The last time ex-President Donald Trump was at the BOK Center in Tulsa was in May 2020, during an unconscionable campaign stop during the height of COVID. Brad Parscale, his campaign manager at the time, predicted an overflow crowd. Millions of people, he assured us, had expressed interest in attending from all over the country. Feckless and oleaginous Republican leaders — with the exception of Oklahoma City Mayor David Holt, who refused to host the petri-dish event — cooed with excitement at the president coming to town for his first official campaign rally, the danger of COVID transmission be damned. This was America, damn it, and viruses don’t kill us — unless you’re Herman Cain, who would die of COVID after attending the event (and after tweeting how the whole pandemic was overrated).
The event was a disaster.
The BOK, which holds 18,000, was approximately 40% full, and the Sunday morning after the event, a furious and disheveled Donald Trump, his tie unwrapped and hanging loosely from his neck, his complexion a faded bronze, his expression dour, stormed across the South Lawn to his residence and Diet Coke button at the White House.
It was the first moment in the 2020 campaign where the invincibility of Trump was questioned.
That was the delicious part.
Last month, he returned.
He strode into the arena on March 18 along with and at the invitation of current Oklahoma Sen. Markwayne Mullin, former owner of Mullin Plumbing, to cheers and more than just a few chants of “Let’s go Brandon.” No matter how cosmopolitan and culturally savvy Tulsa may think it is, its dirt is as red as anywhere in Oklahoma. They were at the BOK to view the NCAA Division I wrestling championships. (That both Trump and Mullin have such titles preceding their names may tell you all you need to know about what’s wrong with America.) They eschewed the private box that was available to them and sat in front row, where they met well-wishers and sycophants and greeted victorious wrestlers who were paraded in front of them for handshakes and pictures. It was Donald Trump in the role of Commodus from Gladiator — or maybe it was a dress rehearsal for future American-style Nuremberg rallies when he’s elected.
The plot against America will take time out for photo ops.
On the way in, Trump clenched a fist and raised it to the crowd; otherwise, there was nothing overtly political about his demeanor — he even tried participating in the Wave at one point. Mullin, broad-shouldered, a former wrestler, looked like a bartender at the end of his shift — white shirt, open vest — and someone who is now, for reasons that defy all logic, a player in American politics.
Trump carried Oklahoma by 65% in both 2020 and 2016, so to say this is Trump Country is stating the obvious. Barron Trump would carry Oklahoma in 2024. To me, though, there is a strange confluence of arrogance and selective indignation in his support. When Trump owned casinos, he was known for stiffing mechanics, plumbers, painters, waiters, and dishwashers — the very people coming up to him to pose for selfies, the very mechanics and plumbers and painters and waiters and dishwashers who were coming up to him. He’s the guy who wouldn’t pay them for services they provided — the guy who wouldn’t pay Mullin Plumbing. He’d laugh at their desperation, complain about the quality of the carpet they laid. Trump’s supporters are both the butt and chorus of his jokes. Still, they respect him, they want to be him, they believe he holds some special acumen for and secret to achieving the American dream. They voted for him; they will again. His outrage is their outrage. Nikki Haley and Ron DeSantis will give them everything Trump would in terms of policy, judges, rollbacks in regulations. But nobody wants to hug Ron DeSantis. Nobody will throw his or her fist into the air after posing with Nikki Haley. To see the smiles of the 20-something males and the 40-something women, including women of color, in Trump’s presence tells you something both clear and troubling: Trump, indicted or not, imprisoned or not, will be the GOP nominee in 2024 — and it won’t even be close.
The BOK was sold out this night.
Wrestling still outdraws sedition.
My stepson, a high school wrestler, was embarrassed every time I booed and flipped Trump the bird when the Jumbotron featured him. “What is the point in doing that?” he asked. “It won’t change anything.”
He’s right, of course, which made the evening even more depressing.
Later, he told me that in the sport, a wrestler receives a point each time he escapes from an opponent’s grasp.
America should be so lucky.
Barry Friedman is an essayist, political columnist, petroleum geology reporter — quit laughing — and comedian living in Tulsa, Okla. His latest book, “Jack Sh*t: Volume One: Voluptuous Bagels and other Concerns of Jack Friedman” has just been released. In addition, he is the author of “Road Comic,” “Funny You Should Mention It,” “Four Days and a Year Later,” “The Joke Was On Me,” and a novel, “Jacob Fishman’s Marriages.” See barrysfriedman.com and friedmanoftheplains.com.
From The Progressive Populist, May 1, 2023
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