Henry Abbott

This summer, I was at dinner with a friend when we heard Donald Trump had been shot. It was hot and humid and foreboding, as much of the summer had been, and we had made the mistake of sitting outside. The sun was casting yellow light across the city streets, creating a familiar haze around the edges of buildings and along the branches of trees, as we wiped the sweat from our brows and unstuck our legs from metal chairs.

Of course, neither my friend nor I are Trump supporters, but our first reaction was, “Thank God he isn’t dead.” We feared what his assassination could have meant for our country and our safety, and what it would have foretold about the groundswell of political violence in America. And we talked about rising gun violence, the global turn towards fascism and, most of all, the growing epidemic of angry, lonely men—some of whom we know, or are related to, and love.

My friend and I quickly wrapped up dinner, paid the bill and left the restaurant. And I will never forget, for as long as I live, what that walk back to my apartment felt like. There was a kind of crackling energy in the air as if the world was expanding and stretching and breaking apart. It was as if the world had suddenly gotten very big, very scary, and very serious. And we both declared, at that moment, that Trump would win the 2024 presidential election.

Of course, that was not my final prediction. I truly believed Americans would elect Kamala Harris. I am a (perhaps blind) optimist, believing in the well-worn Martin Luther King Jr. quote that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” Sure, I’ve been fed that quote by AP history teachers and Instagram graphics, but I believe it to be true. Still, it is hard to square that sentiment with this result.

Last week, across the board, was a repudiation of Democrats and a massive overperformance for Trump and Republicans. Not only is the former president poised to sweep every single swing state, but he also narrowed the gap in states like Virginia, Minnesota and even New York, where he lost only by twelve points (Biden won this state by 22 points).

Kamala Harris, despite running an almost flawless campaign, raising over a billion dollars, operating a stellar ground game and having higher favorability ratings than her opponent, lost the election. And it is clear to me that there is nothing she could have done about that. President Biden is historically unpopular, America’s outlook on the economy and the country at large is bleak and inflation remains the most salient issue for most voters, an albatross around Democrats’ necks. The headways were too strong for her, or really any Democrat, to overcome.

On a purely electoral level, Democrats are clearly struggling to reach voters, particularly non-college-educated voters, particularly non-college-educated men. That inability to effectively communicate was evident last night, as Trump improved amongst men across the board, regardless of race, age, etc. Perhaps some of that was Harris’ gender and race, but these feel like longer, more durable trends with which Democrats must contend. If Democrats are only talking to college-educated elites, we are doomed electorally in this country, especially if that message is only landing along gendered lines as well.

But more broadly, this election was not about policy; it was about vibes. The economy is objectively booming, but people don’t feel it. Fundamental rights are in danger, but people refuse to believe it. Democratic policies are popular, but people don’t vote for them. The saliency of political messaging comes down to what voters it reaches and what energy it espouses, and that messaging is becoming increasingly severed from facts or data. Given the uniform swings amongst men and non-college-educated voters, perhaps all this election came down to was that Trump won the “bro vote.” That has nothing to do with policy; it has to do with the increasing connective tissue between identity, culture and political allegiance.

Democrats must seriously reconsider the way they talk to voters and the ways they reach them. Information is increasingly stratified and increasingly incorrect as algorithms silo us off from one another. I wake up and check my Twitter, filled with Aaron Rupar, The New York Times and New Yorker articles about finding the best martini in Manhattan. I listen to podcasts hosted by drag queens, and I shop at Trader Joe’s. And I assume—as I think many people similar to me assume—that everyone does this. But there exists a vast percentage of Americans who do the exact opposite, listening to Joe Rogan and watching Fox News and reading up on how to become an “Alpha Male.” These are two different Americas, which are increasingly not only unable to talk to one another but unable to even agree on what to talk about.

I live in a bubble, and I know this, but we all do. And, terrifyingly, I think last week laid bare that there is a large, resentful underbelly in this country that constitutes an even larger, more politically powerful bubble than mine. I understand logically why people would vote for Donald Trump and what forces have vaulted him to the White House, but I am still lost and confused. And I fear my confusion may say more about the situation than anything. I am out of touch—maybe all Democrats are—and the work now is to seek an understanding of what is happening in this country and what this larger “bubble” is telling us.

As I’m writing this the day after the election, it’s hot again—over 70 degrees in Maine—and I’m feeling the same way I did that humid summer night Trump was shot. There is a similar crackling in the air, as our place in history and the tides of change come into starker relief. And I feel, in some sense, that my country has betrayed itself, in both senses of the word. We have work to do, all of us, regardless of who you voted for, and I have faith—perhaps because I have no other choice—that we can do it.

Campbell Zeigler is a member of the Class of 2025,