Chapter One: The Cassandra of Lower Delaware
At approximately 11 a.m. on June 30, 2009, inside a senior citizens’ center in the rustic rural county seat of Georgetown, Delaware, a mysterious woman in red appeared with a disturbing message for the citizens of the United States of America.
No one seemed to even know her name. Few people glimpsed her face, either; most just saw her from behind or in silhouette. Yet her words would be heard by millions of people, and discussed at great length across the fifty states over the weeks that followed. This middle-aged siren wore a crimson blouse, and her reddish hair was clipped back. Fittingly, she addressed a direct descendent of one of America’s Founding Fathers, a great-great-great-great-great grandson of Ben Franklin, a courtly seventy-year-old Republican U.S. congressman named Mike Castle. The stranger’s tone was highly agitated, her words apocalyptic.
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“Congressman, um, Castle!!!” The voice knob was cranked all the way up to eleven, and most of the heads in the senior center—about two hundred or so of them—whipped around to see who was raising the commotion. “I wanna know! . . .” Over the next couple of minutes, the stranger spoke of Dark Conspiracies and of Threats to the Republic, of a bastard prince born in Kenya and of soldiers fighting halfway around the world, of forged documents and an endangered flag—all amid knowing whoops of approval. Her cryptic sound waves were captured for posterity by an equally anonymous man with a digital camera, and they soon spread across America—uploaded and downloaded and embedded on blogs until they finally landed in the steel media palace of Rockefeller Center, where eager young producers edited them down and boomeranged them back across the heartland.
This all took little more than three weeks, and by then the woman had long disappeared—America’s own Cassandra, vanished with the salt-flecked breezes that rustle the sea oats across this marshy, isolated corner of the eastern seaboard.
The original Cassandra had first appeared to the world in the fifth century B.C., another anxious time of great but fragile empire, with rivals to Greece—particularly Sparta—emerging across their pond. The nation’s bards responded with great and lasting myths of national strength and righteousness. In 438 B.C., Aeschylus, the father of Greek tragedy, sent the Princess Cassandra, a beautiful vision in red silk, onto the national stage in Athens for the first time in Agamemnon, part of the Oresteia trilogy, all about vendetta and the search for justice in an unjust world. Cassandra has been toyed with by powerful gods for all of her life, and although she is convinced she will be killed for speaking out, the woman is determined to share her strange, incoherent visions with the world before she goes.
In the last 2,448 years, the red prophet has inspired writers ranging from William Faulkner to Florence Nightingale. The academic Seth L. Schein said Cassandra holds our imagination because “[s]he evokes the same awe, horror and pity as do schizophrenics, who often combine deep, true insight with utter helplessness and who retreat into madness.” But you don’t need a Ph.D. in the classics or English literature to see the story’s relevance to our current moment, as the national nightmare of the 2000s that Big Media branded “The Decade from Hell” ended and threatened to morph into something worse—with roughly one out of six willing and able-bodied Americans not working and experts still unable to predict when the job market might fully recover from the economic near-death experience of 2008. You have only to flip on your car radio, where White Men in Mono talk nonstop on a daily basis of socialism and rage against the impending doom that our new president is ushering in.
This isn’t the place you expected—not with the memories of November 3, 2008, still ringing in your ears, the car horns randomly and joyously bleating on the streets of Philadelphia at 2 in the morning, impromptu marches on city hall by boisterous college students with a beer in their right hand and hope in the hearts. They had achieved something historic, these seventy million—a new political coalition electrified not just by students but by blacks and white-collar eggheads and Latinos and old hippies and gays and Asians. They had done the incredible in coming together to elect Barack Obama as the forty-fourth president of the United States. It wasn’t just that Obama was the first black president ever—sure, that was remarkable—but those honking cars were also reveling in the first grown-up American president in eight years. Here was a new leader who at least promised the nation he was going to take seriously things like global warming, threats to the American way of justice, and repairing a society that was weighted down by the heavy money vaults of all the penthouses up Park Avenue.
Then, in a matter of months, this brave new America seemed to evaporate, surrendering all of the psychic territory this new boisterous majority had fought so hard to win, practically ceding the political landscape to what came next:
It was a gathering force that came out of nowhere, seemingly before the echoes of Obama’s inauguration address had even stopped reverberating against the granite boundaries of the National Mall. You and so many others had scoffed at first, at these “dead-enders” with their aimless protests with the misspelled signs and their bogus Internet conspiracy theories that Obama was really a Manchurian candidate born in Kenya and trained in the Muslim madrassas of Indonesia to destroy America from within.
