The Alt-Right & Modern Fascism

When I see a bright young man veer down the benighted tracks of the Alt-Right, it gives me a queasy feeling. It’s like watching a deer get hit by a train. Poor little dear. If only he knew better. It’s about as nauseating as seeing a lovely young teenage girl fire up a menthol cigarette, only worse. The girl has chosen to pollute her body. The boy has chosen to pollute his brain.

It’s a waste of time trying to sway them, the lost boy and the strayed girl. Might even make things worse. Their youthful obdurance, and rebellious self-destruction will resist all sound advice. Almost everything they do from that point forward will be in defense of their bad choices.

The Alt-Right is a fringe conservative group of modern American fascists. I don’t say that lightly. About half of the Alt-Right movement would be violently opposed to this summation — “violent” being the keyword — but the other half of their movement would enthusiastically affirm it.

In either case — be they fascists, or garden variety white supremacists — both factions tell the same jokes, frequent the same websites, worship the same ideals, and elevate the same mean-spirited world view that white men are the best, and white men have it rough! Rougher than anyone!

Poor guys….

Although not a homogeneous group, the Alt-Right is largely comprised of young white males with a conservative bent who are either smart or tough. The smart ones are typically upper-class, and not very tough. The tough ones are lower-class, and not very bright. Together they form a self-aggrandizing symbiosis, the central tenet of which is that the world revolves around them.

Currently the Alt-Right’s most popular leaders are Richard Spencer and Milo Yiannopoulos. Spencer is ostensibly a straight white male, while Milo is a flamboyant, gay problem child who will say almost anything for attention.

Spencer is generally considered the Alt-Right’s founder. It’s worth nothing that Steve Bannon, the former editor of Breitbart.com and Trump’s current Chief Political Strategist, declared Spencer to be “one of the leading intellectuals of the alt-right movement.” Spencer is also known for dreaming up ever more clever ways to assert white supremacy, calling it an “identitarian” movement, now, whatever that means.

After Trump’s election win, Spencer is the guy who held a rally with his followers where he shouted “Hail Trump, hail our people, hail victory!” And as he did so, his adoring crowd gave the Nazi salute and chanted “Hail Trump!” in unison.

Milo Yiannopoulos is a slightly different breed. Where Spencer is the meat & potatoes of the neo-Nazi buffet, Milo is the extravagant cream tart for dessert. He’s an aggressive, incendiary writer who was banned from Twitter for life. This martyr status, after he failed to hide his hate-speech behind the mother’s skirt of the First Amendment, makes it all the easier for Milo to lure those little white stags down the train tracks of intolerance.

Milo’s latest book is entitled “Dangerous.” Both the title and the reviews are in keeping with a greater theme among the Alt-Right movement: they literally want to be a threat.

“Dangerous” is the outgrowth of an article co-written by Milo in 2016, “An Establishment Conservative’s Guide To The Alt-Right.” This manifesto was published on Bannon’s Breitbart.com wherein Milo described himself and his followers as “dangerously bright” and “fearsomely intelligent.” Note the threatening verbiage.

The great poet Maya Angelo famously said “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

Behold the Alt-Right, fearsome and dangerous, menacing white supremacists with an ardor for God, guns, and power. Brute force is how they want to solve their perceived problems of being poor little white boys who never got a break.

The antithesis of the Alt-Right movement is not the Alt-Left, which doesn’t exist, but a group known as the “Antifascists.” While commendable, their efforts are probably doomed to fail. The Antifascists typically combat the Alt-Right’s bullying tactics with their own “eye for an eye” counter demonstrations, but when it comes to knuckle-dragging brutality, the Alt-Right will win every time. If the Antifascists are to be victorious, their triumph must come by way nuance and craft, not brute force.

As with all labels, “Antifacist” has been shortened to “Antifa” over time, which is an unfortunate abbreviation. Something was lost in the contraction. I’d much prefer the simpler, heart-felt name we used the last time America had to deal with a bunch of fascist knuckleheads: the Allies.

