The only intellectual arguments happening today are on the right. I never imagined I would write those words, but much has changed over the course of the twenty-first century. If one does not change with world-historical transformation, one risks being stranded in the past. Yet if one does not retain—or recover—a principled center, and remain committed to the promise of America, change itself can drag him into darkness and reaction.
Years ago, we were warned that our children would be sucked into a right-wing rabbit hole by social-media algorithms and radicalized by fascist ideology. But if one allows oneself to go down that rabbit hole—if one listens carefully to what is said on Steve Bannon’s War Room, or attends to the rules of logic modeled by Andrew Wilson of The Crucible in the bloodsport of aggressive debate—what one finds instead fascism is Enlightenment philosophy, deontological liberalism, consequentialism, utilitarianism, Christian ethics, and historiography stripped of ideology. In short, one finds on the right serious analysis and debate across righteous moral and rational political traditions. By contrast, on the left, there is nothing comparable. The left is no longer even in the game. Its arguments and politics have become mad.
To be clear, the political right is wrong about many things. Most conservatives, for example, misunderstand who is truly behind the anarchists and communists in the streets—those true believers committed to chaos and disorder who attract the attention of citizen journalists. The video reports are indeed entertaining, but conservatives often imagine the fools who have come down off the hill as the advance guard of a resurrected Communist International. But these mobs are not the Bolshevik spawn of a global cabal of Marxist-Leninists, even if the tactics are often the same (see yesterday’s essay Communism and Fascism—A Distinction Without a Difference?). They are useful idiots organized by hundreds of NGOs that pay professional agitators salaries in the range of $80,000 to $120,000 a year—NGOs established, financed, and directed by transnational corporate and financial elites.
The global elite have no intention of turning society over to communists. It requires little insight to see that such a belief is incoherent. The professional protestors and true believers who mix with them—often emotionally dysregulated and psychologically unstable individuals—are instruments of corporate capitalism, not the heirs of Marxist ambition. They are manufactured through control of culture, education, and media, then deployed as weapons, much as elites have used Islamic extremism (which is essentially Islam itself) as a weapon, to weaken nations from within and render populations pliable for incorporation into a post-national order.
This is why definitions matter, and why the populist nationalist must be educated about what is actually happening. What we are witnessing is not a world communist conspiracy but the ascendance of a transnational corporate state.
My ability to see this did not arise suddenly, nor did it emerge from ideological conversion. My awakening occurred in stages. One of my strengths—beyond formal training in political economy, psychology, and sociology—is a lifetime spent orbiting the black hole of progressivism without being pulled into it, skimming the edge of a massive gravitational force that flattens reality itself while resisting annihilation. That resistance to the seductions of woke politics owes much to my early formation in Christian ethics and classical liberalism.
I was born in 1962 into a progressive Democratic household. My upbringing was deeply intellectual: our home was filled with books on history, mythology, philosophy, and science. My father was a Church of Christ preacher, and both of my parents were involved in the Civil Rights Movement. My childhood was therefore shaped by liberalism in its classical sense—rooted in individual dignity and reason—and by the moral universalism of Christian ethics, not by the therapeutic, identitarian progressivism that would later come to dominate the left. (Are these directional terms even useful anymore? See Why “Left” and “Right” Are Useless Political Labels—and Probably Always Were.)
Nonetheless, for much of my young adult life, like many who grow up in a highly partisan household, I voted for Democrats—Carter, Mondale, Dukakis, and Clinton. I was taught that Nixon and Reagan were soft fascists, and I dutifully rehearsed the same polemics I now reject. Embarrassingly, I was even sympathetic to the Islamic Revolution in Iran as a college senior. I would often wonder how my conservative friends could be so dense, even while remaining friends with them (an early sign that I was immune to cult induction).
That Democratic alignment and its accompanying reflexes began to fracture in the 1990s, when I entered graduate school to study international political economy. I took seminars in globalization, political economy, social change and development, and theories of development and underdevelopment. Transnationalism and globalization were core priorities of the academic left at the time. My professors, Marxists who identified as progressives, were sharply critical of corporate power and its corrosive effects on democratic sovereignty. I came to see the Democratic Party for what it was: the party of the Establishment. After graduation, I watched my progressive mentors being dragged down the dark path they had once condemned, and I began to wonder how they could be so dense.
As I educated myself about twentieth-century history, the contradictions grew impossible to ignore. Chief among them was the Democrats’ relationship to organized labor. The Democratic Party—historically the party of labor—had become the primary political engine of globalization. Though I still voted for Gore and later for Kerry (Gore for his promise to shore up the trust funds with a historic surplus, Kerry for his opposition to the Vietnam War and his serious oversight work in the Senate—both now lost to the madness), it was clear that the party was not resisting the transnational agenda but actively advancing it. Patricia Cayo Sexton’s The War on Labor and the Left: Understanding America’s Unique Conservatism, which I once found compelling, no longer made sense. It looked a lot like Democrats were the ones waging war on labor. I could no longer cast votes for Democratic politicians. Nor could I vote for Republicans.
