who goes fascist?

the game. battery not included.

Who would go fascist in a crisis? It’s a variant of a guessing game pioneered by Dorothy Thompson right around World War II. Our friend Dorothy had the distinction of being the first American journalist kicked out of Nazi Germany for criticizing the regime, but she also recognized that fascism was an impulse not limited to a single nation or group. Since then we’ve had around 80 years of popularized history, dramatized in endless WWII movies, to warn us about Nazis. Yet fascism isn’t only a threat when someone wearing a swastika walks into frame.

Violent fascist regimes don’t just pop into existence; they’re grown, contested, cultivated, ignored, defended, protested. The archetypes have been laid bare, from the open fascists, the complacent, and the facilitators to the fighters, the cautious, and the satisfied.

But on to the game. I’ll explain the rules. We look around — let’s say at a local coffee shop — and speculate on who, in a showdown, would go the fascism route. Yes or no. Simple enough.

[Act 1]

[The curtain opens on a modern American coffee shop, people scattered about]

The lady sipping on a medium macchiato is Mrs. A, a woman whose kind spirit matches the warmth of the fireplace behind her. She’s just past living paycheck to paycheck. When you work for the church down the road, money takes a backseat to the mission. She’s well educated with a college degree. Her advisor recommended her for a PhD program in anthropology, but she left behind higher academia to start a family with a handsome man from her graduating class. Mrs. A is witty and wise without a trace of arrogance. She has a memory fit to win nearly any round of trivia and still abides by her brother’s rule to not ruin Jeopardy by answering all the questions ahead of everyone.

She’s sinking into a worn leather chair, waiting for her eldest son’s orchestra rehearsal to end so she can rush to her youngest’s PTA meeting — maybe this wasn’t the year to be treasurer. Mrs. A can’t keep up with the memes her kids quote across the dinner table, and her husband, who teaches at a school one county over, is hardly any better.

But still, Mrs. A is content with a quiet life with her family, putting in the effort to make her corner of the world a more human place to live. Despite having little money, her education and family ties give her a place in the world to call her own. She doesn’t see life as a competition, locked in an endless battle for limited resources. Fascist ideologies don’t fit within her standards and she wouldn’t accept anything that isn’t model behavior for her children. She’s not a fighter, but at the end of the day, she’ll fight against the fascists if — God forbid — they rise to power.

Beside her by the fireplace sits Mr. B, the heat an apt metaphor for his ambition. He’s from the same town and graduated from the same college as Mrs. A, but he went on to work for a big financial firm in the city. He hadn’t recognized her at first, but now they’re catching up on how Professor Shlock had the funniest way of pronouncing “collision”.

Mr B. is only stopping by for a Large Vietnamese Nitro Coldbrew on his way to the marina. He’s considering trading in the family yacht for a newer model to use at the bi-annual family reunion in Miami, but he hasn’t pulled the trigger yet. He’s a well respected VP at his firm, and envied for his beautiful, loving wife on his arm at every company affair. He’s a good guy, charming and likable. Even now he’s on, channeling his considerable presence and attention into impressing Mrs. A.

Mr. B has risen beyond where he could get on ability alone through health, looks, charm, and connections. He’s a product of a production line that cranks out people who do all sorts of things for money. His code is not of his own making; it’s the code of his class — no more or less than any of the circles he runs in. Success is his sole measure of himself, however that looks in the room he’s in, to whomever he needs to impress — whether it’s a CFO or an old friend from college. As a fringe movement, fascism is laughable, and doesn’t attract him. But a movement on the rise to power has more appeal.

The melancholic man brooding at the window with half his face shadowed is already a fascist. Not that you can tell from his large Americano, although he does appreciate the subtle patriotic allusion. Mr. C is brilliant and embattled. He comes from a middle class Mid-Western family, currently earning his degree far from home without help from a scholarship, and with no time or interest in joining a fraternity. He has a vague feeling that he’s getting screwed over — by girls, by teachers, by the media, by online language police. He’s felt largely ignored as of late, the cultural narrative moving towards sympathy for the thems. He feels that people like him are getting replaced and forgotten, rendered invisible by political correctness run amok.

Mr. C is a young man in his prime looking forward to worse prospects than his parents. Mounting debt will keep him in the red for decades post graduation, home ownership seems impossible, his healthcare might disappear any minute. He’s always felt himself on the periphery of life — more than anything, he wants to belong. He’s found online spaces where like-minded guys gather to vent their frustrations. It started off watching hilarious videos about over-sensitive teen feminists, and soon enough the Algorithm led him to questions of biological IQ score differences. Now he moderates a message board on how to resurrect the great Western society that they’re meant to inherit.

His style is partial to sweats and sneakers, but he could certainly fancy himself in a uniform — the aesthetics of proper validation — of finally being seen. Mr. C wasn’t born a fascist, but was drawn into its allure as a byproduct of a “hypocritical democracy preaching social opportunity and equality while practicing carelessly exploitative alienation.”*

*Snippet taken from his twitter bio.

