A Camp Icon: The Paradoxes of Trump’s Truth Telling

my latest in The Critic

from my article “A Camp Icon: The Paradoxes of Trump’s Truth Telling” in The Critic UK

I used to count myself amongst a certain group of people who only watched the Super Bowl for the commercials and halftime show. Of late, though, I’ve given up on watching the event altogether. Like most major musical performances on television nowadays, halftime shows have given off an eerie ritualistic feeling. 

By the afternoon of the Monday after the Super Bowl, I found myself having to repeatedly explain why I did not care to watch Rihanna’s performance. Aside from my dislike of Super Bowl antics in general, Rihanna is, in my opinion, a talentless, mass produced corporate puppet.

I tried to remind people that Rihanna is not a strong vocalist. Neither does she play an instrument, write her own songs or dance particularly well. Without her good looks, stylists and marketing team, she would likely have gotten stuck amongst the milieu of Amerie, Ashanti, Ciara and other mildly successful pop&B acts of the mid 2000s — who at least could decently sing and dance. Don’t remember them? Case in point. 

Thus my relief when scrolling upon former President Trump’s tweet in response to Rihanna’s performance: “EPIC FAIL: Rihanna gave, without question, the worst Halftime Show in Super Bowl history … ” In a later tweet: “Without her ‘Stylist’ she’d be NOTHING. Bad everything, and no talent!”

Never has one of Trump’s hot takes made me feel so vindicated. Just as I’ve been trying to convince people about the truth of Rihanna, I’ve tried to tell them that Trump is not merely a big orange meanie. He is, and always has been, a camp icon. 

I’ve known this since I was twelve years old, when I would tape magazine clippings of him on my wall next to others of fierce divas like Wendy Williams, Serena Williams and Mariah Carey. I recognized a flamboyance, a flouting of conventions when watching The Apprentice (and even more so on The Celebrity Apprentice). I stanned Trump the way I did for larger-than-life pop stars like Beyonce. I donned a Trump mask whilst giving a presentation about him in my ninth grade economics class; visited the gaudy, decrepit Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City, where his face was pasted onto everything from water bottles to room key cards; and unwrapped with elation TRUMP: The Board Game on Christmas morning of 2005 (I only allow a select few to see the photo of me doing so).

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photo from my 2005 trip to the Trump Taj Mahal