What it’s really like at a Trump rally
In this week’s Presidential Debate, Donald Trump couldn’t resist talking about his rallies and the number of people who attend. For ardent Democrat Jonathan Kronstadt, attendance at a Donald Trump rally earlier this year was a quest of understanding: just who are MAGA supporters? He found a disconnect – between their politeness and the violence of the slogans on their hats, shirts and capes.
When I was a kid, one eagerly anticipated annual event was going to the circus. Another was going to the New Jersey shore. Many years later, I took the chance to do both again.
How bad could it be: a seven-hour round road trip to Wildwood, New Jersey, spending the day surrounded by tens of thousands of Americans dedicated to handing over our beloved democracy to an authoritarian huckster and serial sex abuser? At least I’d be by the ocean, and it’s hard to have a bad day when you’re by the ocean.
Early on, I decided this should be a buddy movie, so I canvassed my contacts list for a suitable wingperson. This proved successful, both as invitation and sociological survey of an admittedly homogenous group of DC-area white liberals. About a third of the respondents were immediately concerned for my physical safety and mental health. Another half or so expressed their affection for me and distaste for the offer in unambiguous terms.
Invitations to Trump rallies appear to bring out the animal in some of my friends. Others offered solid excuses for not being able to join me. My younger sister, who claims she hasn’t slept through the night since Trump was elected in 2016, agreed to go with me if I couldn’t find anyone else, but fortunately I got a few truly enthusiastic yeses. The most sincere and logistically simple came from my good friend Nick, whose six-month stint in Wellington thanks to a 2005 Ian Axford Fellowship provided my first introduction to the wonders of New Zealand.
Declining the offer of a press credential was a no-brainer. First, because I wanted to mingle with the masses, and second, because the press is public enemy No 1 at these events, shunted into a gated pen where they endure taunts and threats from speakers and attendees.
The first key decision of rally day was wardrobe. I wasn’t going undercover, so no need to pre-order a MAGA hat or Let’s Go Brandon (conservative code for “Fuck Joe Biden”) T-shirt.
I figured red and blue were statement colours, so I opted for dark green pants and a light green hoodie I got in Tybee Island, Georgia, an obscure enough location that I couldn’t be instantly politically pegged. A generic baseball cap completed the outfit. My vehicle choice was between a 2023 Chevy Bolt EV and a 2016 Prius Prime. Given that I didn’t feel like dealing with finding a charging station, and the fact that Trump routinely rails against the evils of EVs, I decided to take the car that would get us there and back without stopping for fuel of any kind. One friend pressed me to borrow his pickup truck for cover, but I wasn’t giving up my devotion to small cars for a failed reality TV show host.
As the crow flies, Wildwood is only 193km from my house, but because you have to go around one bay and over the skinny end of another, the drive is 290km. I picked Nick up at 9am Saturday, realising we’d be among the later arrivals for the rally’s proposed 2pm start. Some Trump supporters had arrived as early as late Thursday afternoon and camped out on the beach to be among the first in line. Trump was scheduled to appear at 5pm. Traffic was surprisingly light, and we decided to park about a kilometre away from the rally’s entrance in case a clean getaway became advisable.
Wildwood is a beach town intentionally stuck in the 1950s, a nostalgia-fuelled playland with wide, white-sand beaches and a classic Jersey Shore boardwalk. It’s known as “two miles of smiles” for its dizzying array of arcades, amusement parks and culinary indulgences, from French fries and pizza to the regionally iconic soft chewy candy, the salt water taffy.