But crazy as it sounds, the woman in red, her conspiratorial monologue, and the cheering Greek chorus behind her was a major turning point.
As her rant at Congressman Castle leapfrogged from an obscure link on YouTube and Internet discussion boards to the Drudge Report, and then to radio’s Rush Limbaugh Show, and then to the NBC Nightly News, it became the most palpable symbol of the anger that was on display at similar town hall meetings from coast to coast—and with every report of public fury, Obama and the congressional Democrats saw their ambitious agenda for a major health-care overhaul lose momentum. The spillover from this backlash emboldened a congressional minority that had just barely enough votes to stymie action, and then it stalled equally bold plans to address climate change and reform immigration laws. One year into Obama’s presidency, most of his agenda for “change” was on the ropes, with the GOP seemingly poised to win back at least some of the myriad seats they’d lost in 2006 and 2008.
In some polls, a mythical third party called the Tea Party of angry citizens like the one at Mike Castle’s Delaware town hall meeting was even more popular than the Republican Party, as the anti-Obama crowd deserted even identifying with the GOP; in a few polls in late 2009, this nonexistent Tea Party outpolled both the Republicans and the Democrats. Republican stalwarts like Florida governor Charlie Crist, seeking a U.S. Senate seat; Texas senator Kay Bailey Hutchison, running for governor; and even the 2008 presidential nominee, Arizona’s John McCain, either lost primaries or saw their authority challenged not from their left flank but from their right. Though these angry citizens were at most one-fourth of the national electorate, the collective tail they formed—a far-right majority within the 46-percent minority that had just voted for McCain and his running mate, Sarah Palin—seemed to be wagging the American dog.
How could this happen?
Indeed, in the months that followed the outburst at Delaware’s Mike Castle, these angry, loud people were everywhere in the twentyfour-hour news cycle, with a confusing array of groups that did not exist on January 20, 2009—not just the Tea Party but the 9-12 Project and even more fringe groups like the conspiratorial Oath Keepers, (mostly ex-)soldiers and cops who pledged—among other things—not to put Americans in concentration camps. Some extremists began aggressively and openly carrying their guns into the neighborhood Starbucks to make a point, while others stood at the Home Depot waving placards and intimidating Mexican day laborers.
But for all the hyperbolic news coverage, the public perception of the rank-and-file of this new reactionary movement remained incredibly polarized—they were common folk heroes to some, villains to others who defined them by the angry words on their signs, not by who they actually were or how they got to this strange moment in American history. How much of their anger was rooted in old-fashioned racism at the first black president, how much of it was new-fashioned and genuine—yet arguably misdirected—rage over an economy that increasingly had nothing to offer to its working class, and how much of it was the result of a political system that catered solely to the affluent or to the elite classes? And how come nobody was watching the vultures circling overhead—the media superstars whose ratings grew in proportion to their ability to scare regular Americans, the other hucksters making a quick buck on that fear, and the political opportunists quick to embrace radical and often bogus ideas to keep their elected positions?
As the first year of Obama’s presidency morphed bumpily into the 2010 midterm elections, you traveled about the country seeking to dig into the roots of this new paranoid style in American life. Your quest would start in Delaware, the scene of Mike Castle’s notorious confrontation with the mystery woman and the first state to ratify the U.S. Constitution. Despite its picture-postcard size, Delaware has become a remarkable microcosm of America in the twenty-first century, from the northern urban and liberal enclaves of Wilmington to the southern conservatism of its rural farmland, laced with upscale new communities of retirees on the Atlantic coastline and a growing downscale Latino population built up around a string of chicken-processing factories. Most of all though, you thought you could better understand what was going on if you could somehow track down not just Castle’s Cassandra in red but, more importantly, the roomful of everyday people who cheered her on.
There was no traditional press coverage when Mike Castle, Delaware’s congressman-at-large, came to Georgetown on June 30, 2009; he’d already had a couple of fairly low-key health-care confabs in the more populous northern reaches of the small state, where most of its journalists reside. The venue for what would prove to be such an angry gathering was the ironically named CHEER Center for senior citizens. One of the senior citizens in attendance this morning was the seventy-year-old Castle himself—one of the last of a dying American species known as the moderate Republican.
Castle’s long career in state and local politics—he was a state lawmaker and then governor before he made the leap to Congress in 1992 in a remarkable bipartisan deal with Democrat Tom Carper called “the swap,” when each took the other’s job—flourished through something called “The Delaware Consensus,” or also “The Delaware Way.” This meant that incumbents from both parties favored similar policies—conservatively pro-business but fairly liberal on social issues like the environment and abortion—and serious election battles were few. The mild-mannered Castle was not used to being challenged, politically or otherwise. A tall, bespectacled man with a sloping forehead, outsized ears, and a gentle patrician bearing, the Ben Franklin descendent gives off a weirdly colonial vibe.
