By Partha Chakraborty-
How does a New York real estate developer born with a golden spoon known for a rather spotty track record in business and a playboy lifestyle build a multi-ethnic, multi-racial coalition of the working class as his base for a triumphant return to the White House?
I have noted before that what he took away from the Democratic coalition is something precious – a label of “party of the minorities, for the working class.” Much of that has to do with the negative – that the Party now run by the ivory tower intelligentsia lost connection with an audience they took for granted. During the pandemic they let loose a censor-industrial complex on bewildered commonfolk, aided by a pliant media and a compliant big-tech. Extended stay-at-home orders ignored real pleas for a return to normalcy; the elites, meanwhile, romped inside The French Laundry, flouting their own rules, while worker bees lost their dignity, without jobs but with mouths to feed. After George Floyd murder they overplayed their hand in moves to ‘defund the police,’ which most rational minds interpreted, correctly, as ‘defend miscreants but put the poor out to pasture.’ The sham of progressive liberalism was laid bare during the Israel-Hamas war when ever-so-clever-not arguments were concocted to pull shades on naked antisemitism. The list goes on.
There is a pull of Trump’s appeal that Democrats must not pooh-pooh. Much of it has to do with his uncanny ability to grasp what the working class stands for (and, by extension, peoples with significant overlap with the working poor). Curiously enough, I learned much of that from my father, a one-time labor union leader in India.
My father was a card-carrying member of the Communist Party of India (Marxist) [“CPI(M)”]. At age 37 he was leading the largest branch of the largest trade union in India as General Secretary of the Eastern Railway Men’s Union (ERMU). At age 39 he gave it all up to care for a newborn son, me, a young daughter, and a wife recovering from cancer. He was an ordinary laborer with the railways for the rest of his life.
He never complained about his (rather) serious fall from status. But he did complain, bitterly towards the end of his life, about those “banedi bhadrolok aar aa(n)tel” [roughly, “genteel elites and intellectuals”], the opinion leaders who guided him early in his life. My father grew up in an orphanage in Kolkata, and joined the “revolution” after coming second in his undergraduate cohort at Calcutta University. That said, even as a firebrand rising star of the Party, he never felt he belonged in the inside coterie, who all were from backgrounds far more elevated.
Visiting me in New York when we talked openly about his disillusionment, he explained his grief with his old ‘comrades,’ that none of them ever gave up any comfort for real. Barring a period when they all faced the barrel of the gun of the police in fake encounters, most of them all went back home to middle-class families with servants, parents with stable jobs as academics, government workers and the like, roofs that did not leak, and dinners that were always hot and fresh.
Funny that I hear the same sentiment about opinion leaders echoed in the US. “Democrats flipped,” said Daniel Trujillo in a recent piece in the New York Times. Mr. Trujillo owns a barbershop in Las Vegas and watched many of his customers shift from supporting Barack Obama to favoring Mr. Trump. “They went from being for the working class to, if you’re not college-educated and have money, you’re not worthy.” I almost heard my dad’s voice in his.
What drives a representative member of the working class? Dignity, my dad would say, talking about the Indian context. In India the working class, no matter what tribe, religion, or caste, are made to absorb that there is no dignity in what they are doing. In the olden days, if you were working in a factory, sharing your (already measly) salary with your foreman was de rigueur; in the mines, especially if you were a Dalit woman, sharing your body was part of the implicit arrangement too. If you are working as a housemaid doing 18-hour days without a break for months on end, you would be expected to show gratitude when the lady of the house hands you weeks-old leftovers that gone rancid. In a culture that prioritizes education above everything in the hope of a white-collar job, anybody still working with their hands is already an outcaste, no matter what, and it shows. I can go on.
What the Indian working class really craves is a spot of dignity, my dad told me, and it has five pillars – Fortune, Family, Freedom, Faith, and the Flag.
Fortune is an ill-fitting label, but it works in India. They are fortunate if they get their whole salaries on time, especially if their salaries keep up with rising prices and leave room for a dress for their daughter on Diwali. Family is an extended umbrella of cohabitation, especially in rural parts, and nothing is complete if this does not involve all of them. It can be strenuous but it is also exhilarating, and in the end, family is fulfillment. Freedom means a simple license to exist without frequent harassment by thugs, by the police, or by religious zealots. Faith is a pillar that my dad had difficulty in accepting in his family life, zealously atheist as he was, but he embraced faith among his workers. Cutting across religious lines, faith meant more about the celebrations – and there were many – that brought them together, having a spot of good times, saving up for one happy meal and (maybe) one of few dresses they will have all year around. Flag is a notable member here; fervent nationalism viewed as an extension of individual dignity is not to be trifled with.
The script is different in the US, as are the cast of characters. But the storyline remains the same. Just as in India, dignity of a representative member of the working class is defined in terms of these five F-words.
Family is the nuclear entity for sure, but when a mom or dad walks in after their second shift (or second job) (s)he is looking forward to a roof over the family’s head for which (s)he toils for so long. Freedom is more expansive and dearer to people in this country – it requires fidelity to the Bill of Rights, and interpretations that touch this ordinary life. Faith cannot be ignored, nor underplayed, as Democrats are finding out. For the working class, Faith provides a refuge in the church, no matter the denomination, and creates a community of believers of their own creed. Faith supplies a prayer coin to hold on to in times of turbulence, so to speak, and these are the times of distress. Fortune implies the security of the paycheck, and the privilege not to be replaced upon whims of the bosses by machines or by sweatshops. Fortune also means the American Dream, where the moral arc of existence curves towards a better life for self and progeny. Flag holds much more importance in lives here since the idea of America starts with a set of ideas, and not with a shared ancestry or geography. Therefore it requires an effort to rally for allegiance; doing so openly and fervently signals belonging to the brotherhood / sisterhood.
The genius of Trump is that he absorbed the same while being as far from them as possible in his personal life, he unleashed it in his presidential campaigns, especially the second one. It should have been a cinch for Democrats as they truly were the party of the working class not too far back in history. In the postmortem, Democrats are already hyping Trump’s message of class animosity – “these people have betrayed you, and they are morons to boot.” Part of it is true. Much of Trump’s appeal was his reiteration of the five F-words – Fortune, Family, Freedom, Faith, and Flag. It remains to be seen if, and how, Democrats embrace these values and show it in their messaging.
Democrats’ future messaging must repeat these five F-words. Statutory warnings, this article frequently uses them, as I do in my own life.
