Thomas Crooks, Donald Trump, and the Banality of Gun Violence

Eleven of the last 12 American presidents have endured an assassination attempt or a plot against their lives. The same is true for 20 of the country’s 45.

Most of the recent plots have been foiled early, making the indelible image of Donald Trump fist-pumping in Pennsylvania seem like an atavistic monument or an ominous portent, or perhaps both. In the bedtime-story version of our national mythology, the country left behind the violence and disorder of the 1960s decades ago, for what turned out to be a wobbly but enduring peaceful equilibrium, one whose veneer began to crack only recently, with violent rhetoric rekindling over the last decade especially prominently on the right. But as David Dayen noted in The American Prospect the day after the shooting, in the 1970s Gerald Ford was shot at, and in the 1980s Ronald Reagan was actually shot; in both Bill Clinton and Barack Obama’s presidencies, shots were fired at the White House.

Not all of these attempts were serious, but if amateur marksmanship and a chance gust of wind are what spared Donald Trump’s life last Saturday, similar vicissitudes might have ended Ford’s or Reagan’s, as well, in which case we would all be telling very different stories about the last 50 years of American history. And though we may describe the stochastic terror of the last decade in terms of ugly bumper stickers and reckless speeches, there has been real violence, not just incitement. Gabrielle Giffords was in fact shot, and almost killed; Steve Scalise, too.

“America is staring into the abyss,” The Financial Times declared in the aftermath of Saturday’s shooting, but often we see chaos around the corner as a way of telling ourselves it hasn’t already arrived. “No political party, movement, ideology or manner of thinking has had an absolute monopoly on this violence, and it really hasn’t mattered whether the surrounding political atmosphere was aggressive or docile,” Dayen wrote. “In our messy reality, political violence exists as a background hum.” Already, it seems, the assassination attempt has faded from the news, having hardly made a mark on the shape of the presidential race or, beyond a few ear bandages worn in showy solidarity, on the Republican National Convention which almost immediately followed.

It’s not even clear whether it is right to call last weekend’s shooting an act of political violence. The attempted assassination produced only a brief flare of partisan meaning, though the motive was never clear. The gunman was a registered Republican and recognizably a conservative to classmates but not, it seems, an especially active or outraged political actor, and had not left much of a memorable ideological impression on those who knew him. He apparently donated $15 to a progressive organization in 2021, and as OSINT sleuths and self-deputized detectives argued about it over the weekend, it was striking to think how much meaning seemed to hang on a donation the size of a trip to Starbucks. When no obvious partisan explanation was immediately found, we simply moved on.

Perhaps a motive will become clearer in the days ahead. But for now, there is not much more to go on, and it seems likeliest that the would-be assassin remains a kind of cipher. Like the Las Vegas shooter Stephen Paddock before him, Thomas Crooks briefly tore a rupture in the fabric of American reality only to fill the space with a kind of silence, a mute biography and an unstated philosophy — a peculiarly American kind of terrorism in which the act of violence does not call attention to a cause greater than the shooter or generate a politically strategic backlash. Instead, it briefly elevates the profile of the man with the gun.