have been forgoing masks, tests (unless work imposes them, in which case they are shrugged off as the usual BS from human resources), and other tangible markers of COVID-19's existence for months—perhaps even longer.
He reports that "from almost the very beginning" he has been attending weddings, taking vacations, and regularly going to indoor bars and restaurants unmasked. His kids belong to a homeschooling group, which they also attend unmasked. They regularly visit (and hug) their grandparents, and did even before vaccination was possible. And while Walther doesn't disparage the vaccines directly, "The CDC recommends that all adults get a booster shot; I do not know a single person who has received one."
Well, OK. The people he knows live differently than the people I know. That can't be what got me roiled.
It also isn't that his excellent arguments leave me without a coherent response. (We all know how annoying that can be.) Several quick retorts immediately pop to mind.
- 800,000 of our countrymen are dead. If we'd seen that many deaths in a war, most Americans would be ashamed to admit they had opted out of the war effort, as Walther and his community apparently have.
- Risk-takers often have long runs of good luck, but that doesn't prove that the risk isn't real. Back in the days before they became a personality cult, conservatives understood this.
- From the beginning of the pandemic, a steady stream of voices have scolded the rest of us for overreacting. And every few days, I hear about another one of those scolders dying.
So no, my annoyance isn't covering up my embarrassment at finding myself speechless in the face of Walther's unanswerable logic.
And yet, it was hard to let it go and move on. Why?
I had to do a careful second and third reading, watching my emotions closely, to figure it out: I've been reacting not to the content of Walther's article, but to his tone of personal animus. He doesn't just think that people like me are being foolish; fools are typically pitied. No, he harbors a deep resentment of us. What I can't shake is a sense of "What did I ever do to him?"
His resentment expresses itself from the early paragraphs, when Walther's wife responds to an article explaining how to have a Covid-safe Thanksgiving with an exasperated "These people." [His italics.]
What people? A few lines later he makes that clear:
the professional and managerial classes in a handful of major metropolitan areas
Nailed me there, didn't he? I have a graduate degree and live just beyond Boston's Route 128 beltway. Outside my insulated world, he writes, "Americans are leading their lives as if COVID is over."
So it isn't just that the people I know are living differently than the people he knows. Walther's people are "Americans", while mine are an elite class isolated in our privileged enclaves.
This conservative culture-war version of the Marxist class struggle appears to be a regular part of Walther's shtick, also demonstrated here and here.
Never mind the CNN poll released this week showing that a majority of Americans report "still taking extra precautions in your everyday life". That's just data, and what's data compared to the deep intuition of a salt-of-the-Earth, real American literary-magazine editor like Walther?
I wager that I am now closer to most of my fellow Americans than the people, almost absurdly overrepresented in media and elite institutions, who are still genuinely concerned about this virus. And in some senses my situation has always been more in line with the typical American's pandemic experience than that of someone in New York or Washington, D.C., or Los Angeles.
Put aside for a moment that the people being "absurdly overrepresented in the media" are primarily doctors, epidemiologists, and other people who know what they're talking about. Even ignoring expertise, Walther is strongly implying that there is something illegitimate about the views of people who live in or near a city. (More than one American in seven lives in the three metro areas Walther calls out. Adding in the similarly elite Chicago, Philadelphia, Boston, and San Francisco metro areas gets you up to one in four. That's a lot of illegitimate opinions.) No urbanite (or even suburbanite like me) can possibly be a "typical American". We city folk who lower our masks to let acquaintances recognize us when we pass on the sidewalk are "like Edwardian gentlemen doffing their top hats".
I can see how that kind of lordly behavior might set off a mere peasant like this contributing editor of American Conservative, who is so underrepresented in the media that I am reading his words in The Atlantic.
But you know the worst thing about people like me? It's not what we've done or are doing, but what Walther is sure we will do.
I am afraid that the future, at least in major metropolitan areas, is one in which sooner or later elites will acknowledge their folly while continuing to impose it on others.
Because people like me are like that. No doubt the next time I drive down the coast, I'll grab the last seat at the bar and insist that some working-class shlub sit out on the patio where it's safer. Because by then I'll have realized the folly of trying to avoid a disease that has killed more of my fellow citizens than World War II, but I'll impose restrictions on the subordinate classes just to lord it over them.
And while I can't remember ever having done anything like that before, it's inevitable that I will. Because Walther really has my number.
That's the kind of argument I have no answer for. It just leaves me wondering what I ever did to him.
It's tempting to leave the topic there, but I think there's a deeper lesson to be drawn. What makes culture-war arguments so frustrating generally is that they typically aren't rooted in facts and logic, but in resentment. Fact-checking has proven to be impotent against Trumpism, for example, and right-wing cultists are never convinced when the absurdity of their logic is pointed out. Because no matter what is true or makes sense, their emotional resentment — wherever it comes from — endures.
That's why culture warriors who have seen their arguments debunked will just shift to another one rather than change their conclusions. Do hand-recounts prove that Trump's landslide wasn't stolen by corrupted voting machines? Well then, it must have been stolen by fraudulent mail-in ballots, or by votes from dead people, or ballots smuggled in from China, or illegal alien votes, or something else.
And if you refute all that, chances are that the argument will circle back around to voting machines — Mike Lindell is still pushing that long-debunked lie — because the elite urban professional class (and their poorer dark-skinned minions) must have stolen the election somehow. There are too many "real Americans" for Trump to have lost, and if the ballots don't show that, it's because too many of them came from illegitimate places like Philadelphia or Detroit or Atlanta. How could Trump have lost, when all the White Catholics in rural southwestern Michigan voted for him?
Similarly, QAnoners aren't bothered when their predictions fail. And even if they were, they could jump to other conspiracy theories that support the same narrative motif: You are part of the red-pilled vanguard party, who are ordinary people's only hope against the powerful liberal cabal that manipulates the world. Your friends and relatives may not grasp the reality of the conspiracy yet, but someday they too will acknowledge their folly.
The Storm is one way to fantasize mass executions of know-it-all liberals like Dr. Fauci or uppity females like Hillary Clinton, but there are many others.
On Fox News, the lead story shifts from week to week, from critical race theory making White children ashamed of their heritage, to Biden wanting to raise your taxes or take your guns, to vaccine or mask mandates usurping your sacred freedom to die any way you want, to transwomen menacing your daughters in bathrooms, to the War on Christmas desecrating your most revered traditions.
Whatever the specifics might be this week, and whether any particular story is true or not, the drumbeat is always the same: Liberals want to take something away from you. That deep resentment you feel against them is justified, because at this very moment they are plotting to destroy your way of life.
So it doesn't matter whether any particular liberal plot checks out or not, because we must be hatching one. They know what we're like.
I have to confess that I don't know what to do about this.
As ridiculous as I find conservative attempts to liken themselves to Jews facing Nazi oppression, there is one particular way in which the current liberal situation resembles pre-Krystallnacht Judaism: When the details of particular plots are allowed to fluidly reshape themselves from day to day, and when you can be held responsible for misdeeds other people believe you are bound to commit, given the kind of person they are sure you must be, then it's nearly impossible to prove that you are not part of a conspiratorial elite.
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That's where we seem to be.
I am 100% certain that I am not conspiring to destroy the way of life of White Catholics in rural southwestern Michigan. But if some of them want to believe that I am, I have no idea what I can say or do to change their minds.
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