Now, in the summer congressional recess of 2009, with Washington fixated on Obama’s push for health-care reform, Castle thought this would be a good moment for what he called a “listening tour” of the First State. As a sign of his commitment to improving health care, he even brought along a panel of knowledgeable and smartly attired doctors and nurses to join him onstage to address what he expected would be the practical health-care concerns of his constituents. Little did Castle know that hundreds of outraged Delawareans would instead be lying in wait, ready to tell the great-great-great-great-great grandson of Ben Franklin to go fly a kite.
Much of what transpired in Georgetown that morning wasn’t so different from dozens of similar town hall meetings during 2009’s Summer of Rage. The big crowd that packed the senior center—mostly over the age of fifty, mostly white—had been largely whipped up by a local radio station, WGMD (92.7, “The Talk of Delmarva”), and many were members of a newly formed Tea Party–like group called the Sussex County Community Organized Regiment, or SCCOR. There was booing and there was yelling and there were some heated questions about global warming as well as health care; unlike most of his more strident GOP colleagues, Castle had as of this date still left the door open to working with Democrats on compromise legislation. But most of what was said that morning would have been lost to history had it not been for YouTube.com, the video-sharing Web site that did not even exist before 2004.
It was eleven full days after the meeting that the short video—two minutes and fifty-five seconds, to be exact—went up on YouTube. It was uploaded by a brand-new, pseudonymous user named William-DawesinDE (inspired, obviously, by the 1775 American revolutionary who rode on the same night as Paul Revere). Entitled “Mike Castle on Barack H. Obama’s birth certificate,” the video hit the trifecta over the dozen or so days that followed. The biggest break came when it received a coveted link on the ultra-popular and conservative-leaning Web aggregator the Drudge Report, which mainstream news junkies have watched like ravenous hawks ever since the Monica Lewinsky scandal broke there in early 1998.
The ensuing uproar led the video-maker “Dawes” to phone in and give a radio interview on the coast-to-coast, conspiracy-minded Alex Jones Show, which gave the incident both publicity and credibility on the extreme far right. But it reached an even wider audience as it filtered up to the attention of the nation’s top conservative talker, Rush Limbaugh, who also played the clip and said, his voice smacking of approval, “There’s all kinds of stuff bubbling up out there.” The video kept climbing toward the one-million-hit mark on YouTube, but that doesn’t count millions more who watched it the old-fashioned way, on left-wing MSNBC shows and right-wing Fox shows and finally the big time, NBC Nightly News, on July 22, 2009.
And what exactly was so newsworthy about the clip, anyway? Good question. It starts with Castle, looking all funereal in a navy-blue suit, pointing into the crowd: “This lady in red has had her hand up for some time.” The “lady in red” stands up, her back completely toward the camera, auburn hair tied back. Awkwardly in her left arm, she is holding a white document in a large Glad bag and one of those little American flags that you might buy in the front of the A.C. Moore around Independence Day. “Thank you,” she mutters almost inaudibly before launching into her loud, nasal introduction.
“ . . . I have a birth certificate here from the United States of America saying I am an American citizen, with a seal on it . . .” She briefly turns toward the paper, as if to make certain of what she just said, then continues:
“ . . . signed by my doctor and a hospital administrator stating my parents, my date of birth, stating the time, the date. I wanna go back to January twentieth”—the day that Barack Obama became president, the day that changed everything—“and I wanna know why are you people ignoring his birth certificate?!” The mention of the birth certificate gets a big roar and a couple of full-throat-and-belly cheers, and the uproar only grows in volume as the woman in red picks up verbal steam.
“He is not an American citizen!!! He is a citizen of Kenya!” Hands in front of the woman in red now smack together in fervent applause. “I am here because my father fought in World War Two with the Greatest Generation in the Pacific Theater for this country, and I don’t want this flag to change!
“I want my country back!”
The crowd erupts one more time. Mike Castle, keeper of the Delaware Way and the established order, leans back toward his microphone, a befuddled professor, throwing his large hands apart. “Well, I don’t know what comment that that invites. If you’re referring to the, the president there, he is a citizen of the United States.”
Cries of “No!” fill the air, amid a crescendo of boos.
