Faustian Bargains

I was on a drive across the state when I saw a huge Trump sign. Par for the course; I was in deep red Missouri but I was not ready for the flag flying next to the sign. It said, “Outlaw Hillbilly.”

I had to think about that one.

I wasn’t in Southern Missouri. I was in Northwest Missouri. There are no hills here. This is the prairie. The flag was across the highway from hundreds of acres of corn and beans which are not grown as row crop in the hills.

Another thing, why would an outlaw fly a huge flag for everyone to see…wouldn’t an outlaw be laying low from the law? Wouldn’t an outlaw object to alerting everyone to where he lives?

Why is a hillbilly outlaw flag flying on the prairie at all?

Because these folks don’t know who they are and are grasping for straws to explain their feelings. They need to broadcast strength because they feel weak. They need cover for their big feelings even if it is co-opted from another part of the country altogether.

They need an identity and they’ll reach to get it.

This particular statement started with a picture of Trump with the words “The outlaw and the hillbilly.” It’s laughable, but they are trying to turn an autocratic billionaire with a fascist bent into an “outlaw.”

JD Vance, a Yale-educated lawyer and venture capitalist, is now a “hillbilly.”

And, as movements do, this has morphed into something a little different. Trump supporters are cosplaying the “outlaw hillbillies” they idolize. These folks living in cities and on the prairies now claim to be hillbillies themselves.

Why?

They need a clan. A team. A kinship. A cult.

They are seeking like-minded others in their madness.

A cornfield in Northern Missouri. No hills nor hillbillies to be found.

I wrote about losing my dad to MAGA…I feel like I should also talk about losing my other father figure to the same madness. He’s alive, but he’s been gone from my life for eight years. Eight long years.

He was a funny guy. He played bass in a country band. They played southern rock and old country. They had quite the following back in the day. They were popular with a lot of folks, but especially with the women. They wore black cowboy hats and cowboy boots and grew their hair out. They were the country version of Warrant or Motley Crue or Poison.

They were good. They were fun. They were the life of every party they played.

My former father-figure was playful and mischievous. He played pranks on everyone before pranking others went viral on social media and became obnoxious. He didn’t do it for cameras. He did it because he had a sense of humor. Because he was funny and enjoyed watching others laugh.

These are traits he has lost in the last eight years. He has no sense of humor. He is serious. Very serious.

About chemtrails. And dead people voting. And immigrants. And religion. And nationalism. And crosses. And flags. And Trump.

He’s MAGA through and through and to prove it he has an altar to Trump in his home. Several MAGA hats and memorabilia are on the shelf. He has t-shirts and flags and buttons and stickers. He writes posts in defense of the indefensible and though he is in his 70s, he is often banned from Facebook for his hateful rhetoric and threats to others.

He has become the butt of the joke rather than the life of the party. His friends roll their eyes when he starts down conspiracy rabbit holes. These are ardent Trump supporters. They support the conman rapist but haven’t gone full QAnon. Yet.

He was a Fox News fan until they were not extreme enough to suit him and now Newsmax and OAN blare from his 70-inch TV with soundbar so the insanity can be heard from inside and outside the house. From every room. From the porch. From the garage.

He spends hours a day on YouTube chasing a conspiracy high. He can’t be bothered with chores or family or travel. He can’t get away from his phone or his computer long enough to do much of anything.

He is a prolific user of Ivermectin and thinks the government is poisoning his food for population control — he thinks hurricanes are the doings of Democrats.

He has lost himself and his religion — he now worships an orange Jesus. He bows down to an anti-Christ. A convicted felon. An abuser. An adjudicated rapist.

He makes no apologies for voting for a corrupt billionaire whose policies harm his children and grandchildren and I don’t see a method for bringing him back. He has taken up a personality that I don’t recognize anymore. He is gone.

It’s common to act like someone you aren’t. Fake it until you make it, right? But this is different. These are people who have taken an oath to a cult and have had to remake themselves in the image of the cult. They are no longer allowed “moderation.” If they follow Trump, they must give up their soul.

A Faustian bargain.

I have lost so many family members to the madness. To the Trump cult.

How can I choose “politics” over family members? I’m not. This isn’t a matter of politics anymore. This is an issue of safety and trust.

I don’t trust anyone who still supports Trump. I don’t want them to file my taxes or clean my teeth or put tires on my car. I don’t trust their values or morals. I don’t trust their character. I don’t feel safe in their presence.

I don’t trust that they won’t put me or mine in danger if they thought they could make a point or gain favor with an egomaniac running for president.

They chose politics over family. They chose the cult. It’s on them.

~Jess