Sophie’s Off to College

Paul’s daughter, Sophie, was heading off to school, starting her junior year of college. She’d be twenty-one soon, old enough to buy her own beer, and drink cocktails at the dance clubs. Old enough to go to jail. Twenty-one, and she’s an adult. Overnight. Just like that.

Paul, Sophie, and mama Tina had spent an intimate morning together. After a big breakfast, strong-brewed coffee and the sweet smell of maple syrup permeated the house. The mood was festive, as if a rebirth had come. A grand voyage was about to commence. Sophie’s car was in the garage, all gassed, serviced, and almost packed.

Since mom had cooked breakfast, Paul and Sophie packed the car. As dad tossed the last of Sophie’s rucksacks into the trunk, a small one-hitter pot pipe fell and bounced with a awkward clack on the concrete floor. Both father and daughter saw it. As the blood drained from Sophie’s surprised face, Paul nonchalantly picked up the pipe and tossed it in the bag. He zipped it shut, placed it in the car, and gently closed the trunk.

“Daddy, that’s not mine.”

“I know dear,” Paul said. “Just forget about it. Let’s keep this between us.”

“I mean it,” Sophie continued. “I was keeping it for a friend. I just forgot about it. Trust me.”

“I know. No biggie,” Paul said with a smiling, dismissive optimism. “I was young once, too.”

Tactfully, he changed the subject, and asked Sophie if her car was road-ready. Buoyed by the diversion, father and daughter returned to the kitchen almost as if nothing had happened. Almost. They sat for a while at the table, trapped in a thorny silence, waiting for mom to tie up some loose ends before Sophie would hit the road.

The phone rang. It was Kay, one of mom’s nosy neighbor friends. Paul always called her “Okay Kay” because the woman was never wrong about anything.

“I got it!” mama said, taking the phone and stepping into the next room. It was a blessing in disguise.

“Dear heart,” Paul whispered to Sophie, sitting with her intimately at the kitchen table. “I’m not worried about the weed. If you drink a little beer and smoke a little herb, you’re probably going to be okay. It’s the hard stuff that kills you.”

“But it’s not mine!” Sophie quietly protested.

“I didn’t say it was,” Paul chuckled. “I’m just saying, if you ever want to buy some herb, give me a heads up, and we’ll get you a medical marijuana card, okay? On me.”

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“But what if I don’t qualify?” she asked.

“We’ll make it so you do. You leave that to me.” Paul leaned back to eaves drop on his wife and Kay. They were gossiping about their girlfriends. He had tons of time.

“The beer and the herb doesn’t get you,” Paul said. “The hard stuff does, and booze is the hard stuff, too. Don’t drink any of that jungle juice they serve at frat parties. At best you’ll wake up covered in puke. At worst, you’ll wake up in a stranger’s bedroom with a bad feeling in your stomach.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “I’m not an idiot, daddy.”

“True,” he said. “But you are a day dreamer, and sometimes you don’t pay attention. Remember back when you were a sophomore? And you thought the sinking of the Hindenburg started World War Two?”

“Ancient history,” she huffed.

“You’re going to be twenty-one soon,” he said. “So if you go to a liquor store and buy some beer, you’ll get beer, not pot. Likewise, when you go to a marijuana dispensary you’ll get marijuana — not cocaine, or meth, or pills, or heaven knows what.”

“Daddy!”

Paul leaned back again to eaves drop on his wife and Kay. They were gabbing about men. He had all day.

“Those drug dealers will see you coming a mile away, kiddo. Sometimes they’ll tell you they’re out of pot, and offer you some coke instead. Sometimes they’ll give it to you for free. Don’t touch it. Avoid the hard stuff. They’ll say it’s all the same, but it’s not, not by a long shot. Remember that, okay?”

Mom hung up the phone. Kay was Okay. The final act had come, and sharing their fond goodbyes the family parted with gentle hugs and recalcitrant tears. Watching Sophie drive off to school, Paul waved as Elton John sang “Daniel” on the kitchen radio, and the sweep of time stood still.

I don’t know exactly what happened to Sophie after that, but I do know this: she graduated from college, was never arrested for drugs, and she didn’t die from an overdose. On the grand scale of things, that’s enough.