Understanding the Democratic Party’s relationship with labor is crucial to understanding change in America. Propagandists like Sexton had got it wrong because they, like me at the time, did not correctly see the unfolding of history. This was because of partisan reflex, which many never outgrow. Over time, Democrat-led globalization decimated private-sector labor unions. As those unions collapsed, so too did the political force that had once pushed Democrats to control borders and enforce immigration law. Private-sector unions understood that cheap foreign labor displaces native-born workers and suppresses wages. Decimating their ranks was crucial to setting America on the path to the new world order.
I want to briefly summarize this history (see here for a longer treatment: Co-optation and Negation: Understanding Corporate Hegemonic Strategy; Progressivism Hasn’t Been Betrayed—It’s Been Installed). In the 1960s, private-sector union membership in the United States reached its peak. Roughly 35 percent of manufacturing workers were unionized, with strong representation in industries such as automotive, electrical, mining, and steel. Unions wielded significant bargaining power, shaping wages, benefits, and working conditions, and often negotiating industry-wide agreements that set standards across the economy. This period represented the high-water mark of labor influence in private-sector employment.
The decline of private-sector unions began with profound structural changes in the economy. Deindustrialization in the 1970s and 1980s caused widespread job losses in traditional manufacturing hubs like Cleveland, Detroit, and Pittsburgh. Many companies adopted automation or moved production overseas, reducing the need for unionized labor. At the same time, the economy shifted toward service industries, such as finance, hospitality, retail, and technology, where union density was historically lower, and organizing proved more difficult.
Corporate resistance and changes in the legal environment further weakened private-sector labor. Corporations increasingly deployed aggressive anti-union tactics, including mandatory “captive audience” meetings to discourage union membership and outright strike-breaking. Legal constraints, most notably those stemming from the Taft-Hartley Act of 1947, restricted union political activity and secondary strikes, while courts and the National Labor Relations Board often ruled in management’s favor. This is the neoliberal revolution.
Globalization and corporate restructuring accelerated the decline. US corporations outsourced labor to countries with lower wages and weaker labor protections, undermining domestic union leverage. Mergers and downsizing also reduced bargaining power and union membership, while health benefits and pension guarantees, once a key feature of union contracts, came under pressure. By the early 2000s, private-sector union membership had fallen to around 7–8 percent of the workforce, a dramatic decline from its mid-twentieth-century peak.
What replaced private-sector unions were public-sector unions—the professional associations of the managerial elite whose interests are fundamentally antithetical to the interests of working-class Americans. Public-sector unions grew in influence, particularly in education, government, and healthcare. In the 1960s, public-sector unionization was minimal, but the passage of laws such as New York’s Taylor Law (1967) and federal support for collective bargaining in local and state government enabled rapid growth. Teachers’ unions, municipal employee associations, and state worker organizations became powerful players in politics and labor negotiations.
Public-sector unions benefited from a fundamentally different environment than private-sector unions. Government employment was largely insulated from market pressures, meaning unions could negotiate benefits, pensions, and wages without the threat of corporate bankruptcy or outsourcing and offshoring. These unions also had greater access to political influence, lobbying, and campaign contributions, which further reinforced their leverage.
By the 1980s and 1990s, public-sector union density exceeded that of private-sector unions, as private-sector membership continued to decline. Today, public-sector unions represent roughly 34 percent of government employees. They wield significant political and institutional power, shaping policy decisions, education, labor law, and public spending. While automation, corporate strategies, and globalization undermined private-sector unionization, public-sector unions thrived in environments protected from market forces, with strong institutional and political backing. (See Federal Employee Unions and the Entrenchment of Technocracy; The Credentialed Class and the Betrayal of America.)
Public-sector unions benefit from mass immigration, which expands bureaucracies and helps secure electoral dominance for the Democratic Party. This is why Democrats are prepared to burn down America to stop mass deportations. This change is not merely an ideological shift; it’s a business model—more precisely, an electoral model. Private-sector labor has ceased to exist as a meaningful political force, and public-sector employees share almost nothing in common with it. The result was a steady shift away from immigration control toward open borders. While there were moments of restraint under Clinton and even during Obama’s first term, the long-term trajectory has been unmistakable. What emerges from these changes is a raw struggle for power.
After the 2006 midterm, I concluded that I could no longer vote for Democrats, which I had been rationalizing as strategic. I began supporting independent figures such as Ralph Nader and the Green Party. The attacks of September 11 had shaken me profoundly and reawakened my lifelong atheism. I had become aware of the civilizational threat posed by Islamism. I read and listened to figures such as Bruce Bawer, Sam Harris, and Christopher Hitchens. For a time, this reinforced my distance from both traditional religion and conservative politics. But it had set me on the path back to sanity. What I was waiting for was a Republican Party that would reclaim its roots in Lincoln, Hamilton, and the American System.
