The Great Derangement - Matt Taibbi [6]
That moment to me is what this book is about. Inside the bubble we’re fine, we make sense. It’s what’s outside the bubble that we have trouble with.
I would have liked to have gotten more of that, found some better and more forceful ways of describing the amazing weirdness of our almost totally insular existence. But for much of this book I end up playing a traditional and much-loathed role, that of the establishment media spy sent on assignment to denigrate and laugh at the cultural fringes. I was bothered by that problem throughout the project and have no real answer for anyone who wants to throw that charge my way. The only thing I can think to say is that by the end I was no longer sure that what I was dealing with were really fringe movements. The 9/11 Truth Movement in particular I first thought was a small, scattered group of nutcases, but by the end I realized they really were, just as they claim to be, almost everyone you meet. And in Texas, when I hit the pavement to find converts for my crazy church, I expected to be laughed at—but instead found myself embraced and eagerly listened to by almost everybody I approached, an experience I had never had as my actual, secular self.
And that was really the point of one of the last scenes in the book, the one where I crank-call my old church from the safety of my real home, the depraved universe of empty-hearted media creatures, in this case the NFL draft in New York. For as crazy as some of the people in these movements are, they at least believe in something, they have some kind of instinct or urge toward truth or justice or something. For the really sad part is that nobody from my neighborhood is offering them shit, apart from a depressing selection of greed fantasies and a kind of slick, smug nihilism with which to pass the time. On that particular day part of me actually missed being in Texas, but the scene eventually finds me back where I started, a bloated smart-ass covered in cookie crumbs enjoying a modern-day slave auction via the one concrete perk of his professional existence, good seats.
If there’s a villain in the book, I might offer some of the congressional representatives in the Washington chapters, or John Hagee maybe, but really the best selection might actually be me. And I have no idea exactly what that means, but it’s probably not good.
ONE
BORN AGAIN
IT’S A THURSDAY AFTERNOON in San Antonio and I’m in a rented room—creaky floorboards, peeling wallpaper, month to month, no lease, space heater only, the ultimate temporary lifestyle—and I can’t find the right channel on the television. I rented this place, it seems, without making sure that it had ESPN. This realization throws the poverty of the room into relief for the first time.
Shit, it’s cold in here, I think, aware of a draft all of a sudden. When I look back at the TV, it’s on a gospel channel. A video preacher straight out of central casting is pointing a finger right at the screen—right at me—admonishing me to surrender to God. He’s got swept-back white hair, gold wire-rimmed glasses, and a booming hellfire voice that makes the name “A-BRA-HAAM!” come spilling out of his mouth like a brand-new Mustang V-8 turning over for the first time.
“When you give up more than you deserve,” he shouts, “God will give you more than you dreamed!” He pauses, letting the words settle in for effect. “I want you to write that down somewhere!”
I shrug and reach for a notebook.
“Write it down: When you give up more than you deserve,” the preacher repeats, “God will give you more than you dreamed!”
I nod and write it down in block letters. Why not? I have no idea what the hell it means, but I didn’t come to Texas to argue with people. But what exactly do I deserve?
The preacher continues on; his sermon is from Genesis 12, the story about Abraham coming to Egypt and instructing his beautiful wife, Sarah, to say that she’s his sister, which in turn allows Abraham not only to avoid being killed but to trade her to Pharaoh in exchange for a mother lode of slaves, asses, and camels. But,