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First, an admission: in the immediate wake of the shooting at the Trump rally, I watched the video of Donald Trump raising his fist and blurted, “Fuck.” A grudging admission that the man, even shoeless, is a consummate showman. That he knows, instinctively, how to galvanize a crowd. That his chutzpah is undeniable, and were he running this race in a Greek myth, he would never pause to pick up even a golden apple. Nothing shakes him; he is weirdly unstoppable. (Or am I making it so simply by thinking that?)
Is it not strange that so many of us, supporters and detractors alike, reached an instant conclusion of victory simply on the (implied) strength of a raised fist? It had to be the fist. Yes, I felt sorry and scared for him, vulnerable on that stage and any other, and surely changed in some way by the narrowness of his escape. But U.S. elections are not decided by sympathy votes. Quite the contrary: when a candidate is pitied, it is the kiss of death. Which may be what has happened with Biden, and the real reason people swiftly concluded, days before the RNC’s blaze of unity, that the race had already been won.
Still, it was the raised fist, its perfect iconography, that made me groan. In a time of chaos and fear, it was the perfect gesture. I yelled through the TV at Lester Holt for describing the fist as “triumphant”—because it was. Trump had the presence of mind to stay in character, find his shoes, and keep campaigning. He had the grit to refuse to cower. Do we call that manly or cocksure? For many, the definitions still overlap. And for those who miss the cowboy version of masculinity, a little pugilism is deeply reassuring. In their framework, acknowledging complexity is weak; responding with compassion is woke. A real man is one willing to duke it out.
Try to imagine Barack Obama, Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton, or either of the George Bushes making a clenched fist their symbol. You cannot. Yet the European version of this country started in that spirit. Defiant, determined, full of swagger and certainty. Now we are just confused—too much hesitation, too many gray areas, no confidence that we can master the overwhelmingly complicated challenges that face us.
And so, the fist.
Its use was more than a little ironic. Sure, neo-Nazis employ the gesture, but most often it has signaled solidarity among those who are marginalized or oppressed—words that make Trump’s supporters cringe. Commies have raised their fist, as have the dreaded Socialists, as have civil rights protesters in the sixties. At a Black Lives Matter demonstration, I knelt on one knee and raised my fist and felt a rush of righteous anger, warmed by solidarity, course through my body. The fist urges resistance, a defiance of authoritarian power.
Yet Trump craves authoritarian power.
He is brilliant, though, at helping his supporters feel marginalized. The identity politics on the right—shoring up white Christians who feel beleaguered—is somehow immune to the critique of identity politics on the left. “Fight, fight!” is what Trump’s supporters feel they must do, because their values are no longer the norm. A raised fist makes a promise: you will not give up.
Granted, Trump raises his fist so regularly, this was more of an echo than a momentous statement. There was a time when simply opening his Trump Taj Mahal casino was sufficient reason. Then he started campaigning and raised his fist as he threatened to sue the media. At his inauguration, he raised it again with full flourish. Hell, he raised it in a Christmas tweet as president elect. And he raised it again after being indicted, and again after being found guilty of thirty-four felonies. No doubt it meant something a little different each time. I have triumphed! I will vanquish you! I am not cowed!
This time, though, the gesture was so perfect, a friend lowered her voice to wonder if the shooting was set up to stage it. At last, our turn for conspiracy theories! We have endured Pizzagate, QAnon, cruel and ignorant denials of the Sandy Hook shootings and the Holocaust. Surely we can be allowed to wonder why the blood stopped at the ear and started again on the face; why a ballistics expert first thought the gun that nicked Trump’s ear was small and low-caliber…. This is a fun game.
Alas, we must remain rational, sticking with what we know to be true: terrible, tragic violence—of a sort that grows more and more prevalent—took and endangered precious lives. And in its wake, a certain type of power has been invoked.
There was a rough courage in Trump’s response, though I roll my eyes at the fist’s machismo, remembering those awkward after-school playground fights in grade school. “Fight, fight!” the other kids yelled. Seeing boys sprawled on the asphalt, I hated the need, tasted the metal of their spilled blood and wanted to throw up. Yet years later, punching the air over some harmless win, I felt the thrill of it. Use your fist to tear the sky, and your body tingles with power.
Sabre-toothed tigers are not so distant after all. We still feel fear and courage in our bodies, and we still resonate with a physical fight, no matter how abstract the debate. We might loathe gladiatorial politics, but we nod like a Roman emperor when we see the clear winner.
Though a fist’s meaning changes with context, the electrical charge remains. It suggests the strength many of us want to find in Joe Biden but can only be sure of in retrospect. His future is unsure, while Trump’s fist reads (right or wrong) like a guarantee. After watching President Biden with my heart in my throat, scared he will stumble as he walks, willing his sentences to make sense, relieved when his volume is audible and he sounds convincing…I understand the appeal of vigor.
What I do not understand is forgiving a vigor that coexists with cruelty, willful ignorance, flat-out lies, and a raw hunger for power. Is the symbol so strong, it excuses all lack? Are we so relieved to be led by someone with guts and determination that we will continue to forgive a crude, bombastic, childish narcissism indifferent to ethics and enamored of ruthless dictators? Deep down, I must think so, and so must a lot of us, or we would not have been so dismayed by the fist. Our guy is weaker than their guy. By all the wrong measures, but so what.
What prompted humans toward fisticuffs in the first place? Why not just slap one another? Because a clenched fist concentrates force into a smaller area. It is more rigid than an open palm, and that rigidity gives its blows more momentum. The power of impact penetrates deeper into the target. It is easier, with a fist, to knock someone senseless. They cannot think their way back.
As a gesture, a closed fist is valiant. As a campaign strategy, it is deadly.
Read more by Jeannette Cooperman here.
