My Turn: Dazed and confused at the Republican National Convention

Last week I had the privilege of attending the Republican National Convention as a Massachusetts delegate. Being my first convention, I had wondered before arriving what the level of intensity would be, given the events of the Saturday preceding it. I’m speaking of course of the attempted assassination attempt on former President Donald Trump. The carnival atmosphere was expected, as was the overtones that unity and agreement were to be required, regardless of any individual reservations over who would be picked and what policies would be adopted.

Having spent the past several years working for local municipal governments, I was struck by the procedures which were to guide the opening day. Sitting on the floor of the convention, the disseminated literature upon our seats had me anticipating something which would resemble a run-of-the-mill Selectboard meeting. However, much like an American Christmas, I witnessed that the official proceedings (which I had at first expected to be orderly and revered) ended up being more of a formality honoring the governing structure of days long past. When J.D. Vance was put forward as the Republican nominee for vice president, it was more of less agreed upon before the vote. The crowd’s reaction, much like in the Colosseum of ancient Rome, was the real driving force behind what could have been any “official” business. This led me towards an internal realm of great confusion, as it is usually the right wing of American politics who warns against the mob, along with its tendency to (on occasion) democratically lynch the scapegoat or crown a Ceaser.

Among the crowd of enthusiastic Trump supporters, the prevalent theme in the foreground was Trump’s miraculous survival. Properly gearing up for a government which respects the separation of church and state, there was never a shortage of religiosity when it came to praising Trump’s instinct and “destiny” of becoming America’s 47th president. Possibly these overconfident statements, though one might dismiss as mere elevated enthusiasm, gave a sour flavor to the theme of respectability. It seemed to me as the nights progressed that each candidate who spoke on behalf of Trump was introduced as the “next” such and such elected official, long before any vote was cast. Hubris, often a mainstay of Trump culture, was in no short supply.

However, it was the third evening which struck me as significant. Though I had never seen Trump speak in person, I had a general idea of what he would say and regarded Thursday evening as simply the final load to be lifted. Contrarily on Wednesday, having minimal familiarity with J.D. Vance, I sat in restrained optimism hoping he would be the person who may bridge the divide between generations and political extremism. Being presented as a “common man,” Vance’s down-to-earth demeanor had me wonder if perhaps America could be made great again. As these daydreams of stability danced in my head, my concentration was shattered by the reoccurring chant of “fight, fight, fight.” As more information was being presented about the would-be assassin, the backbone of this vocal aggression confused me even more. Given the information known at present is true, who exactly is the crowd urging us to fight? American youth? Individuals challenged with mental health diagnoses? As the convention wound to a close, I realized that the target of the “fight” is anyone who disagrees with the machine.

The curiosity of the final evening may have revealed more than intended. Terry Bollea (whom most know as “Hulk Hogan”), instead of taking the serious route and giving a speech in his real-life persona, opted to communicate his support through the medium of his wrestling character. It was this single event which opened a window of understanding to what was really going on. There was nothing political about this spectacle; this was an entertainment event. In combination with the live band, the concert-style security, and a routine chanting of the sort you’d expect to see at Wrestlemania, the halls of our most cherished freedoms appeared to adhere to celebrity before my very eyes. Not much could be said of the final evening of the convention, apart from my almost giving the Massachusetts delegation a heart attack by wearing a keffiyeh in support of Palestine on the convention floor. Perhaps it was my own confusion in believing the words of J.D. Vance that the Republican Party was a party that represented “all Americans.” As I soon witnessed, “all” and “Americans” might only apply to people who table and silence their disagreement.

Ahmad Esfahani lives in Greenfield.