I Crashed a Republican Women's Patriotic Gala

Let me start with a confession.

When I embarked on my Among the Believers series back in April, I had only the "concept of a plan"—to borrow one of Trump's more memorable phrases.

I announced to my readers that I was going to spend the run-up to the midterms trying to climb inside the Trump-supporter mindset and understand how these people see the world. My goal was simple: to understand how these beliefs take root and endure. Because convictions don't loosen their grip simply because we disagree with them. And if there's even a small chance that a certainty can crack or a vote can change between now and November, understanding has to come before persuasion.

Noble mission, right?

There was only one problem.

I had absolutely no idea how the hell to go about it.

Where would I find these voters? And once I found them, how would I approach them? More to the point, despite my high-minded raison d'être, did I even want to? I’d spent the past decade carefully organizing my life to avoid people who cheer for politicians I consider corrupt, cruel, and profoundly ignorant.

There are no Trump supporters (or even Republicans) in my family, among my friends, or in my social circle. Not even my brother-in-law! I’m not saying there used to be some and I’ve since excommunicated them. I’m saying they were never there to begin with.

In fact, I can think of exactly one person I’ve known well who ever let slip their right-wing worldview. We worked together for years. The morning after the Las Vegas massacre, when a gunman armed with an arsenal of military-style weapons opened fire on concertgoers from the 32nd floor of the Mandalay Bay hotel, killing 61 people and wounding hundreds more, I said something to the effect of:

“I can’t believe I live in a country where dozens of people can be gunned down in a matter of minutes and everyone already knows nothing will be done to stop it from happening again.”

To which my colleague replied, "Well, if that guy really wanted to kill people, he could have done it with knives or anything."

You know.

From the 32nd floor.

I remember just staring at her.

We were on Zoom, but still.

Anyway, I never brought up "politics" again.

(It's worth mentioning that a few years later, the husband of that same co-worker spent six weeks in the hospital, including a lengthy stay in intensive care, after nearly dying from COVID. He had declined vaccination.)

So, the question remained: How was I going to find Trump voters willing to engage?

Well, as any Taoist philosopher will tell you, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Mine began with a focus group and has since taken me to a diner, a church, a former gay nightclub, and a neighborhood block party.

Not all of those excursions were on the up and up.

Two required infiltration. There's no ethical spin I can put on it: I lied my way in. Sometimes by commission, sometimes by omission, but deception nonetheless. I wanted to hear people speak freely rather than perform for a perceived political opponent.

For two others, I worked a few connections.

And for one, I did what I imagine real journalists do: I contacted representatives of a conservative organization and asked for an interview.

That last one—the most aboveboard approach of the bunch—is also the one that almost never works. I've made similar requests at least a dozen times over the past few months and rarely received a reply.

But one guaranteed way to get into a room full of Republican voters is through a fundraiser—the endless procession of pancake breakfasts, barbecue cookouts, meet-and-greets, candidate forums, banquet dinners, cocktail receptions, and the occasional gala that keeps the machinery of conservative politics humming.

The catch: fundraisers raise funds. Which meant that gaining access would require financially supporting the very people I was trying to understand. Or expose. Or excoriate, depending on how things went.

How would I live with myself if I knowingly gave money to a conservative cause? More importantly, how would my readers react? Some would surely pillory me for it. Or worse, unsubscribe. 😱

My dilemma was further compounded by the fact that I desperately wanted to interview women, as most of my interactions thus far had been with men. Some readers had noticed and gently called me out on it.

So, in the interest of connecting with the fairer sex*, I devised a plan. I hope you’ll find it acceptable.

*Ironic use of term

A brief note: I don't identify the organizations I visit. This is partly to avoid litigation and partly to reduce the chances of finding a burning cross on my lawn. That said, if you happen to discover a few breadcrumbs along the way, you're welcome to follow them.

