Worlds of Wonder, Days of Judgment

A post-election reckoning.

William Hogarth, Credulity, Superstition and Fanaticism, etching and engraving, 1792. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Sometime in 2010 I was in Bologna, having lunch with a group Italian artist friends. The discussion turned to politics, and, perhaps inevitably, to the then dominant figure of the Italian political landscape, Silvio Berlusconi, Italy’s longest-serving Prime Minister. By that time the figure of Berlusconi was well-known for his hard-right authoritarianism, his vulgarity and criminal behavior (which included extorsion, tax fraud, false accounting, money laundering and engaging with underage prostitution, among others). Yet when I asked the artists who they were going to vote for in the upcoming regional election, they all went uncomfortably quiet— later reluctantly, and somewhat embarrassedly, admitting that they would vote for his political party (Berlusconi’s coalition did well in those elections, which he took as a mandate for his agenda). Clearly they were willing to overlook Berlusconi’s personal failings and criminality because of the economic stability he promised.

I have always regarded Trump as a similar figure to Berlusconi (a hard-right, billionaire media mogul, a soap opera character made for tabloid consumption, a fascistic, operatic populist), and, more recently, particularly as we witness Trump’s return, as Juan Domingo Perón, the Argentinian populist leader who, after being ousted in 1955, returned to power at Trump’s exact age (78) in 1973. Perón’s brand of politics, which did not fall neatly into left or right-wing ideology, was nonetheless authoritarian, militaristic, and ultra-nationalist, all of which also are features of Trumpism. For those reasons, Trump’s political resilience has not felt as shocking to me as it may be to others.

But what last night’s election made very clear and make me profoundly concerned —aside from the unspeakable sadness and anxiety for what the future might bring— is not the question of who Trump is (which we know so well), but what his election says of the American electorate who has returned him to power, knowing full well this time who they are electing (most disheartening and shameful to me, to see that the majority of US Latino men voted for Trump, not realizing how they are voting against their own interests: fool us twice, shame on us).  When Trump won in 2016 the event was seen as a historical aberration, with the incessant refrain from the opposition, “that is no who we are”. But as he is elected again, with us knowing perfectly well who he is, this is no longer an accident:  turns out that this is also who we are.  So— who are we, exactly?

Last night as the returns were increasingly looking dire, I decided to go to sleep. I woke up with the news of the Trump victory. The first thing I saw that morning was a book that I happened to have by my bedside, Worlds of Wonder, Days of Judgment: Popular Religious Belief in Early New England, by David D. Hall.  Hall’s work is an examination of the effects of Puritan theology in the cultural imaginary of the North American colonists of the 17^th century,  a world where, as he describes “had not one but several meanings”, mostly comprised within the possibility (but not guarantee) of salvation and the fear of punishment (on the Day of Judgement) which in turn led to a myriad forms of superstition and belief in the supernatural (thus the “worlds of wonder”).

It is a cliché to think of the United States as a Puritanical society, yet many of the aspects of that historical legacy  (work ethic, notions of community, and more) often ring true in helping us to understand the cultural characteristics of life in this country. The cult of Trumpism could be seen as a 21^st century version of that religious tradition, in  various respects, such as the fact that  it has given a cultural identity and sense of community to millions of people. Contrary to how it is perceived from the outside, and as it has been observed by several of those who have been part of it,  Trumpism from the inside is not only about hate as the one seen in rallies, but it is also some kind of joyful and fun celebration for those within the cult. At the same time, the cult has successfully sold a reading of nationalism that is predicated on the demonization and promise of total destruction of whoever does not conform to the beliefs or preferences of the leader: primarily,  those who support abortion and reproductive rights, LGBTQ rights, immigrant rights and racial equity. Project 2025 has outlined what the next few years will be like in this regard. What the majority of the American electorate has reified is its perception of Trump as some kind of Messiah. As David French said today in an interview, “we ignore the religious fervor around Donald Trump at our peril”.

What we now need to brace ourselves is to his promise of retribution and the use of the executive office to act on his grievances: Trump’s own witch hunt, now applied to his enemies.

This month the Peabody Essex Museum has an exhibition of the Salem Witch trials, the episode of Puritanical paranoia that took place in the 1690s and resulted in the burning at the stake of several women accused of witchcraft. It might also be worth revisiting Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, which he wrote in 1956 as an allegory of McCarthyism.  We are seemingly back to that Puritanical era where Trump as the abusive dad, just as Tucker Carlson disturbingly said in a speech, is coming to discipline the United States as a “bad little girl.” This is the Judgment Day version of authoritarianism, and something, in the realm of dystopian science fiction that resembles HG Wells’ The Island of Dr. Moreau, where a mad scientist, and self-regarded god, presides over the terrified “beast folk” of his own creation, who he completely controls physically and psychologically with the threat of sending them to The House of Pain (a torture chamber) should they disobey him.

So, as we look at ourselves in the mirror and need to accept what kind of society we have become. And the question now for us as cultural workers is what to do about it.

I think we all know the answer.  Our priority, and our moral obligation, must be to first defend and protect those who are most disenfranchised and are most vilified and in danger right now. We need to create sanctuaries.  And we must carry on with our work, on the trenches. But specifically, I think our main task is to snatch away the wielding of wonder as superstition and fear. You can’t make someone reason out their way out of religious fanaticism, but perhaps we can use art to turn submissive fears into autonomous imagination and the ability to visualize the possible. This is, to me, the new meaning of socially engaged cultural activism and our best contribution to building a better political future.