Another good book about how the politics of resentment came to be what it is today is Nick Reding’s “Methland: The Death and Life of an American Small Town”. On the morning of November 2, 2004, millions of Democrats arose to a new order.
Smoke from neoconservative campfires hung over all points southward and westward.
They can’t really participate in a free society or make the kinds of choices that preserve and protect one. Basically, they’re embedded in a spider web of propaganda. So does Rush Limbaugh and other hate talk radio for their 8 hour shift at Rubbermaid and other deadening jobs. This is some of the most sophisticated brainwashing I’ve ever seen.
I’m convinced from this book that they can’t be convinced to change their minds about Trump, short of North Korea dropping a nuclear bomb on Alabama and other red states. The 20% of wealthier Republicans who control the town and who the poorer folks all want to emulate someday mix with the poor in bars, churches, and fraternal clubs. The fake news and propaganda is not done at re-education or concentration camps, where people would realize what was happening to them.
My part of Winchester, the North End, contains the most hard-core of the town’s working-class neighborhoods, where you are more likely to find the $20,000-a-year laborer and the $14,000-a-year fast-food worker.
I grew up here, my dad worked at a gas station here, and my mom worked at a since demolished textile mill whose rattling looms were the round-the-clock backdrop of our lives.
And you’re gonna do it for a working-man’s wage—for about ,000 a year if you’re a cashier, ,000 if you’re one of those team assemblers.
Yet this place from which and about which I am writing could be any of thousands of communities across the United States.
One thing the thinking left and urban liberals have not done is tread the soil of the Goth—subject themselves to the unwashed working-class America, to that churchgoing, hunting and fishing, Bud Light–drinking, provincial America.
To the people who cannot, and do not care to, locate Iraq or France on a map—assuming they even own an atlas. Here in my hometown, Winchester, Virginia, it is impossible to avoid the America that carried George W. Winchester is one of those southern places where the question of whether Stonewall Jackson had jock itch at the Battle of Chancellorsville still rages right alongside evolution, gun control, abortion, and whether Dale Earnhardt Jr. The area is solidly fundamentalist Christian and neoconservative, steeped in the gloomy ultra-Protestant assumption that man is an evil, worthless thing from birth and goes downhill from there.