There is no such thing as a universal leader. Leaders always represent a specific social group: a political party, a religion or a social movement. The more they are loved by insiders, the more such adulation seems bizarre and inexplicable to outsiders – to the extent that we often dismiss adoring followers as deluded or deplorable in some way. Think Margaret Thatcher, or Jeremy Corbyn, or Boris Johnson.
But perhaps the greatest enigma of contemporary politics concerns Donald Trump – a man who elicits messianic fever and revulsion in equal measure. A liar and serial philanderer championed by evangelists; a felon supported by “law and order” enthusiasts; a man who boasts of groping women and yet was elected with a majority of white women voters; a billionaire who likes posing in the golden lift of his New York skyscraper while also posing as the champion of the working class. How on earth does any of this make sense? Yet, at the same time, how can Kamala Harris – if, as is near-certain, she is crowned the Democratic nominee – hope to win in November unless she is able to make sense of it?
The problem is that this is the perspective of outsiders. They presuppose the groups and identities (religion, gender, class) through which people view Trump. They assume, for instance, that women vote as women on the basis of women’s interests rather than explore the perspectives and identities through which Trump’s followers and Trump himself define their interests. That is, how they divide the world into “us” and “them”.
For skilled leaders don’t just represent groups. They play a key part in defining the groups they seek to lead and then in representing themselves as being “of” the group, working for the group and delivering to the group. Or rather, as I argue with my co-authors in our book The New Psychology of Leadership, effective leaders have to be skilled “entrepreneurs of identity”. And, love him or loathe him, Donald Trump is on the brink of power (again) because he is one hell of an entrepreneur of identity.
Trump’s view of “us” and “them” is at its clearest in his Argument for America, the ad with which he concluded his successful 2016 presidential campaign. It is quite compelling in the way of something that you know is bad for you but you can’t tear yourself away from. It is entirely repetitive, like a drumbeat, organised around an antagonism between “the establishment” and “the American people” culminating in the assertion: “I am doing this for the people and for the movement, and we will take back this country for you and we will make America great again.”
This contrast between “the establishment” and “the people” is, of course, a classic populist trope. Trump’s version is distinctive in three ways. The first is the elasticity of “the establishment”, which includes outsiders (Chinese, immigrants, globalists), conventional politicians (the Washington “swamp”) and anyone who opposes him (the media, judges, scientists). The second is his autocratic assertion of agency. Unlike Obama’s empowering “yes we can”, Trump implies that people themselves can’t buck the establishment alone. They need him as their saviour. Trump is more “yes I can”. The third is that “the people” are defined in national/cultural (and implicitly racial) rather than class terms.
This last is critical because it allows Trump to use his great wealth to connect himself to the people rather than it serving to distance him. He and his family are portrayed as rough and ready “ordinary guys” whose success exemplifies the American dream. And it’s not just that he uses his wealth to make himself “one of us”. It also allows him to claim that he works “for the people” while his opponents can be bought and are “controlled fully by the lobbyists, by the donors and by the special interests”. In his 2015 presidential announcement speech Trump claims that he, by contrast, turned down a $4bn loan from a big bank, signalling his supposed independence from corporate interests. His wealth ensures he will both work for the people and that he will deliver the people from their foes. He is the one they have been waiting for to make them great again: a messiah complex only strengthened by the recent assassination attempt and Trump’s defiant response to it.
Trump’s success is not just a matter of what he says, but also of what he does. And this takes us to a key aspect of the Trump enigma. How come his endless gaffes, his crude speech, his glowering presence, his rambling rants and his endless misdemeanours do not destroy him, as they have other candidates? The answer is that if you define yourself in contrast to the political establishment, the breaking of the rules of politics affirms your identity. It shows that “I am not one of them – I am one of us.” A bit crude, perhaps. A bit rough around the edges. But self-evidently one of the people.
In sum, Trump thrives because of, not despite, his violations. Each time he is upbraided for them, he simply doubles down by rejecting his critics (whether journalists, lawyers or judges) as part of the establishment – an ever-radicalising politics of transgression. Moreover, rather than be ashamed by the ensuing criticisms and sanctions, he and many of his supporters parade them as proof that they are willing to suffer establishment attacks on behalf of the people. “Felon” becomes a badge of honour, and “I support the felon” becomes a popular meme.
Trump’s success in 2016 was in part due to the fact that he understood (and exploited) these identity leadership processes and Hillary Clinton did not. Indeed by branding Trump supporters “deplorables”, she bolstered his narrative of establishment derision of ordinary people. The burning question for 2024 is whether Kamala Harris has any more insight into Trump’s appeal and can address the deep disillusion with the political class and puncture Trump’s claim to be of, and to deliver for, the people.
Stephen Reicher is a professor of psychology at the University of St Andrews and co-author of The New Psychology of Leadership
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