The Face of American Fascism

Jaime O'Neill's picture

Sometimes I drive my wife nuts. We’ve been married a very long time, and I think driving one another crazy is on the list of marital job specs at this stage of wedded seniority. One of the many things she can’t understand is why I speed up whenever I see a beat-up car or pickup truck with a right wing slogan or emblem on it. What I’m doing, of course, is trying to satisfy an ongoing and frustrating curiosity about who these people are, this proliferation of not-rich people who seem so stupid. I want to know what they look like, and so I speed up when I see their slogans, hoping to pull alongside the driver at a stop sign to see if they fit a profile I can come to identify.

There’s no aggression in this act of mine. It is an impulse created by the deepest sort of puzzlement, kind of like the way a birdwatcher follows an unusual bird song in order to connect that avian voice with the bird that made the noise. And, like so many other people who have been puzzled about why so many strange “birds” have been drawn to the sounds of the right wing cuckoos, I have been trying to figure out just who these people are who are so obviously poor or working class, but p

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