The Ignorance of Our History Foretold Trump's Rise
Charlie is taking a well-deserved break this week. In his absence, we'll be remembering some of his greatest hits from throughout this election cycle. In the below, originally published in the May 2016 issue and online April 29, he reflects on the role that ignorance of our history has played in the rise of Donald Trump.
-The Editors
In Lenin's Tomb, his lucid account of the end of Soviet Russia, David Remnick uses as an epigraph a famous quote from Czech author Milan Kundera. "The struggle of man against power," Kundera wrote, "is the struggle of memory against forgetting." The philosophy was central to Remnick's contention throughout the book that one of the critical weaknesses of the Soviet state, and of all of its satellite governments in Eastern Europe, including Kundera's Czechoslovakia, was that it required its citizens to fight against their own memory, to unknow what they clearly knew. Sooner or later, the effort to forget and to unknow becomes too much of a burden for too many people and they force the collapse of the system. Humans are driven to remember. Humans can crack from the effort it takes to deny and to forget. The consequences can be therapeutic or they can be catastrophic, for people and for the political societies into which they organize themselves.
This is as true of liberal democracies as it is true of authoritarian states. In fact, the effects of forgetting can be worse in the former, because citizens of authoritarian states see the effects of forgetting and unknowing in every transaction in their daily lives. In liberal democracies, and especially in this one, there are so many distractions and so many options and so much media that the corrosive effects of the loss of the power of memory can elude anyone's notice until something important comes apart all at once.
Language and memory must work together not only to preserve the past but to illuminate the present and to build a future.
The 2016 presidential campaign-and the success of Donald Trump on the Republican side-has been a triumph of how easily memory can lose the struggle against forgetting and, therefore, how easily society can lose the struggle against power. There is so much that we have forgotten in this country. We've forgotten, over and over again, how easily we can be stampeded into action that is contrary to the national interest and to our own individual self-interest. We have forgotten McCarthy and Nixon. We have forgotten how easily we can be lied to. We have forgotten the U-2 incident and the Bay of Pigs and the sale of missiles to the mullahs. And along comes someone like Trump, and he tells us that forgetting is our actual power and that memory is the enemy.
The first decade of the twenty-first century gave us a great deal to forget. It began with an extended mess of a presidential election that ended with the unprecedented interference of a politicized Supreme Court. It was marked early on by an unthinkable attack on the American mainland. At this point, we forgot everything we already knew. We knew from our long involvement in the Middle East where the sources of the rage were. We forgot. We knew from Vietnam the perils of involving the country in a land war in Asia. We forgot. We knew from Nuremberg and from Tokyo what were war crimes and what were not. We forgot that we had virtually invented the concept of a war crime. We forgot. In all cases, we forgot because we chose to forget. We chose to believe that forgetting gave us real power and that memory made us weak. We even forgot how well we knew that was a lie.
Twenty-odd years ago, at the urging of a great editor, I wrote a long piece at another magazine about my family's experience with Alzheimer's disease, which eventually took my father and all of his siblings. It is a terrifying disease for a writer because it attacks those aspects of the individual that are so crucial to the act of writing-namely memory and language. Without memory, there can be no connection with the world, nothing salvaged or brought forward. Without language, memory is orphaned. Without both of them, history is mute.
That story, and the experience of writing it, has bled into parts of my work in a hundred different ways, but the main points remain the same. Language and memory must work together not only to preserve the past but to illuminate the present and to build a future. The disease robbed my father of both language and memory, and thus it robbed him of his past, his present, and his future. He spent his last years as a kind of vagabond, a stranger to himself, a permanent refugee in an unmoored life. I watch the presidential campaign this year, and I watch how the country has abandoned self-government and the idea of a political commonwealth, and I see a country that is voluntarily taking upon itself my father's disease. A vagabond country, making itself a stranger to itself, a permanent refugee country, unmoored from its history.
A country that remembers, a country with an empowered memory that acts as a check on the dangerous excesses of power itself, does not produce a Donald Trump. It was the very first Republican president who said the most memorable thing about memory, and its mystic chords, and how he hoped, one day, those chords once again would be touched by the better angels of our nature. That was Abraham Lincoln's First Inaugural Address. By the time he came to deliver his second, in which he appealed to the country to remember how it had torn itself apart, six hundred thousand Americans had slaughtered one another in a war that was only then beginning to come to an end:
Fondly do we hope-fervently do we pray-that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue, until all the wealth piled by the bond-man's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash, shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord, are true and righteous altogether."
Remember, this passage said to the people of a tattered and bleeding nation. Bind up the wounds. Take care of him who has borne the battle, and his widow and orphan, too. Achieve a just and lasting peace between yourselves and all nations. But first, remember how this misery came to pass. Remember what we are capable of doing to one another if we lose faith in every institution of self-government, especially those into which we are supposed to channel our passions to constructive purpose. Remember, Lincoln said in this speech, which was his last warning to the nation he'd preserved. Remember that we can be killers. Remember that, and you can be strong and powerful enough to not allow it to happen again.
The late historian Michael Kammen likened even the newest Americans to Fortinbras in Hamlet, who declares that he has "some rights of memory in this kingdom." Even the immigrants most lately arrived can, Kammen argued, "have an imaginative and meaningful relationship to the determinative aspects of American history." In the campaign now ongoing, we see successful candidates running against the very notion of what Kammen was talking about. When Trump chants his mantra-"Make America Great Again"-the rest of the slogan is unsaid but obvious. The implied conclusion is "…Before All of Them Wrecked It." And that is what has been selling, all year long, because while the struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting, there is no guarantee that either struggle will end in triumph.
Originally published in the May 2016 issue.
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