Skip to main content

Timothy McVeigh: Legacy of Rage

 Timothy McVeigh grew up not far from my own hometown, in the “white flight” suburb of Pendleton, in western New York. (In a recent election, approximately 67 percent of Pendleton residents voted for Donald Trump.)


McVeigh struggled with the mechanics of the English language, but he was a forceful writer. And he loved guns. He was never anything like a survivalist; he was an extremely conservative Republican. But his occasional references to survivalist thought have clouded his own (very cloudy!) image — for many Americans.

McVeigh loathed Bill Clinton, and his distaste for the federal government gained steam after the disaster in Waco. (In fact, McVeigh planned his bombing to coincide with the anniversary of the Waco fire.) Also, McVeigh had decided on a certain narrative of American history: The Second Amendment means that I, personally, have a right to stockpile assault rifles, and if the President attempts to tamper with that right, then I’m obligated to respond with violence.

Jeffrey Toobin seems to be telling this story not because McVeigh himself is fascinating (he isn’t) — but because there is such a clear line from McVeigh to Trump, or Marjorie Taylor Greene, or Alex Jones. One question Toobin raises is centered on McVeigh’s history with the US military. Many of the “leaders” behind the January 6 insurrection also had records involving military service. Does the military tend to attract the kind of people who might also want to participate in right-wing extremism? Or is it something about a person’s time *in* the military that can plant a seed (i.e., Invasion of the Domestic Terrorist Body Snatchers)?

All of this happens within the first fifty pages of Jeffrey Toobin’s new book. Like all of Toobin’s work, it’s a page-turner. Five stars for pacing and clarity.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...