In October, Trump announced he would hold a rally on the final Saturday of his campaign in Salem, Virginia. The decision to come to a small town in the foothills of the Appalachians made no strategic sense: if Trump comes even close to winning the state the election will have been a rout, and the fates of the local down-ballot Republicans already appeared sealed. But if Trump was looking for adoration, he could do no better than an appearance in the rural heart of the Confederacy. In the reporting I’ve done this year on the Civil War’s contested legacy, I found unwavering devotion to Confederate ancestors, to Jesus, and to Trump. So I went to see for myself what it meant to my neighbors to come face to face with the only member of that triumvirate likely to pay them a visit this year.
I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I started the day by falling for a Trump lie. The confirmation email instructed me to arrive by one to hear the four o’clock speech, so I did. As I walked up to the venue, it was immediately clear that my ticket had the value of a degree from Trump University. The line for entry had already filled a field, then another field, and was now switchbacking in the parking lot. There was no chance I would be getting inside the arena.
Which proved to be a stroke of good luck: outside was where at least two thirds of the people ended up, before the massive screen showing the proceedings inside. Vendors promising “Trumptastic deals” sold buttons, shirts, flags, cardboard cutouts of the big man. Others grilled meat and sold cold drinks. One popular man had connected a TV to a generator to show college football. Another had dressed up in a garbage can and was dancing around and telling jokes like a court jester. In another section people did their best imitations of Trump’s fist-pump dance. Everywhere I saw the slogan Stand for the flag, kneel for the cross.
People could not have been friendlier in the thick milling crowd. “Kamala seems so confident she must know something we don’t know,” a woman told a stranger, “but there’s no doubt in my mind Trump will get all the real votes.”
“Five dollars for bottled water!” another said with a laugh after a vendor walked by. “Doesn’t he know I’m here to vote for cheaper groceries?”
“Can you believe he just asked her if she feels safe here?” a man hissed as he eavesdropped on a TV interview. “Look around you!”
I understood what he meant. In some ways, the event seemed innocent. I had expected to see Confederate paraphernalia everywhere; it had been relegated to the parking lot. I had expected to hear the Big Lie cast in same terms people use for the Lost Cause (aggressor heralded as victim, nostalgia for halcyon days that never were, a belief that discord only comes from outsiders), but the speakers who talked in these terms went roundly ignored. The crowd was too busy having fun.
But it was this fun that was most unnerving. People said they were there to wrest back control of the country from people who had rigged an election in order to hurt children, abet violent criminals, and steer America away from God — so why did this rally still have the light-hearted, family-friendly feel of a state fair?
For a time, while Pitbull still played and people danced in the sun, it seemed just possible that the crowd was more devoted to having fun than to the political project for which they had all assembled. But the moment The Isaacs began their rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” the crowd hushed, tautened, and moved as one. For the first time in my life, I felt the power of that song, and that power was martial. When the song ended, the crowd relaxed back into fun, back into ignoring the speakers, until the preacher came onstage to lead a prayer. With the same unity, people leaned in, heads down, activity suspended until after the amen.
Watching the playful crowd move a second time into a united movement and back again, I knew I’d been naive. There is no tension between having a good time and Trump’s platform. Trump’s promise was clear: defeating your enemies will be even more fun than these rallies, and you can help me secure victory.
The rural South could not have been more primed for this message. At the Civil War reenactment I’d attended the month before, the reenactors had told me they were there to show what the war had really been like. Instead, they had made battle seem like a romp and a good place to bring your kids. Indeed, the event had a similar feel to the Trump rally, though the fake armies had moved with less discipline than this crowd.
For years the South had told itself it had been invaded, that the war had been honorable, that they could have fun while playing at war. The bill for that self-deception was coming due. Now that Trump had come to lead the region to a glorious restoration of what had been stolen, who remembered how to see the lie in the promise? Who knew how to see where the man wanted to lead them?
He was late to the Salem stage but evidently worth the wait. The first two times the crowd had unified were nothing compared to this show of devotion. People screamed and held their hands up to the screen, fingers splayed like they were in church. Everyone stood, even the woman in a wheelchair next to me. Couples hugged and kissed.
“January 20th will be liberation day,” Trump said. “We will not be invaded, we will not be occupied, we will not be overrun, we will not be conquered. We will fight, fight, fight, and we will win, win, win.”
The former president smiled and watched the South cheer, cheer, cheer.