In Milwaukee, a Republican convention fuelled by alienation

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Whatever else you might say about Donald Trump, he’s not boring. His gleeful, wild-eyed improv is a huge part of his appeal, like watching an animal on live TV or the controlled demolition of a building: You never know what might happen, so don’t look away.

But on Thursday, as the headlining act on the crowning night of the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee, Mr. Trump managed, weirdly, to be dull. Even the faithful in the room, at the apex of four days of star-spangled fellowship, seemed checked out by the end of his 90-minute rhetorical milk run.

But it didn’t start out that way. The first stretch of the speech was a barnburner in which Mr. Trump recounted last Saturday’s attempt on his life for the first time, in true Trumpian fashion.

“The assassin’s bullet came within a quarter of an inch of taking my life. So many people have asked me what happened – ‘Tell us what happened, please!’” he said. “And therefore, I will tell you exactly what happened, and you’ll never hear it from me a second time because it’s actually too painful to tell.”

He then relayed the tale in a way that suggested it would perhaps not be the last time. It was a “warm, beautiful day” in Butler, Pa., when he was “speaking very strongly, powerfully and happily,” he said. But then, suddenly, “there was blood pouring everywhere.”

“And yet, in a certain way I felt very safe,” Mr. Trump said. “Because I had God on my side.”

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A few minutes later, he put a finer point on it, telling the convention crowd flatly, “I’m not supposed to be here tonight.” A ripple of horror passed through his audience – more visible than it was audible – before they figured out the right response. “Yes you are! Yes you are!” they chanted.

After that, Mr. Trump’s speech wandered in a tone that suggested even he wasn’t really into it. But by that point it didn’t matter, because the covenant in the room had been sealed.

Early on, it was Amber Rose, a model and rapper, who delivered one of the most effective speeches of the convention. It was a story of conversion, of scales falling from her eyes.

Ms. Rose told the delegates that the first Trump supporter she knew was her father, and that she was shocked because she comes from a racially diverse family. “I believed the left-wing propaganda that Donald Trump was a racist,” she recalled. Her father challenged her to prove it. So she did her research, watched his rallies and met his supporters, and what she discovered surprised her. “It’s all love,” she said.

“And that’s when it hit me: These are my people. This is where I belong,” Ms. Rose said, to rapturous applause. “So I let go of my fear of judgment, of being misunderstood, of getting attacked by the left, and I put the red hat on, too.”

For the people in the room, it was a declaration of pride and a rejection of the chastisement many feel as Trump supporters. For others standing outside the red tent, perhaps feeling curious but also nervous or embarrassed, Ms. Rose was holding the tent flap open with an encouraging smile.

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This spoke to something carved deep into the soul of the Trump movement. It circulated in self-reinforcing ways throughout the whole week of the convention – and over months and months of rally speeches, talking points and social media posts before that.

In his prime time address Wednesday, Ohio Senator J.D. Vance, Mr. Trump’s newly christened running mate, leaned heavily on his own difficult upbringing with a mother struggling with addiction in small-town Ohio.

He related stories about his Mamaw – “the name we hillbillies give to our grandmas,” he explained – stashing 19 loaded handguns around her house and threatening to run a troublemaker down with her car if her grandson didn’t stop hanging out with him. The convention crowd gobbled it up.

Mr. Vance became a literary and cultural celebrity in 2016, the same year Mr. Trump first won the White House, with the bestselling memoir Hillbilly Elegy. But while the book was frequently critical of what Mr. Vance saw as the cultural corrosion of the world he grew up in, at the RNC he painted a glowing portrait of dignified, hardscrabble people who had been done in by the indifference and exploitation of the Democratic elite.

But mostly, the young senator was there to spread the gospel of Donald.

“He didn’t need politics, but the country needed him,” Mr. Vance said, adding, “He had everything anyone could ever want in a life, and yet instead of choosing the easy path, he chose to endure abuse, slander and persecution, and he did it because he loves this country.”

The message was there, again and again.

You feel cast aside and forgotten, sure you’re getting a raw deal. So you’re drawn to the man who says you’re right about that, that he sees it too – and that he sees you. But then when you say you support that man, you feel judged, because the elites tell you he’s wrong and gross.

And that means you are too, so here you are again, back to being dismissed.

But we’re here to tell you that all the terrible things they say about him are lies. He’s not bad – and that means you aren’t, either. It also means that they’re persecuting him just like they put the screws to you. In fact, they’re going after him because he stands up for you, someone who has been abandoned by everyone else.

At a rally in Racine, Wis., in June, Mr. Trump laid it out bluntly.

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“I’m being indicted for you. Never forget: Our enemies want to take away my freedom because I will never, ever let them take away your freedom. They want to silence me because I will never let them silence you,” he said. “And in the end, they’re not after me. Quite simply put, I am just standing in their way – I’m standing in their way and I’m not moving.”

Back on the convention floor in Milwaukee – right around the time Mr. Trump told the crowd, “The movement has never been about me, it has always been about you” – a woman sitting with the New Hampshire delegation started to struggle.

She was wearing a red sequin cowboy hat with what looked to be about five pounds of GOP regalia affixed to it. Her delegate lanyard had another two dozen pins affixed to it, and she was wearing a stars-and-stripes scarf with a red-and-white outfit. She had not come to Milwaukee lacking commitment.

But there she was, as Mr. Trump meandered and muttered well past the one-hour mark, with her eyelids and chin both pulling toward the floor. She would slide gently into sleep for minutes at a time, but whenever Mr. Trump said something that made the crowd applaud, she would open her eyes partway and join them. At no point did she look like she was fully awake, but she applauded faithfully every time.

Finally, at the end of the speech, Mr. Trump teed up a big finish that called for audience participation.

“America’s future will be bigger, better, bolder, brighter, happier, stronger, freer, greater and more united than ever before,” he said. “And, quite simply put, we will very quickly …”

The crowd knew what to do, and the red hat lady hauled herself to her feet in time to holler it with them: “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”

Telling people who – rightly, in many cases – feel left out and looked down upon that they’re seen, that they’re right and that it’s their tormenters who are wrong is powerful politics.

But convincing them that you’re the only one who sees this, that truth is solely what comes out of your mouth, and that you have been sent by providence to rescue them – that’s religion.