A local women's Republican group was hosting an event titled “Celebrate America's 250'th Birthday Event” (their superfluous apostrophe, not mine). It promised to be “an evening of patriotism, great company, music, and dancing.” Well, I figured, I like one of those things. How could I resist? Tickets for non-members were $65.

Again, the prospect of financially supporting a conservative cause was anathema to me. To offset the karmic damage, I immediately donated twice the ticket price to the ACLU and considered the cosmic balance restored.

Then there was the matter of the mailing lists. I suspected a single ticket purchase could trigger a years-long cascade of urgent appeals to save America, stop socialism, defend Starbucks Christmas cups, and preserve the constitutional right of fictional mermaids to be portrayed by white actresses. Well, there's no controlling junk mail, so consider my overflowing mailbox, stuffed with glossy mailers warning that Western civilization hangs in the balance, a small sacrifice I've made in the name of pretend journalism.

You're welcome.

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I took my dark gray suit out of mothballs and ironed a dress shirt for the first time in a happily very long time. I used extra starch because that’s what I imagine conservatives do. Fortunately, I’ve owned my neckties long enough that they’ve been in style, out of style, and back in style again. Pleased that my pants still buttoned without the aid of a corset, I headed to the boutique hotel where the event was being held. Not wanting to blow my cover before I even made it through the front door, I skipped the valet and parked my leftist Subaru down the street.

I passed giant columns wrapped in red, white, and blue balloons, walked beneath a giant arch made of red, white, and blue balloons, and entered through a giant doorway framed by red, white, and blue balloons. I made a mental note to buy stock in Patriotic Balloons, Inc.

As I stepped into the reception lobby, I was greeted by a song so perfectly, absurdly on-brand that readers may suspect I've invented it for literary effect. I have not. Blasting from the speakers was Lee Greenwood's God Bless the U.S.A., known to most of us by its chorus, I'm Proud to Be an American.

I fucking hate that song.

At first, I assumed it was simply a comedically well-timed needle drop. I soon learned otherwise. During the roughly thirty minutes we spent milling about the lobby area before the event kicked off, I was treated to the song two more times. By the third rendition, I began to suspect the song wasn't background music so much as a patriotic psyop, the sort of thing the military blasts at enemy combatants to shatter morale and break their will.

Though battered and shaken, I pressed on.

As readers of my previous dispatches know, I'm not a naturally social creature. I can impersonate a people person when circumstances require it, but only in short bursts. After about ten minutes of schmoozing, I generally need to retreat to a bathroom, deserted hallway, or other quiet refuge to regroup before venturing back into the fray.

I was also in the minority as a male in what appeared to be a crowd that was 90% women. For the first time in my life, I knew what it must feel like to be a woman at a fantasy football draft, a Civil War reenactment, or a convention for model train collectors. For a fleeting moment, I even felt mildly objectified. For the first time in my life, I understood what it must feel like to be a woman, well, almost everywhere.

Despite these obstacles, I resolved to be sociable.

The room was filled almost entirely with women who looked as though they had spent the last thirty years organizing church bake sales, winning silent charity auctions, and arguing with school principals. The dominant aesthetic might best be described as country-club patriotism. American flags in the form of scarves, earrings, brooches, and pins. Patriotic reds, whites, and blues were everywhere: rhinestones, sequins, and bedazzlement as if the entire crowd had been styled by the gift shop at Mount Rushmore. Crosses hung from necklaces. Hair was coiffed. Smiles practiced.

I approached a high-top table occupied by four ladies who appeared to be in their forties and deployed what I was certain was a devastatingly clever opening line, one that would instantly establish me as witty, charming, and improbably well-read. Using the official and technically correct term for a 250th anniversary, I flashed a smile.

“Happy Semiquincentennial!” I beamed.

I could swear I heard a record scratch as the three women smiled with their mouths while their eyes searched for clues as to what the hell I was talking about.

“It’s the official and technically correct term for a 250th anniversary,” I said with a forced chuckle, foolishly believing this additional context would improve matters.

“Oh,” the charitable one exclaimed. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue like ‘bicentennial,’ does it?” I said, momentarily regaining my footing.

