Imagine a white, working-class American, most likely a man, from Louisiana or Alabama, perhaps, standing in a long line that represents his life’s journey. The man has been sold the American “bootstrap myth”, which states that his great country is a place where anyone can rise from the humblest of origins to become a billionaire or a president, and at the end of the line he expects to find a little part of that dividend for himself. But things aren’t panning out as he had hoped. For a start, the line stretches to the horizon, and even as he stands in it, he suffers: his pay packet is shrinking, the industry he works in is moving overseas, and the cost of everything from food to gas to healthcare is through the roof. Worse still, he can see people cutting into the line ahead, beneficiaries of “affirmative action” – black people, women, immigrants. He doesn’t think he’s racist or misogynist, but that’s what they call him when he objects. He is doubly shamed: privately, by his failure to live up to the myth; publicly, by liberal society.
This is the so-called deep story of the American right. We don’t have to accept the man’s worldview, just believe that this might be how he perceives it.
Now a new figure enters the scenario, an orange-haired tycoon: we’ll call him Donald. Donald seems instinctively to understand the man’s shame. In fact, he’s a shame expert. He has a long history of transgression, and people have been trying to shame him for much of his life. But Donald has found a way around it: he has become shame-less. He demonstrates his shamelessness almost daily by producing a stream of shameful remarks – about Mexicans, say, or Muslims, or the sitting president, who happens to be black. Although people shout “Shame!” at him, each condemnation inflates Donald a little more in the eyes of his tribe, including the man in the line, who holds him up as a sort of shame messiah. By refusing his own shame, Donald absolves them, too.
This, more or less, is the analysis of Trumpism offered by David Keen in his fascinating, occasionally frustrating book. We are living through a sort of shame golden age, Keen observes, with the words “shame” and “shameless” in greater vogue than at any time since the mid-19th century. We have developed a “habit of instant condemnation”, which is “choking off curiosity and narrowing the space for understanding of others”. It is also having a terrible effect on our politics.
It’s not hard to see where our shame culture originates. Every keyboard jockey now holds the power of a witch-finder general, while the phones in our pockets vibrate with the merry-go-round of digital finger-pointing, body-shaming and moral high-handedness that constitutes much of social media. Of course, shame isn’t always a negative thing – what would #MeToo or #BLM be without it? But too often the effect of shaming is to drive the shamed into an angrier, more shameless place. Oddly, despite the huge seam of public shaming that Twitter/X, Instagram and Facebook provide daily, Keen doesn’t spend any time on them. Instead, he draws on his expertise as professor of conflict studies at the London School of Economics to embark on a series of case studies, including the Holocaust, the civil war in Sierra Leone, the Brexit vote and Trump’s election.
His analysis of the violence in Sierra Leone is compelling, his chapter on the Nazis less so, but it is Trumpism that lies at the heart of the book, and his arguments here are highly plausible. Might a shame analysis even explain the great paradox of modern politics, in which one individual can be mobbed for the slightest indiscretion, while another can brag, as Trump once did, that he could shoot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue and not lose a vote? Does the shame/shameless diptych explain not only Trump, but the whole crew of latter-day demagogues, from Johnson to Modi, Meloni to Bolsanaro, and now Javier Milei in Argentina?
I think it could, but I’m not wholly convinced, absent a deeper dive into the driving mechanism of modern shame: technology.
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Source: US Politics - theguardian.com