(See History as Ideology: The Myth that the Democrats Became the Party of Lincoln; Republicanism and the Meaning of Small Government; Flipping the Script: Democrats Made Republicans Wear Their Dress; Tariffs, Trade, and the Future of the American Worker; With Reciprocal Tariffs, Trump Triggers the Globalists; Why the Globalists Don’t Want Tariffs. Why the American Worker Needs Them; Protectionism in the Face of Transnationalism: The Necessity of Tariffs in the Era of Capital Mobility; Make Our Republic Great Again; Republican Virtue and the Unchained Prometheus: The Crossroads of Moral Restraint and the Iron Cage of Rationality; Marx the Accelerationist: Free Trade and the Radical Case for Protectionism; Rejecting Crisis Capitalism.)
While I was waiting (not knowing that I was!), I voted once more for the Green Party—casting my ballot for Jill Stein—in 2016. That election marked the end of my long flirtation with progressivism. What finally shattered the illusion was watching the full force of the corporate state—media, intelligence agencies, NGOs, and financial elites—array itself against Donald Trump. Moreover, my summer in Europe in 2018 exposed me firsthand to the migrant crisis. This, I said, cannot be our future. The spectacles of a coup and mass migration revealed where real power resided.
The COVID-19 pandemic was the crisis that galvanized my transformation by revealing the path back to reason: right-wing media and pundits. I began listening regularly to Steve Bannon and alternative media. For the first time in decades, political commentary felt like graduate school (see Bridging the Left-Right Divide to Confront the New World Order). This is where my radicalism was—the radicalism that moved the Founders to forge a nation without kings. By 2020, I had become a Trump supporter. Several false beliefs and affinities fell from my mind—queer politics, critical race theory, and postcolonialism, all of which I had already intellectually rejected by a lifelong skepticism of postmodernism (I have published numerous essays on this topic, as well).
The broader conflict is clear to me now, and so also my choice of comrades. On one side stand those who seek to preserve the nation-state: populist nationalists, working-class Democrats and Republicans, and those operating from classical liberal and Christian ethical foundations. It was not merely that I should have been on that side the whole time, but that now there is a patriotic side on which I can proudly stand. On the other side stands a transnational corporate elite intent on hollowing out the nation-state itself. To accomplish this, it deploys anarchists and communists to generate disorder, undermine moral foundations, and erode tradition. These elites are hostile to Christianity—the ontological source of Christian ethics—and to inherited social norms (see Epistemic Foundations, Deontological Liberalism, and the Grounding of Rights; Moral Authority Without Foundations: Progressivism, Utilitarianism, and the Eclipse of Argument). Corporatism has already been consolidated in Europe, where the nation-state has largely been subordinated to supranational authority. In that experience, I could see the outlines of the Second Coming of the Dark Ages.
When progressives warn of “Christian nationalism” as a great evil, they miss the larger picture. Even if one regards Christian nationalism as problematic—and I do—it stands in opposition to a far greater threat: transnational corporate rule enforced through chaos and ideological shock troops on the ground. Failure to grasp these dynamics of the moment risks awakening under a new form of fascism—not the national corporatism of the twentieth century, but the inverted totalitarianism of transnational corporatism. If this revolution from above succeeds, freedom is finished.
Power has always animated these movements, but today that power has become naked. The moment forces a choice. To side with the Democratic Party is to side with transhumanism and ultimately unfreedom. To side with the Republicans—despite all the imperfections, compromises, and internal divisions—is to align with the right side, fractured though it remains between a donor class scarcely distinguishable from Democrats, who still resist alignment with the American Way, and those who insist on the American Way.
The lesson of my intellectual and political journey is not partisan loyalty but intellectual independence. Ideology exerts a gravitational pull. I was subjected to it, like everyone else. Progressivism in particular functions as a black hole: it absorbs dissent, flattens reality, and converts moral complexity into slogans. Escaping that gravity requires the willingness to follow arguments where they lead, to revise one’s positions, and to refuse political identities that demand obedience rather than thought. Above all, it requires recovering one’s principled center. Freedom depends not only on keeping the institutions the Founders bequeathed to us but on minds capable of resisting ideological capture. Without such independence, no society can remain free.
Following C. Wright Mills, this essay weaves my biography into history and offers this reflection to readers of Freedom and Reason as an example of how one may avoid slipping into what my psychological and sociological training tells me is a destructive cult. In the end, the principles of reason and Christian Ethics, and my love of the American Republic, saved me. Readers may read essays and posts from before 2017 and wonder what happened to me. That’s what happened. (See Am I Rightwing? Not Even Close.)