The YouTube video cuts to a later scene from the same meeting, and the woman in red’s unmistakable voice: “. . . . all the men and women that died in this country from 1776 till the present time, I think we should all stand up and give the Pledge of Allegiance to that wonderful flag, for all the people that sacrificed their lives for our freedom!”
The woman in red waves both arms over her head, like an outside linebacker who just sacked the quarterback for a twelve-yard loss. “Okay, we’re going to do this,” says Castle, with an air of resignation pulling down his noblesse oblige. “Do you want me to lead?” Now there was a political double entendre.
The whole thing was a rout. Representative Mike Castle, heir to America’s colonial legacy, longtime public servant, and supporter of sensible, centrist policies on issues from environmental protection to stem-cell research, had been beaten back by an angry mob that had been whipped up by an emotional and anonymous woman. Five months later, this Delaware moderate who’d initially promised to seek a bipartisan compromise to improve health care joined 176 of his fellow Republicans—out of 177—to vote against the reform bill, just as he would
later vote against a new jobs bill—just another faithful and faceless servant of “The Party of No,” burnishing his newly minted right-wing credentials as he now prepared his run to fill the Senate seat vacated by the new vice president, Joe Biden.
No one expected this to be the big story as the 2000s came to an end—angry mobs armed with a political myth giving strength and renewal to a beaten-down conservative movement and frightening moderates like Castle in both parties. This was predicted to be the Age of Obama and his new coalition of college-educated professionals, students, African-Americans, the nation’s fast-growing population of Latinos, gays, and urban and upscale coastal suburban people that seemed in 2008 to announce itself as a New American Majority, one that would only grow more powerful in the decades to come. The Obama voters were rational, numbers-minded people—with numbers on their side, and time. The U.S. Census Bureau, after all, is forecasting that whites will become a minority in America—outnumbered by blacks, Latinos, and Asians, who voted overwhelmingly for Obama in 2008—by the year 2050. The number of Americans with at least a bachelor’s degree from college—also a strong predictor of voting for Obama and other Democrats—is also continuing to rise year after year; one study found that professionals in the American electorate had soared from about 7 percent in the 1950s to roughly 25 percent today, and Obama had swept the regions where these folks were moving, even high-tech and formerly “red” zones of America like the northern Virginia suburbs and North Carolina’s Research Triangle. The veteran political journalist Ron Brownstein referred to Obama voters as “the coalition of the ascendant.” At the height of the liberal euphoria in the weeks right after Obama’s inauguration, the top progressive demographer Ruy Texeira looked at his trend charts and flatly proclaimed, “A new progressive America is on the rise.”
But everybody seemed to be forgetting about one thing: the other 47 percent of America—the folks who did not push the button for Barack Obama in pursuit of “transforming America” on November 3, 2008, including the people—some 59, 934,818, if you believe in the mathematics—who wanted to see John McCain and Sarah Palin occupy the West Wing. They were, to paraphrase the nation’s top-selling conservative author, the Christian-apocalyptic Tim LaHaye, the country’s new “Left Behind”—and they weren’t getting the demographic memos from Ruy Texeira.
The full backlash wasn’t really 47 percent. As the first weeks of the Obama administration dragged into months, the parameters of the hard-core resistance emerged, with a figure attached that was closer to 26 percent, maybe less. These were the 26 percent of Americans, according to Newsweek, who still approved of George W. Bush in the waning days of his presidency; the 26 percent who in 2009 said they’d like to see Sarah Palin as Obama’s successor in 2012, according to CBS; the 26 percent who reported to Fox News they were outraged when President Obama bowed to the Japanese emperor; and the 26 percent who believed that Obama’s 2008 election was not legitimate, that the much-ballyhooed antipoverty group ACORN had somehow swooped down and “stolen” the contest by recruiting new voters in the heavily black and Latino inner cities.
Indeed, race shadowed every discussion. Times had changed—this was not 1968, when an avowed segregationist like George Wallace could still run credibly for president. But experts weighed a new term—“pararacial”—for a raft of issues that made people ponder Barack Obama’s blackness even as race itself was never mentioned. That included specific issues like Obama’s birth certificate, but also the more general sentiment of “I want my country back”—another coded statement uttered by the woman in red in reference to the inauguration of a black president. As CNN commentator Roland Martin said about the meaning of “I want my country back” after his network aired the Castle confrontation clip: “What that means is, ‘All of a sudden how is this black guy running the country?! What’s going on?!’ ”
This piece is excerpted from: “The Backlash: Right-Wing Radicals, High-Def Hucksters, and Paranoid Politics in the Age of Obama.” This excerpt is printed courtesy of Harper Collins.