On Sunday afternoon, I stood for 3 hours in a block of Midtown Manhattan—thirty third Road, between sixth and seventh Avenues—surrounded by hundreds of Donald Trump supporters. Each half hour or so, the herd shuffled ahead 15 or 20 ft earlier than the police boundaries up forward closed once more. Every time we moved, a chant of “USA! USA!” broke out, solely to die as quickly as progress stopped. Madison Sq. Backyard, the place Trump and an all-star MAGA lineup have been on the invoice, stood in view the entire time, just a few hundred ft away. Snipers perched on high-rise rooftops, and a pair of drones hovered overhead. A buddy had purchased two tickets, however phrase reached us from the entrance that tickets weren’t being checked—they have been a ruse for the marketing campaign to snag fundraising emails. Because the solar drifted towards the Hudson River and the glowing fall day cooled off, the clock was outrunning us.
I’ve been in Trump crowds earlier than, however by no means in New York Metropolis. The familiarly scuzzy and desolate neighborhood round Penn Station was crammed with a political throng sporting an uncommon quantity of pink for a metropolis that clothes darkish. As a result of it was New York, there have been much more Black and brown folks, and much more Orthodox Jews, than you’d see at a Trump rally in Butler, Pennsylvania. An occupying power of unmistakable locals had taken over the road. My disorientation deepened all afternoon.
Nobody had greater than six inches of private area. To exit by means of the crush sideways and climb over metallic boundaries for a loo break or cup of espresso would take a significant effort of will. We have been caught. There was nothing to do however chat.
Subsequent to me stood a solemn-looking man in his 20s who held a tiny American flag in a single hand. He stated that he labored on the Metropolitan Museum of Artwork—a world-famous, progressively orthodox cultural establishment the place his politics made him a lonely dissident. One in every of about three? No, he stated—there have been secret comrades in warehousing. I requested if he thought the nation might come collectively after the election, regardless of the end result. His reply—that Trump had the help of an awesome majority of Individuals, greater than sufficient to wash up the mess, and that Democrats alone have been responsible of demonizing their opponents, as a result of Republicans have been simply saying what was true—gave the impression of a no.
An hour later and 100 ft farther alongside, I used to be standing beside Richard and Jason, Trinidad-born males in MAGA caps, who dwell close to me in Brooklyn. They supported Trump due to excessive costs—a dozen eggs for $6—and lack of worldwide respect; additionally, The Apprentice. Richard was sure that Trump would win in a landslide—would even take deep-blue New York Metropolis. (There’s a variety of secret Trump help in Flatbush, he confided.) Once I requested if he would settle for a end result that went in opposition to his candidate, Richard merely repeated: Trump in a landslide. I virtually believed him, as a result of the road had turn out to be an echo chamber—not the digital variety, however a bodily one—and I started to grasp the ability of crowds over the thoughts. Because the afternoon wore on, it turned more durable to carry on to the thought that each one these hundreds of individuals have been fallacious.
Round 3 o’clock—after two hours of standing, and no progress for at the very least 45 minutes—my decrease again throbbed. It was turning into clear that we’d by no means cross seventh Avenue and attain the promised land of Madison Sq. Backyard, and I started to think about a stampede. If this had been an strange Manhattan site visitors jam, the blare of automotive horns would have been deafening. However the crowd remained shockingly affected person and nice, making instantaneous buddies within the American means. Promoters for a neighborhood betting market tossed out pink T-shirts that gave Trump a 57 % likelihood to win, and Richard, Jason, and my different neighbors took up a cry of “Wager on Trump! Wager on Trump!” On the sidewalk, a near-perfect Kim Jong Un impersonator was barking, “No to democracy! Sure to autocracy! That’s why I help Donald J. Trump!” and everybody was laughing. Being fellow Individuals collectively, or New Yorkers, and even Yankee followers, wouldn’t have been sufficient to stop issues from getting ugly. At this time, the week earlier than Election Day, solely a political tribe—the Fellowship of Trump on thirty third Road—creates such solidarity.
Near 4 o’clock, we hadn’t moved in properly over an hour. With this motionlessness within the coronary heart of New York Metropolis, the gang congealed right into a single thought, and the thought turned actuality—it was as if Trump had one way or the other already received. Wedged between the lads from Flatbush and a metallic barricade, I used to be dwelling in Trump’s America. The grins and laughter, the cheerful outbreaks of chanting, the useful calls of “Chair coming by means of, wheelchair coming”—all these tokens of happiness relied on a mass delusion that had everybody in its grip. It was completely attainable for the unanimous perception of all these hundreds of individuals to be fallacious. And if I stayed right here any longer, I’d go below the spell too, like a misplaced climber who sits right down to relaxation within the snow for a couple of minutes and by no means will get up. I squeezed my means alongside the sidewalk till I discovered a gap within the barricades and slipped out.
So I, together with 10,000 or 20,000 others, missed the large present inside Madison Sq. Backyard. I missed the racist jokes and vulgar insults and profanity directed at Puerto Ricans and different Latinos; at Jews, Palestinians, girls, Kamala Harris, Hillary Clinton, and the half of Individuals who help Democrats. I missed the crude nativism, the conspiracy-theory mongering, the warnings of violence and revenge. I missed the grifters and the nepos, the opportunists and the fanatics, the heirs of Charles Lindbergh and Father Coughlin, the fascist wannabes who don’t fairly have the chops—the darkish mirror of the great will exterior. I missed seeing what the hateful extravaganza would have carried out to my neighbors within the crowd on thirty third Road. And I went dwelling questioning how a spell ever breaks.