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In 1989, academic Francis Fukuyama proclaimed that the dominance of liberalism represented a so-called ‘end to history,’ a peak where it was not possible to progress forward. As the 2000’s rolled in, it became clear that this statement had apocalyptic connotations. This was evident in my experience reporting at former president Donald Trump’s rally in Uniondale on September 18. The overwhelming bleak tone, masked by hollow patriotism, made clear that the ‘end of history’ was no longer utopia but a prison.
Making my way through the hordes of adoring fans waiting for the chance to see their god (as well as protestors from the local Haitian community), I encountered a Dionysian convent of pure plastic. “Make America Great Again” hats were sold at makeshift stalls, their vendors declaring the competition to have Chinese goods and affirming their commitment to American manufacturing.
Through the gates, corralled by scores of Nassau County police, I entered the lot scene of the rally. As Trump impersonators gave interviews to an eager press, the entrance line stretched around the block and intersected itself three times. Food trucks amassed hundreds of sales, the remnants of chili dogs littering the grounds. A revolutionary war-style rock band played the “Star-Spangled Banner,” pausing only to announce their devotion to Trump. The crowd gawked as a delegation from South Korea marched through the parking lot singing “Proud to Be an American” in broken English, eliciting many racist impersonations and jeers.
Credit: Photo by Quinn Dobson
The crowd outside the Coliseum
A man sat alone in front of the rows of lifted trucks, his Israeli flag yellow with cigarette smoke. His hands held signs claiming Kamala Harris’s allegiance to Hamas, a notion no reputable news has yet to confirm. “When he united Jerusalem, that’s when I got on board,” he coughed out. His name was Bob Kunst, apparent President of Shalom International and avid Trump supporter.
With research, it seems that Shalom International is a defunct organization, most famous for protesting the opening of a disco a kilometer from Auschwitz in the late 1980s, with Kunst now its only active member. Beyond his penchant for the Israeli state, who he says is entirely justified in its mass slaughter of innocents, Kunst would seemingly like to import their cruelty to America. Everyone I interviewed, as was echoed by Trump later, advocated the deportation of all “illegal immigrants,” a blanket phrase that seems to include both Dreamers and legitimate asylum seekers. Anyone who would like to donate to Shalom International, Kunst asks all contributions to be sent to “Defend Jerusalem”, P.O. Box 402263, Miami Beach, Fla. 33140.
Credit: Photo by Quinn Dobson
Bob Kunst with his signs
Having been dealt a great deal of psychic damage by lumpen assembled in the parking lot, I fled deeper into the heart of the beast. As the band launched into another rendition of the national anthem, the angels prepared to sing hallelujah in the plastic seats of the coliseum. Cutting in line, the flock jostled for a spot, their odor creating a full sensory experience. They mashed sloppily upon curly fries, spilling seasoning upon the earth, and signs proclaiming COVID’s inauthenticity did no favors for my paranoia as a cough slipped between my lips.
I passed through the metal detector, my disallowed bag arousing no suspicion. “This isn’t the airport, guys,” the exhausted attendant cried. I found my seat, one of the few left in my row, next to a woman with an astonishing abundance of plastic bags and merchandise. She buzzed with excitement, ecstatically joining chants of “lock her up” and “U.S.A.”
Credit: Photo by Quinn Dobson
Anne Fundner gives speech to unaware crowd
An unannounced speaker took the stage, her bleached blond hair shining in the lights. “You may remember me from the RNC,” she announced to an audience that evidently did not remember her, “where I talked about my fifteen-year-old son who tragically passed away from fentanyl poisoning.” Her name is Anne Fundner, and her entire speech was paid absolutely no mind until she mentioned Joe Biden. Suddenly, at the mention of the great Democratic Satan, rapturous boo’s echoed through the stadium. As they petered out, she continued her story, much to the chagrin of the less than captive audience. Clearly only one shepherd could breathe life into this flock and lead them to the water of nationalistic fervor.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the next president of the United States, Donald J. Trump.” As our messiah entered the room, the holy spirit did as well: the pigs bayed for blood. “Proud to be an American,” clearly the song of the summer, blasted through the massive speakers. Trump trundled around the stage, taking in the waves of adoration. “Wow, these are big crowds,” he croaked, and so commenced a performance of the greatest stand-up comedian of our generation.
What is essential is the absolute bleakness emanating from the center stage—an uncomfortable aura akin to a clown crying while stepping into his shoes. The messiah spoke in tongues, gibberish nonsense with little association phrase to phrase; it was hilarious, yet with every declaration the great unwashed screamed in unison.
Credit: Photo by Quinn Dobson
Trump speaks to the crowd
“The border is,” the former President paused, grasping for a semi-reasonable number. “Twenty-five times worse than it was in 2020.” I fractured at this moment, laughing hysterically at the sheer absurdity of this statement. The dissonance between my cackling and the roaring of the crowd was too much. I felt a break, a oneness with the universe, every chakra in my body simultaneously aligned. God spoke to me and I chortled back.
The ordeal stretched on, time became relative, and the clocks spiraled and melted. The stadium became a liminal space in which nothing had meaning beyond the gobbledygook spilling from the conservative Christ’s mouth. “God bless you all, nice seeing you,” he mumbled, and an opera libretto announced the ending of the event. I glanced around the stadium, which had been steadily losing attendees since Trump took the stage, rows of empty seats patterned the crowd. I stumbled out into the horrid cold, a blinding headache piercing my skull, my third and fourth eyes gleaming in the street light. The speech resembled a sermon to the audience, but a horribly funny standup routine to onlookers; in truth, the joke was on us.
The end of history has often been announced, but Fukuyama’s book “The End of History and the Last Man” is the most infamous. Liberalism may be the peak of capitalism, but the prison of the laissez-faire could be the final breath of humanity. America’s answer is to embrace the psychosis of modern life, endorse the militarism that dominates the world, and put our last hopes into the worst vestiges of culture. The end of history is commencing, and the tides are rolling forward.
Photo by Quinn Dobson
Crowd inside the Nassau Coliseum
