On the afternoon of Election Day, I submitted myself to a colonoscopy and endoscopy, which I’d scheduled back when Joe Biden was still a presumptive presidential nominee. After the doctor finished taking a tour of my insides and the anesthesia wore off, I woke up in the recovery room. My day went downhill from there.
Granted, I got to eat again, which was nice. Also, my insides passed inspection. As the election returns started coming in, though, I was wistful for those 45 minutes or so when I’d been blissfully unconscious in a surgical gown, my phone stored in a bag that was well out of my reach. If my anesthesiologist had been nearby that evening, I’d have asked him to top me up and put me back under. Maybe for four more years.
That desire for disengagement has been a siren song for Kamala Harris supporters (and/or Donald Trump detractors) in the two weeks since the election was called, which have touched off what Politico labeled “the great blue tune-out of 2024.” MSNBC’s and CNN’s ratings are in freefall. Former Twitter power users who in less despairing days half ruefully, half proudly declared they’d “never leave this app” have embarked on a mass X-odus in search of greener grass, bluer skies, and greater distance from Trump enabler Elon Musk. I’ve lost track of how many people have written, posted, or personally told me that they’ve been in a self-imposed partial news blackout. As the writer Will Leitch put it the weekend after the election, “Right now, I’m blissfully unaware of just about anything that has happened since the election that doesn’t involve college basketball and movie release schedules. I need a break. I am far from alone in this, I am sure.”
He’s definitely not. Some people never pay attention to politics, but among the many who do, a sizable subset have swapped hopium for opium, in the form of pop-culture comfort food. My own news consumption has declined since November 6, not just in relation to the pre-election fever pitch, but compared to the baseline between election cycles. My group texts contain an exchange—only semi-facetious—about the possibility of becoming a low-information voter. The most carefree I’ve felt post-colonoscopy was during the two and a half hours I spent at a screening of Gladiator II. Partly because Ridley Scott’s sequel to 2000’s Best Picture chronicles a righteous uprising to topple leaders who lack the temperament for their roles … but, to be honest, more so because it’s an unapologetic popcorn film that features frickin’ sharks in the Colosseum. That’s the sort of nonsense I need now, not the kind that comes with cabinet appointments. If you’re trying to purge politics from your system, fiction can be the best Miralax for the soul.
In the aftermath of a resounding defeat, sedation is seductive and apathy is appealing. But it’s also potentially perilous. On an individual level, opting out of paying attention to a political tire fire, as a protective mechanism, might temporarily make things feel better. Collectively, it could make them worse.
The allure of withdrawing isn’t difficult to decode. For those who opposed him, Trump’s second victory was demoralizing in a different way than the first one—partly because the sequel was so much easier to anticipate. In a 2016 election night dispatch, I focused on how shocking the outcome was, and how much more upsetting the, well, upset aspect made it seem. “If Trump’s opponents had seen his victory coming, they might have been mentally prepared,” I wrote. “Instead, he won with disconcerting surprise, like a movie villain who puts a bullet in Bond instead of helping him stall for time.”
The second win wasn’t nearly as startling. Not just because this one wasn’t without precedent, but because incumbents have been bad bets lately and the polls had clearly conveyed that, at best, we were an Anton Chigurh–esque coin flip away from a second Trump term. Instead of surreality, election night summoned a sinking feeling of having seen this film before. And then there was the way Trump won: Not by virtue of an arcane, controversial system set up in the 18th century, but by winning the popular vote and building on his 2020 showing throughout the country, from my (and Trump’s) native New York to states that are red in booth and law.
On one level, this more convincing victory was weirdly mollifying: At least the convicted candidate won fair and square, without any Electoral College caveats. In another way, it was worse, in a “fool me twice” sense: This time, Trump voters had seen how he performed as president, and they still signed up for more. In contrast to 2016, Trump’s latest triumph was the will of the plurality, albeit not the majority. He was, narrowly but undeniably, the people’s choice—a sobering thought, even if many of those people were responding to grocery prices more so than Trump’s rhetoric or policies (the latter of which probably won’t help with the prices).
As a consequence, the path to countering Trump is less clear than it was in 2016, and the loss is less galvanizing. At least two years of a Republican federal trifecta leaves Trump’s opposition in government with fairly few levers to pull. And as the cases and sentencing surrounding Trump’s criminal indictments get delayed or dismissed, there’s little doubt that ol’ Donny will wriggle out of those jams. It’s all deeply dismaying in precisely the manner that makes it most tempting to tune out, as many Americans did early this year (when the race was a rematch), and as a higher percentage than in 2016 continued to do even late in the campaign. What’s the point of prosecution? What’s the point of persuasion? What’s the point of protest? What’s new on Netflix?