“The what now?” another asked.

At that moment, I realized I was the only person at the table with firsthand memories of 1976. My eyes scanned the premises for a bathroom, deserted hallway, or other quiet refuge into which I could retreat.

Just then, a woman stepped up to a microphone set between a large-screen TV and the appetizer table. She radiated polished confidence. Her smile was dazzling, with a shade of white not commonly found in nature. Her blazer was Nancy Reagan red. She introduced herself as the president of the women's club.

After a few perfunctory welcoming remarks and patriotic well-wishes, she announced a surprise video message from California Republican gubernatorial candidate Steve Hilton.

The recorded message, which may or may not have been recorded specifically for this women's group, started off with Hilton's familiar campaign refrain: California is broken, Democrats broke it, and only a political outsider can restore the California Dream.

Over the course of the next twelve minutes, Hilton seemed determined to hit every note he assumed would resonate with the audience: attacks on transgender youth, praise for Trump’s immigration policies, warnings about California’s supposedly broken election system, denunciations of the state’s “corrupt” Democratic establishment, and support for turning over California abortion providers to states where abortion is criminalized. It seemed like an awful lot of culture war to pair with chardonnay and crudités, but the crowd responded as one might expect when a band finally gets around to playing the hits.

It's hardly surprising that Hilton secured enough votes to advance to the general election in November.

As the audience finished applauding a television, someone caught my attention.

She glided through the room dispensing smiles, handshakes, and brief moments of personal recognition. She moved from table to table, greeting attendees, touching shoulders, and posing for photographs.

She looked familiar.

I watched her for a moment, trying to place the face. Then it clicked. It was Congresswoman Young Kim.

This presented a problem.

First, Young Kim is the representative from my district. Second, I have sent more complaints and criticisms to her office than Stephen King has published novels, using website forms, email, traditional mail, and, on two memorable occasions, my physical presence. (Readers who follow my Substack Notes have seen a few of these exchanges.)

There was, therefore, a non-zero chance that she or someone from her team might recognize me or my name and have security bum-rush me off the premises.

(Unfortunately, I was compelled to register under my real name. I assumed they would want to see identification at check-in. They did. Conservatives really do love their ID requirements.)

I decided it would be best to steer clear of her.

For the time being.

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The next speaker was David Serpa, who was then running for California State Treasurer. Since the June primary was only days away, his appearance was neither surprising nor especially memorable. The slicked-back hair, royal blue suit, crimson tie, and patriotic balloon backdrop combined into a kind of discount strongman aesthetic. He looked like a man who had spent forty-five minutes practicing “statesman” in the bathroom mirror and emerged looking like the assistant manager of a mattress store during a Presidents’ Day sale.

His message could be distilled into a handful of applause lines:

“We cannot save the state of California if we can’t save the Republican party in California.”

Then, a mere two minutes into his remarks, he made a prison rape joke. Complaining about what he viewed as the ineffectiveness of California Republicans in the state capital, he said:

"...and then we're surprised when we send them up to Sacramento and they act like a bunch of do-boys in prison getting turned out for cigarettes."

For those unfamiliar with prison vernacular, a “do-boy” is an inmate who is dominated and exploited by other prisoners. “Getting turned out” refers to being coerced into sexual servitude.

The audience laughed.

(By the way, I had to look up both terms afterward. Why they rolled so effortlessly off Mr. Serpa's tongue is something I'll leave for readers to ponder.)

He continued.

“A polite society is an armed society.”

Then, after extolling the virtues of an increasingly armed citizenry and without acknowledging even a molecule of irony, he pivoted to Charlie Kirk.

“Charlie Kirk was taken from us. He was looking for peace. They took his life in front of us. It’s often these revolutionary figures that come along that want the best for us, and they eliminate them from the face of the earth.”

