English Dictionary
Early in Donald Trump’s run for the world’s most powerful office, an unusual dispute swirled around the word normal. To his supporters, normal meant bland, phony, corrupt. “He’s the grizzly bear in the room,” declared Newt Gingrich gleefully. “He’s not normal”—meaning he’s exciting, authentic, the real deal.1 From the opposing camp, Hillary Clinton, warning against extremist political behavior, vowed, “My campaign is not going to let Donald Trump try to normalize himself.”2
Trump knew exactly what he was doing. He was bending the process to his will, separating himself from the other aspirants for the nomination, cowing the Republican establishment, breaking rules to his advantage, and beating the odds.
The 2016 election was the most surprising upset since Truman beat Dewey in 1948. Only a few Cassandras had taken Trump seriously. After the New Hampshire primary, the first of a long stretch of the unlikely insurgent’s victories, Eliot Cohen, a professor of political science and veteran of past Republican administrations, published an essay titled “The Age of Trump.”3
“How on earth,” Cohen begins, “did this happen?” Conservative analysts, he notes, have offered some explanations—economic stagnation, “shifting class structure,” “existential anxiety about … a robot-driven economy,” and “liberal overreach in social policy.” They have also acknowledged “Trump’s formidable political skills, including a visceral instinct for detecting and exploiting vulnerability that has been the hallmark of many an authoritarian ruler. These insights are all to the point, but they do not capture one key element. Moral rot. Politicians have, since ancient Greece, lied, pandered, and whored. They have taken bribes, connived, and perjured themselves. But in recent times—in the United States, at any rate—there has never been any politician quite as openly debased and debauched as Donald Trump.”4
After Trump laid waste to the field of competitors and clinched the Republican nomination, Jonathan Freedland, a British journalist writing in The Guardian, positioned the Trump juggernaut within a global contagion of populism and nativism: “This rage at the system—the fuming insistence that democracy is failing to deliver for the people it’s meant to serve, that the system that bears its name is no longer truly democratic—powers not just Trump but many of the populist movements now making waves around the world.”5
Freedland’s headline, “Welcome to the Age of Trump,” echoed Cohen’s. By election day, the expression had long since gone viral.6 For decades the flamboyant real estate mogul had emblazoned his name on tall buildings around the world. Now his brand personalized a global era. Classifying distinct periods of the American saga with presidents’ names has been a custom among biographers to honor presidents who were in their graves.7 Trump, nearly a year before he was inaugurated, had the pleasure of seeing his name celebrated for years and possibly decades to come.
Never mind that the phrase Age of Trump was meant to imply dark and dangerous times ahead. His detractors who coined it would have to live with his apotheosis and their gloom.
Trump denigrates the intellectual elites while proclaiming that he is one of them—only smarter. He has often bragged of being “a sort of genius.” At a campaign rally, Trump rhapsodized on his brilliant career by declaring, “I went to an Ivy League school! I’m very highly educated. I know words. I have the best words.”8
For nearly half his life, Trump had flirted with mounting a crusade to the White House. The Great Recession at the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century presented him with a long shot. Radical conservatives blamed the troubled economy on a bloated and corrupt American government that had neglected a largely white middle class while coddling other ethnic communities. The result was a movement that skewed the Republican Party’s center of gravity toward the far right, energizing populists and nativists. The leaders dubbed their crusade the Tea Party, a travesty in itself. The original Tea Party, in 1773, was a seminal event uniting what would be an independent American republic; its sham namesake incited the opposite.9
It took two presidential election cycles for the movement to gain control. In 2008 and 2012, the GOP nominated moderate, experienced, reputable candidates, John McCain and Mitt Romney, respectively. Yet Barack Obama—a new face but a candidate with venerable virtues—was able to defeat both challengers.
In 2016 Hillary Clinton’s campaign sailed into a perfect storm while Trump had the wind at his back, aided by the most unlikely couple: the president of Russia (who knew exactly what he was doing) and the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (who apparently did not).
Much to the dismay of political veterans, Trump’s instincts and tactics served him well. Conventional wisdom held that he was his own worst enemy. In fact, he was appealing to a critical mass of Americans who were frightened of the future, disillusioned with the present, nostalgic for the past, and disaffected with politics as usual. He gleefully broke rules of etiquette, separated himself from the other aspirants for the Republican nomination, and made it clear that he was going to remake the presidency in his own image: iconoclastic, boastful, self-reliant, pugnacious, and disruptive.
Trump was doubling down on a procedural paradox of American self-rule: a presidential election should be a dignified process, but in reality, it is politics as war by other means. The word campaign itself originated from the French for an army on the march in the seventeenth-century Wars of Religion. Modern times have added more martial jargon: attack ads, money bombs, battleground states, and—a new phrase and an ominous innovation—the weaponization of social media.
The ordeal of the political campaign has always left wounds on those citizens who voted for the loser. The winner has typically seen it in his own interest, as well as the nation’s, to restore civic peace.
Not Trump. His presidency has been an escalation of his campaign. Armed with the powers of office, he has given no quarter to his fellow citizens and public officials who oppose him.
In the days and weeks that followed his election, Trump presented himself as a tough, cocky new CEO, bent on a hostile takeover.10 He set his sights on his recent predecessors. And his attacks were personal. His animus toward Barack Obama was most obvious, but he also belittled George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George H. W. Bush, and Jimmy Carter for their “failures” of domestic policy and diplomacy.11
Trump’s habit of blanket disparagement goes further back than recent presidents. He spurned the role of the United States as master builder of the liberal international order left to him by twelve commanders in chief—six Republicans and six Democrats in the aftermath of World War II. In place of the American Century, Trump proclaimed a new stance and what he thought was a new catchphrase, America First.
At the Republican National Convention on July 21, 2016, Trump gave an interview to David Sanger and Maggie Haberman of the New York Times. When Sanger remarked that the go-it-alone policy sounded like Charles Lindbergh’s America First, Trump reacted as though he had never heard the phrase, then, on the spot, made it his own tagline. He seemed oblivious of the slogan’s disrepute. “To me,” Trump said, “America First is a brand-new modern term. I never related it to the past.”12 His ignorance of the motto’s implication of anti-Semitism and appeasement of dictators, if genuine, clearly displayed Trump’s combination of unabashed anti-historicism and ahistoricism.
The past, in Trump’s view, is not prologue; it is either irrelevant or enemy territory. His iconic predecessors are, for him, rivals to outshine. Less than two years into the job, he asserted, “Nobody’s ever done a better job than I’m doing as president.”13 That includes the founders. His jealousy
