The election (or elections for the pedantic political observers) will soon be upon us, subsuming our national attention, pricking our collective spleen. But no matter the outcome—our first madam president, the second non-consecutive serving chief executive, a united Congress, a bifurcated legislative body fighting bloody over ever punctuation mark in every bill including the renaming of post offices—the so-called “Discourse” will be chirping with one term: the r-word.
No, no, no, not the short-bus slur that, if we’re working blue, accurately describes most public office aspirants.
The word to which I’m referring is one I’m guilty of overuse: realignment. This presidential contest, the third featuring populist class-traitor Donald Trump and a brainless avatar to flexible, cosmopolitan liberalism, further twists and turns our bisected politics. In some ways, the dogma-shattering 2016 race is epochs away from the current conjuncture.
Back in the salad days of Donald v. Hillary, we had only one novelty to contend with: a billionaire reality-TV show host bloodily bludgeoning the GOP’s paste-up image as the party of collar-and-tie professionals, with pressed Oxford shirts, shined Cole Haans, and tight comb overs. Clinton was the left’s final form: experienced, disciplined, drilled in shibboleth dropping and timed smiles, a synecdoche in liberal identity.
Democrats weren’t foresighted enough to see how much red their party was bleeding until non-degreed, uncredentialed roughnecks said to hell with welfarism and actually walked into poll booths, in soiled dungarees and oil-stained work shirts, for the first time in their adult life to vote for the loudmouth from The Apprentice.
What’s changed in eight years, besides “Scranton Joe” Biden brandishing enough blue-collar credentials to gut Trump in the throes of a socially debilitating pandemic? On the Democratic side, nary much. The party may not be emphasizing its rainbow-ness as much as in bleak Summer of Floyd days, but it’s reliant on the notion of progress being coterminous with the ascendency of an androgynous, dun skin-mix humanoid to the presidency. In Joe Biden’s pitch for his party’s nomination, it was the assurance of a black female Veep. (Who managed to break the opaque glass ceiling of achieving the lowest VP approval ratings ever recorded. Can you say, “Nooooo Kweeen”?)
Democrats continue to cultivate professional strivers who long to own half-million-dollar condos and push MacBooks in prams. Contrariwise, Republicans increasingly rely on downmarket, low-propensity citizens who probably don’t realize elections occur outside the presidential ball. The parties have seen a class upsot, with credential bearers moving blue and hourly grunts seeing red. But that great bedeviler of human relations pokes holes in the pure economic understanding of elections: the primordial chromosomal variance. Deliverism is out; sexual dichotomy is in. We’re not in a “brat” election so much as the Carrie Bradshaw ballot brawl. Boy versus girl, dog versus cat, brain versus brawn. L’Oreal Paris peach-scented split-end healing conditioner versus Barbasol 5-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/soap/motor oil/steak marinade.
You don’t have to take this columnist’s humble but loquacious word for it. Listen to former president Obama, who assembled a circle of Pittsburgh “bruthas” only to harangue them over insufficient Harris hussahs. (Which was a brilliant tactic—for Trump. Men, regardless of race, truly enjoy being superciliously reminded they don’t appreciate women enough.) Vice-presidential nominee, Minnesota governor, and Elmer Fudd epigone Tim Walz admitted the gender-gap narrative is gaining traction, but kept faith in the face of a fan scrum, asserting, “I refuse to admit that that’s real.” On a recent MSNBC segment, amid indignant screechs and Planned Parenthood ads, “analyst” Mara Gay femsplained that “men are in crisis” because they listen to Joe Rogan instead of a shrink.
A recent Free Press report collated the sex-split polling: “Harris is up by 14 points among women and Trump is up by 13 points with men, according to a New York Times/Siena survey of likely voters this month. A recent Pew Research poll found that Harris has an advantage over Trump by 9 points with women, while Trump is up 8 points with men. And an ABC/Ipsos poll from last month showed Harris up 13 points with women, while Trump was up 5 points with men.”
Partisan pollster Sarah Longwell suggests Team Trump has “given up on the idea that they can get women,” which, for many of her partisan predilection, is overstated though not entirely off the mark. Trump is doing sit-down, chew-the-bull podcast convos with the dude likes of Denisovan-model Theo Von, viral toughie Logan Paul, and sports-talkers Will Compton and Taylor Lewan on something called “Bussin’ With the Boys”. Harris, for her parietal part, is going on “Call Your Daddy,” a “sex” show hosted by thirty-year-old bantam who encourages her muliebral listeners to hook up with randos while keeping her own marriage under wraps.
As poli-sci prof Darel Paul explained it, our political divide was once characterized by the stolid father waiting out the subversive streak in his mop-headed, moony soon. Now it’s a clash between that “same father and his progressive daughter.” Dad pays for little Susie’s elite schooling, only to find out he’s financed his own villain arc all along.
That most American inquiry: who’s really at fault for the gendering of politics? There are plenty of candidates: blame Taylor Swift, blame J.D. Vance, blame the patriarchy, blame Title IX, blame the Pill, blame Harvey Weinstein, blame childless cat ladies, blame the repeal of Roe v. Wade, blame deadbeat dads.
Just don’t pin responsibility on nature, and the intractable emotional and physical differences in birds and bees. No Beltway hatchet PAC can craft an ad out of that.
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