Before Donald Trump ambled into Milwaukee’s Fiserv Forum as the official presidential nominee of the Republican Party, conventioneers could see him on an overhead screen as he waited backstage for his cue. A bit fitful in the bland hallway, he looked from side to side as his eyes searched for a place to rest. The dim lighting cast a subtle halo just above the head of a man who seems to have the luck of the gods.
Trump walked into the arena alone with hunched shoulders, a toothless smile and a large white bandage covering most of his injured right ear. He moved confidently but gracelessly as he raised his fist in a listless gesture of fight. A small army of Secret Service agents lined his pathway, and he made no move to engage with the men and women who held their mobile phones aloft to capture the moment.
Singer Lee Greenwood, in the flesh, was onstage talking about how “prayer works” in this “nation based on faith.” And then he began singing about how proud he is to be an American, which has become candidate Trump’s personal anthem. Trump grabbed hold of the railing and climbed the steps into his box where he was greeted by his two oldest sons, Eric and Donald Jr. He shook hands with the men in his row, which also included his newly announced running mate Sen. J.D. Vance (R-Ohio), as well as Rep. Byron Donalds (R-Fla.). Trump Jr.’s fiancée, Kimberly Guilfoyle, blew the former president a kiss and then made the sign of the cross.
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In his gait and demeanor, the former president, who’d survived an assassination attempt, looked decidedly human. This fact is something that his wife, Melania, underscored in a statement after the shooting. “The core facets of my husband’s life — his human side — were buried below the political machine,” it read. “I commend those of you who have reached out beyond the political divide — thank you for remembering that every single politician is a man or a woman with a loving family.” It was others at the convention, the speakers and fans, who attached something miraculous to him.
The speakers are playing their individual part in a convention that is unfolding with religious fervor. Theirs is not a narrative about fiery punishment but about the possibility of salvation from a near-death experience. They’re focused on resurrection and rebirth.
Trump was shot, he said, and he rose from the ground with an exhortation to “fight.” The country, according to Republicans, is teetering on the edge of a fiscal, moral and demographic demise. But there’s a route to the Promised Land. If Republicans can’t get Jesus to take the wheel, Trump will suffice.
Sara Workman, who was introduced as an Arizona single mother who was working two jobs, told delegates that “we need God in our hearts and Donald Trump back in the White House.” The phrasing suggested that if the former was her Heavenly Father, the other was her Earthly one.
Then Workman paraphrased biblical scripture: “If my people who are called by my name would humble themselves and pray, I will heal your nation. Amen.” Trump had asked that speakers focus on unity at his party’s convention and so, this was their response: Repent and we’ll all get along. The Lord is standing by to knock down inflation and negotiate a workable immigration policy if everyone will just get on their knees and bow their head.
Sen. Tim Scott (R-S.C.) walked onstage sounding like a cheerleader, “Wow, wow, woooooow!” He came out waving at the crowd with a wide smile across his face. “Are you ready for Four. More. Years. Of Donald Trump?” he yelled.
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Then he pivoted into a preacherly cadence. “If you didn’t believe in miracles before Saturday, you better be believing right now,” he cried. “Thank God almighty that we live in a country that still believes in the king of kings, and the Lord of lords, the alpha and the omega!”
“On Saturday, the devil came to Pennsylvania holding a rifle, but an American lion got back up on his feet and he roared,” Scott continued. “He roooooaaaared!”
As Scott got into the meat of his speech, he reminded his audience that as a child, he was raised in poverty by a single mother. This seemed to be a theme among the Black men who on Monday evening spoke on behalf of Trump and his ability to “make America wealthy again.” They reminded listeners of the dire circumstances of their upbringing or the challenges in their family history. They survived and succeeded through the tenacity and determination of their long-suffering single mothers or their devoted fathers who despite evidence to the contrary never told them that America was a racist country.
If Scott was the preacher, Donalds was the peacock. He strutted onto the stage, walking slowly to the lectern and the teleprompters with his head high, pausing so he could look around the room and take in the crowd and listen to the cheers. He flashed a smile and began to speak, opening with his often told story of being raised by a single mother in Brooklyn. She scraped together funds to send him to private school and his life was forever changed. He saw the light of school choice and charter schools, and went on to represent much of south Florida’s western coastline. Trump was preaching a gospel in which Donalds believed.
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Mark Robinson, the lieutenant governor of North Carolina who is running to be the state’s first Black governor, began his remarks by pointing toward the heavens and announcing that he first needed to give “thanks to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” He introduced himself by acknowledging that he grew up poor, the ninth of 10 children to an “alcoholic father who beat my mother.” He rose from the ashes of his devastated family.
Rep. Wesley Hunt (R-Tex.) told folks he was the great-great-grandson of an enslaved person. And Rep. John James (R-Mich.) shared the story of his father who grew up in Starkville near Mississippi State University but couldn’t attend the school due to segregation. Still, his father served honorably in Vietnam and then started a trucking company and raised his son to believe that he could do whatever he set his mind to.
The Republican National Convention is a redemption story, a narrative of prayerful compliance. Black men absolved the country of racism. So did pop culture personality Amber Rose, who told the audience she once thought Trump was a racist. But after diligent research, Rose said she realized she’d been misled by news stories and her liberal friends. To her surprise, there was nothing but love within the warm glow of the former president and his legions of red-baseball-cap-wearing devotees, she said. When Rose met Trump, she thought he was “funny as hell.” She’d found her congregation.
So many wanderers seemed to have walked their own road to Damascus. In their telling, they found themselves staring into a bright MAGA light of patriotism and freedom, and suddenly they saw their country more clearly. Whether ambitious or true believer, they are spreading the word.
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Vance, the onetime Trump critic, glad-handed his way through a crowd of admirers as his place on the ticket was made official. The baby-faced memoirist, who grew up in Appalachia and wrote about the tough love of his grandmother, had transformed himself into a bearded Trump Jr. doppelgänger who was antiabortion, anti-Ukraine, anti-the facts of Jan. 6 and the 2020 election, and eager to build a wall to keep out any immigrants he doesn’t deem merited entry.
Vance took selfies with the crowd and backslapped fans. At 39, he cut a rugged and energetic figure as he made his way through a thicket of folks in their suit jackets and patriotic regalia. Their hands were outstretched in hopes of touching Vance’s hand and he complied. If Trump was the Father, Vance was quite possibly their Son.
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