For those who need reminding, Charlie Kirk was not some gentle apostle of peace cruelly taken from us. He was a professional demagogue who built a lucrative career trafficking in fear, resentment, conspiracy theories, and cultural panic. He spent years telling Americans that immigrants, LGBTQ people, educators, journalists, Democrats, and anyone to the left of Joseph McCarthy represented an existential threat to the nation. He normalized election denialism, amplified racist conspiracy theories, vilified vulnerable minorities, and helped cultivate the atmosphere of paranoia and grievance that now dominates large sections of the American right.

Whatever one thinks about his murder, and political violence is indefensible, portraying him as a selfless visionary who merely "wanted the best for us" bears little resemblance to the public record.

Having finished canonizing Kirk, he moved on.

“A lot of people run away from the term right wing extremist. I’m here to tell you. I am a right wing extremist. I’m an Oath Keeper. I made an oath to the Constitution. At what point are we going to uphold our value system? Are we going to stand up for Christian values, for traditional marriage, for life?”

“We have to fight to the death against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Foreign and…

At this point he gestured to the audience to complete the sentence.

“DOMESTIC!,” shouted the audience.

As a closer, he invoked a nationalist agitator who spent decades warning Americans about feminists, immigrants, multiculturalism, and the dangers of becoming a less white nation.

“Our enemies are here, guys, they’re in Sacramento, they’re in Washington D.C. I need your vote to restore Pat Buchanan era conservative values like our parents gave us!”

And how did the audience of mostly women react to his presentation?

Well, I'm reminded of the famous diner scene with Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. That is, they seemed very enthusiastic.

California voters proved somewhat harder to seduce. Days later, Serpa finished fourth out of five candidates with 14 percent of the vote.

The president of the organization took the stage once again to release us to the poolside reception before dinner. Wanting to send us off on a high note, she exclaimed:

“Happy Semiquincentennial, everyone!”

The room erupted in cheers.

Soon we were poolside, mingling beneath strings of lights as waiters circulated with appetizers and attendees exchanged pleasantries and political positions.

As for me, I had prepared a basic set of questions to get the conversations rolling. After my earlier setback, I was determined to keep every word comfortably under seven syllables.

“What brought you here tonight?”

“What issue matters most to you right now?”

“What are you most worried about?”

“What do you hope will be different a year from now?”

These were the sort of open-ended questions I imagined would produce thoughtful answers in pursuit of my mission: understanding how Republican women make sense of the world. They also had the tactical advantage of putting me in control of the conversation. Better still, I hoped they might put people on the back foot, forcing them to defend beliefs that are usually accepted without challenge in their social circles.

I noticed three women in their fifties or sixties at a cocktail table near a lamppost that, despite dusk having barely arrived, had already attracted an orgy of gnats. Dressed in varying degrees of patriotic finery, they were laughing together when I approached.

They spotted me a few steps before I breached their social bubble and smiled politely. I returned the smile and opened my mouth, eager to seize the initiative with the first of my carefully prepared questions.

I never got the chance.

“What brought you here tonight?” she asked.

“Um…” I said.

“I’m proud to be an American,” I heard myself half-sing.

✦ ✦ ✦

Come back for Part 2.

Subscribe for free so you don’t miss it. I'll send it to paid subscribers a little early.

My conversation with these three women was only the start.

What followed was hours spent moving through a distinctly Orange County Republican ecosystem, navigating conversations with people who sincerely believe they are saving the country.

By night's end, I would find myself standing face-to-face with my congressperson, hoping her assistant didn't recognize me as the man who occasionally hand-delivers letters asking her to stop kissing Trump's ass and start representing her constituents.

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Jun 25

Before the evening was over, I would encounter three species of Republican woman. They occupied the same gala, applauded the same speakers, and voted for the same candidates. But the similarities ended there.

Check out my other publication, The Stranger’s Library, where I write about books and the occasionally bewildering business of being human.

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Now, these people-focused leadership courses were not about forcing white men to apologize for being white men, the way the right relentlessly portrays these efforts. No executives were being marched into conference rooms and forced to publicly renounce golf.