On November 7, Biden urged Americans to “bring down the temperature.” The election made that less likely, on a literal level, but the political climate has been a good deal less heated than, say, Civil War warned. Maybe that’s a function of which side won, but it’s also an artifact of fatigue, even fatalism. After all, one could conclude, if checking facts, posting strident messages, and taking to the streets made a meaningful difference, wouldn’t Trump have lost? As Politico put it in a piece entitled “The Trump resistance goes flaccid,” the reaction to Trump’s win by the anti-Trump contingent has been “less one of fiery outrage and more muted resignation.” On average, those who voted for Trump tend to pay less attention to politics than those who voted for Harris. Perhaps some of the latter have looked at the former and decided that if they couldn’t beat ’em, they could join ’em, in that specific sense.
In some respects, it’s probably therapeutic to set politics to “do not disturb,” at least for a little while. Trump won’t even take office for a couple more months; we certainly can’t call this the “calm,” but the storm hasn’t started yet, either. Take a timeout now to practice self-care, save your strength, or strategize, and you skip the finger-pointing campaign postmortems suspiciously tailored to people’s pet issues, the conspiracy theorizing based on premature math, and all manner of overwrought election reflections (including, quite possibly, this one).
More broadly, humans aren’t really wired to be aware of what’s happening in the whole world (or even a whole country) at once. There’s always a crisis occurring that doomscrolling can’t solve, and fixating on the worst news—the kind many of us can’t help paying attention to—may make mostly powerless people feel worse. I don’t think we should all know less about everything, but maybe we’d all be better off if our mental states weren’t so tightly tied to the victories and defeats of the franchises—sports teams, superhero storytellers, political parties—whose fortunes we can’t control. There’s something to be said for focusing on fixing—or finding joy—in what you can impact directly: your community, your friends, your family, yourself.
Even dabbling in detachment is admittedly a luxury. It’s obviously easier to hit snooze on stressing about current events if they don’t endanger your residency in this country, or your access to reproductive services or gender-affirming care. Roughly 60 percent of white male voters cast their ballots for Trump; my demographic is his primary power base. We all have to drink the water, reckon with the resurgence of preventable disease, and live in a warming world, but some people’s circumstances offer something of a safety net, however diligently Trump’s administration dismantles the existing ones. Heck, I have an emergency exit strategy: Thanks to a Canadian dad, I’m a dual citizen of the U.S. and Canada. Like Eva Longoria—wait, unlike Eva Longoria?—I could wash my hands of this American mess, leave voluntarily, and theoretically land on my feet. I’ll almost certainly stay put, like most Canada-curious Americans—but I did renew my maple leaf passport this summer, just in case.
Even if you have the privilege of letting go, though, holding on might make you happier in the long run. As rational as it may seem for any one person to say screw it, it’s collectively counterproductive if everyone does. Trump and his allies are more prepared and determined—and less constrained by built-in checks and balances—than they were in round one. Imagine if they’re also less strenuously monitored by the masses—nationally, locally, and online—because many Americans have concluded that resistance is futile. Whatever happens next will probably be worse without watchdogs. Not to sound like the slogan of The Washington Post—the one that dates back to its endorsing days—but there is an old saying (by, um, someone) about the downside of doing nothing. While a complete retreat to our screens might be good for a company that covers sports and pop culture, it would probably be bad for the republic. We all need a break, but how long will the break be?
Maybe a recent string of dreadful phrases—“warrior board,” “recess appointments,” “Attorney General Matt Gaetz”—have already reawakened your resolve; or, at least, your rubbernecking reflex. (Never mind about Gaetz, but you can substitute any number of similarly eye-popping picks for Senate-confirmable posts.) Or maybe they’ve made sand look even more like the perfect place to stick one’s head. If the latter impulse is stronger, the media’s “Trump Bump” won’t be as big this time, and awareness will be weaker—whatever awareness is worth on its own. Knowledge is necessary, but not always sufficient.
Will millions of Americans hunker down and hope that the kakistocracy saves them, that term limits do what the Democrats couldn’t, and that the next presidential Election Day magically cleanses more than my colon? Or will they work to make that happen? At some point, the opposition has to get in the game, however much its morale has flagged. The temptation to turn away, or inward, is strong enough that “streaming services may well register an uptick in views of feel-good sitcoms,” wrote The New Yorker’s Lauren Michele Jackson, but without the capacity to “imagine moving onward,” it’s challenging to practice “a politics that is hardy and literate, drawing its reserves not from the lulling precincts of self-care but from urgent struggles ongoing.”
The first article I wrote for The Ringer was about Donald Trump, and eight-plus years later, he’s no further from my thoughts. As wearying as the prospect of expending much more mental energy on the man may be, that rent-free arrangement—Trump’s favorite kind—is likely to last. “I’m sure I’ll get back on board,” Leitch wrote of his hiatus from the news, adding, “I believe it my civic duty to do so.” Maybe most of us will, sounding like CJ from San Andreas when we do. Once more unto the breach of presidential politics—the next time, without Trump. Probably. Provided he doesn’t find a way to stay while we’re not watching.
