I always read about what school shooters or wannabe assassins have to say. I read or at least skim through manifestos, most of which are really poorly written and usually just have badly misunderstood ideas that are copy-pasted from diverse places. I read social media posts and discord logs, where available. Some of this is morbid fascination that I don’t endorse, but some of it is the impulse to understand how and why a thing like this happened.
So I’ve been following the news on Trump’s would-be assassin, and to all appearances he was just a kid who was bullied at school and didn’t have a lot of hobbies, skills, talents, or friends. He wanted power and control and had no way to get it, and I think there’s something to the notion that a lot of white men think that their whiteness or maleness means they’re owed something. When Trump came to town, it was opportunity falling into his lap. If you’re 20 years old and feeling like the world cares nothing for you, then yeah, I can see why you’d take your shot. It’s a way of being famous, of going out with a bang, and young men often feel invincible anyway. The shocking thing is that it almost worked, and that seems to be down to incompetence and complacency.
But if it had worked, and they hadn’t immediately shot him to death, he’d have gotten all the worst parts of fame (in addition to what would probably be life in prison). In death he’s got intense scrutiny of everything he’s ever posted online. There are reports about how sad and lonely he was. If he’d succeeded, maybe there would be some on the left who would idolize him, but as it stands … I can imagine wanting to be megafamous, but I cannot imagine wanting it to be like this. It was almost certainly different in his imagination though, a grand moment that would give meaning to his life and demonstrate that he did, in fact, have power.
And of course the whole thing will be forgotten in a week or two. A year from now you’ll say the name “Thomas Crooks” and people will say “huh, that … do I know that name?”
On the other side of things, there’s Corey Comperatore. He was the other person to die that day, just a random guy who had attended a Trump rally and got hit by a bullet because from one specific angle he was standing behind Trump. If Thomas Crooks left almost nothing behind to make sense of his life, Corey Comperatore left behind what feels like a lot. The fame is more double-edged there. He’s lauded as a hero by some, even if the only this he did was catch a stray. Generously, that’s a way of making sense of things: just like it’s not enough for Crooks to be alienated and dejected, it’s not enough for Comperatore to just be someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But Corey Comperatore is also having his life torn open, or at least the parts of it that he put online, which was probably done without thinking too much about it. The worst one was probably him saying that the Palestinians would “get over it” like the Japanese did. It’s something I think about a lot in the social media age, the picture that people would get if they went looking through all our posts, if they were trying to make a picture of you from the things you’ve left behind. If you died in a very public way, what’s the worst post you’ve ever made? What would people find ironic? But of course you don’t need to die, we’re in an era where anyone can get flash famous by random happenstance. And of course in the modern day we want the delicious little morsels, the worst thing you’ve ever said, the most ironic, most iconic, most infuriating sound bite that can represent a whole person. Anything more anodyne is pointless, even if that’s the bulk of someone’s life.
I’m probably a little unusual in terms of digital fingerprints. I’m active on discords, I’ve written some four million words of fiction, and my reddit comment karma is in the six figure range, which probably means that I’ve got something like fifty thousand comments. I talk a lot. But I do think about being torn apart like that, what would happen if I were famous for a day before the news cycle moved on, if there were hundreds or thousands of people trying to make sense of me.
When I die, if anyone has reason to go snooping through my history, I hope there’s a good-looking corpse.
If you have found a spelling error, please, notify us by selecting that text and pressing Ctrl+Enter.