Mrs. D would go fascist sure as the french press with two extra shots will keep her energized through her late-night meeting. Normally she wouldn’t meet in a random coffee place to answer questions for some high-schooler’s project on women in business, but it’s for a colleague’s kid. Never know when a favor might come in handy.

She’s become a snob, blissfully in denial of her snobbery. At least she’s better than the men around her — men who got to where they are with half the effort she did and none of the unwanted advances. She fought her way into the same rooms that Mr. B and his ilk were born to run, and now she makes decisions about what men like him see everyday when they turn on the television.

Even more than the class of powerful men and women in her boardroom, she detests where she came from — the parents who told her she would make an excellent wife, the small town that taught her to aspire to marriage to a small man and little else. All that reminds her of her lowly origins and past humiliations can be left to rot. There’s no place for pity as an executive, and the ride up to her penthouse is long enough to forget about the homeless woman a few blocks down who’s stopped asking for change.

Her own ambitions have led her to media prominence, where people walk around repeating her ideas, their own perspectives framed within what she says. She prefers facts over feelings, and has abdicated her own in service of maintaining her station. She hardly interacts with the silent majority she speaks for, but knows how to incite their anger and sense of loss. And it’s incredibly lucrative.

As with all who reach the top, Mrs. D sees no difference between what is and what should be, her elevation paradoxically narrowing her horizons. She’d be well rewarded by a fascist administration. There’s always room for the ruthless and intellectual, those self-righteous enough to see no gap between their own views and the Truth. In the game of billionaires paying millionaires to make thousand-aires scared of people in debt and immigrants, somebody has to be the millionaire. It might as well be her.

On the other side of the room is a woman cooling off her mocha with an extra shot of chocolate. Her own source of warmth away from the fire, Ms. E would never be swooned by fascism. So far she’s smiled at everyone in the shop, a witty, jovial woman oozing easy conversation while she waits for her drink at the end of the bar. She’s happily committed to the woman of her dreams, with two children from her first marriage. Her charming house is like walking into an open hug every day, and she writes poetry on race and struggle and joy after her kids are safe in bed upstairs. She has a full life and plenty to pursue; fascism isn’t even up for consideration — not that they would have her anyway.

Deftly making drinks and agreeable small talk while manning the register is Mr. F, safe from the fascist pull. He’s interacted with everyone, but not like Ms. E can — from one distant customer to another. Mr. F is serving them, and blends into the setting. Some people approach him with sympathy at how early he must have been up, wishing he got enough sleep for the long shift. Others bark their order, wishing they could just type it into a screen made to replace him. He’s been on the receiving end of enough customer frustration to understand how people treat those below them on the totem pole. He knows who to avoid in the crowd of customers. Not all the assholes are fascist, but all the fascists are assholes.

Mr. G was chatting with Mrs. D in the line. See she gets it: kids these days are so sensitive around all their new terms. They’re demanding that he get on board or get thrown overboard. Not in his country. He’ll stick with a plain black coffee, one Splenda. Equalᵀᴹ is too saccharine.

Mr. G stands with his head high, having risen up from humble beginnings to achieve the American dream. He has a lovely wife and kids, owns a house, and works a stable (if stressful) job that provides for his family’s needs and wants. He found a pair of usable bootstraps, and knows that America is filled with opportunity where anything can happen — well, not fascism. It can’t happen here — checks and balances, the founding fathers, birthplace of modern democracy, the constitution.

Things aren’t perfect, sure. Take that whole Charlottesville mess a few years back, his kids were really angry about that. As far as he’s concerned, if everyone just let those idiots march without paying them any mind, the country would see how unpopular fascism is in America. To be honest, the counter protesters only brought more attention to it, and there wouldn’t have been any violence if none of them went. That poor girl wouldn’t have died.

Mr. G doesn’t defend the fascists (in fact he dislikes them). But it’s a free country. It’s his choice to watch his favorite news anchors, who articulate reasons to vote for someone who provides cover for fascists. Three degrees of separation stop Mr. G from thinking he’s involved at all. Besides, fascism isn’t even a serious problem here. He’s more concerned about how he’ll explain to his future grandkids how transgender, vegan, gay socialists are running for Senate.

H is very awake to the threats around them in the room. And their alertness has nothing to do with the kombucha and second iced coffee they just ordered. They’re back at their table venting online about the asshole in line complaining about political correctness. Thankfully, their parents are more progressive-minded than that.

A recent graduate, H majored in engineering — something practical for their parents — and minored in philosophy, a long time hobby horse. They’re off working for an environmental consultant contracted to the city’s water infrastructure project, combining just the right amount of social sustainability with personal financial sustainability. But they could do without the corporate bureaucracy and billing time in 15 minute increments.

They play pickup frisbee when they can, maybe go to the community center for pottery if the weather’s bad. Living in a progressive city sometimes means going online is the only outlet to combat the world’s inequities. Especially Twitter threads — can’t let stupid tweets pass without correction. For justice.

H is disappointed with so few obvious allies around to actively oppose fascism. They might need to find another coffee place, but this one has the best cinnamon buns.

Yet H has miscounted, distracted by crafting the perfect scathing retort 280 characters allows. There’s another person who would join the struggle.

