The masked fascist thugs who ludicrously call themselves “Antifa,” routinely attack public gatherings, and Left wingers sporting “Say No to Hate” t-shirts scream at the sky at the very thought of Trump and his policies. Not since the 1960s have we witnessed such a public breakdown in moral and psychological order.
But even back then, there was the fig leaf of “protest.” The students who assaulted the Democratic National Convention in 1968 could pretend they were protesting the Vietnam War, and the complicity of the Johnson Administration’s vice president, Hubert Humphrey, in it. The riots in major American cities in this period could be attributed to black Americans’ frustration over police practices, and their impatience with the slow pace of social change. And everybody still feigned a belief in America—imperfect, perhaps, but still capable of self-reflection and a determination to do better.
Today, not so much. Socialism is now openly a goal of the political Left, mostly mouthed by small children at the behest of their red-diaper baby grandparents. Calls for violent revolution are treated by the press as perfectly reasonable reactions to the 2016 election, and of course #TheResistance has only been emboldened by its media cheering section as it seeks to plant the notion, by means most foul, that they “wuz robbed” of an election they thought they had in the bag.
What besides a profound, educationally inculcated, and emotionally juvenile hatred for the United States motivates them to such paroxysms of hysteria? For the fastidious collaborationists known as the #NeverTrumpumpkins, they are personally offended by the president’s sometimes boorish behavior and have had their skirts ruffled by his flouting of what they consider to be the sacred rules, precepts, and preenciples of “The Conservative Movement.” In reality, however, most of them are simply returning to their roots as Democrats, their brief sojourn on the Right more an alliance of convenience than one of genuine principles.
On the broader Left, their rage, like that of Achilles, has to do with death—the death of the “dream” Ted Kennedy articulated when, his personal reverie of becoming president of the United States having come a cropper, he delivered himself of these lines: “For me, a few hours ago, this campaign came to an end. For all those whose cares have been our concern, the work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die.”
But the “dream”—a nightmare to most real Americans—is dying, and they know it.
It was a dream of statist control, run by experts in Washington, and brooking only token opposition from the Vichycons across the aisle. It was a dream of “fundamental transformation” of the most intimate and personal areas of our lives, including the very nature of sex. It was a New Luddite dream of zero carbon emissions, technological water-treading (except in pacifying personal electronics), and the destruction of national sovereignty.
The Obama Administration represented the high-water mark of the leftist floodtide, at least during this generation’s flood season. They thought that the eight years of misery America had already endured under the Punahou Kid’s malignant stewardship would be capped and cemented by the four-to-eight-year reign of the Dowager Empress of Chappaqua, after which the deplorable country formerly known as “America” would have no hope of recovery. And when it didn’t happen, when 63 million of their formerly fellow Americans rose up and stopped Hillary cold in the Electoral College, they lost their minds in an Achillean rage that continues to this moment and is, if anything, intensifying as it reaches its climactic breakdown.
When it comes to insanity and rage, I’m afraid we ain’t seen nothin’ yet.