Miss J is a former refugee. When she walks into a room it’s usually filled with people as likely to call her headdress a hijab as they are a turban or burka. Mr. C is glaring from across the room, his Americano empty. She hardly registered him — his type are always threatened by her mere existence.

Unlike everyone else in the room, she’s the only one who wasn’t born an American. Her parents chose to journey here, fleeing from conditions in their home country that would have led to her probable death had they stayed. And so they left for her to have a better life — one she’s found.

She’s reading a fantasy novel, or maybe sci-fi — hard to tell, but something with time travel. Nothing like a good book and a cappuccino to make her day. She was raised to care for her town, and is leading a seminar later as a community nutrition educator. Recently she’s been painting in her spare time. Her coworkers keep handing her frames to transform into art for their walls. Surprisingly she likes painting bugs — their intricate translucent wings and bulbous bodies — but she’ll still scream when they’re flying in her general direction.

As a child, she dreamed that the spectre of fascism couldn’t reach her in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Now she knows that fascism doesn’t stop at national borders or the borders of our own identities. And she learned long ago that fascists are made to be defeated.

[Intermission]

It’s a macabre sort of fun to curb the anticipation of an uncertain future: a people-watching game of who goes fascist? And it simplifies things — asking the question about the people around you.

As Dorothy tells it, kind, happy, secure people don’t go Fascist. They may be a well meaning church-goer or an exasperated twitter warrior, but they won’t be tempted by fascism. However, the alienated, young outcast; the complacent, patronizing parent; the rich, ambitious business woman — they just might go Fascist in a crisis.

If only it could be as simple as Dorothy made it seem.

Maybe the game was a better fit in 1941, as fascism flourished and nations chose a side in a World War. 80 or so years later and things are less clear. Even Confederate and Nazi flags marching side by side in America doesn’t receive universal acknowledgement that something has gone terribly wrong. There’s more to the game now. Things have gotten left out or gone unnoticed.

[Act 2]

[later]

We couldn’t see how the servile barista smiles all day at customers but can’t keep up the act when he goes home to his wife and kids. After his work shift ends and his home shift begins he has no patience left to give. Those who love him most get the least of him. His kids scramble to look productive when they hear him coming down the stairs. Dad’s had a tough day at work, so they learn to keep a smile on their faces and their own troubles out of his reach.

The church-going mom had to go home and explain to her 1st grader why someone in class said that girls are allowed to marry other girls now. It’s been hard raising children while a changing culture belittles and rejects her religious beliefs, but that’s the world she finds herself in. Likewise with politics, she’s been left without a party to call her own, torn between a child’s right to life from conception and the universal call to welcome the stranger and the immigrant.

The rich businessman finished reminiscing with a college friend and stepped out to take a call. It’s the marina again asking about the meeting today. Maybe he’ll upgrade next year; he can’t bring himself to get rid of dad’s boat. It’s the last place his little sister remembers their old man before the heart attack. It’s where their family always set aside time for each other — the late night Uno games when his parents showed no mercy and expected none in return. He and his sister still managed to win more often than not. And today getting onto the water is the only place he can manage to be unreachable. He has a policy of giving the kids a 20 minute head start before looking for where they ran off with his phone.

We missed how the bootstrap-equipped dad got badgered by his kids again on the way to dinner. They want him to start calling immigrants ‘undocumented’ instead of illegals, but it sounds like a bunch of unnecessary political correctness if you ask him. We can’t take everyone, and if we’re not careful soon we’ll be the United States of Northern Mexico — although one of his mom’s favorite nurses who takes care of her during her episodes has been away. Apparently she was undocumented. She was always so kind. Somehow she should be able to stay.

We didn’t stay long enough to notice the alienated young outcast meet with his new lab partner for this semester. Turns out they got along better than he might’ve thought after first seeing her. Mattering to one person was what he needed. After their 4th date, an online alt-right forum permanently lost a moderator.

Over time the exasperated twitter warrior set their standards higher and higher until nobody could reach them. Eventually they became as likely to cancel an ally as a fascist, drawing a line in the sand around a cohort too small to contain all the people needed to defeat the looming barbarism. One person’s bad take is another person’s public excommunication. We missed them radicalizing through the years, violence becoming less impossible as the oppression around them continued unabated. When other people aren’t taking it seriously enough, the threat of fascism can justify any response — without noticing they adopted the tactics of those they seek to defeat.

And someone else entirely escaped notice — me — the pestering patron beside you spinning tall tales about strangers who go fascist. Perhaps authoritatively dictating the moral fate of everyone in the room does raise some questions. But I don’t have a fascist bone in my body. I swear.

It can be an amusing game while you wait for your next double-shot nonfat vanilla latte — no foam. But fun as it might be, reducing our opponents to vaudeville performers in some over-caffeinated masquerade purifies the messier truth. The sharp lines of our imaginary game board become smudged in real life.

Who goes fascist is murky and uncertain, with the game rightly casting us all into suspicion, because we are all susceptible. Sometimes the things we most wish to destroy are pieces of ourselves.

— Warmest regards, a coffee shop stranger