The emergence of Donald Trump reminded me of the deep-seated fears associated with Senator Joseph McCarthy. Both men tapped into the American psyche by leveraging fears of “enemies within.” In my family’s case, we had every reason to be wary: both my parents were early members of the Communist Party, though they distanced themselves from it in 1939 following Hitler’s agreement with Stalin. Despite their departure from communist ideals, families like ours faced persecution during America’s post-war peak. We learned tactics to dodge or counter such oppression effectively, which I believe offers valuable insights into coping with Trumpism.
The parallels between McCarthy and Trump are easy to spot: both were charismatic figures with a base eager to believe them, each manipulating patriotic sentiments and concocting “facts” on a whim. The connection between these two, however, is a bit more intricate. One key link was Roy Cohn, a lawyer and fixer who played significant roles as McCarthy’s chief counsel and later as Donald Trump’s adviser. Cohn mastered the art of public embarrassment, quick firings, and snooping on private lives. He advised McCarthy to display supposedly incriminating lists of infiltrators and communist spies to the media—sheets of paper that were, in fact, blank. With Trump, Cohn recommended using bribes and intimidation to navigate the turbulent waters of New York politics. Cohn, depicted by Tony Kushner in “Angels in America,” was as combative and self-loathing as his portrayal in the play suggests. Despite succumbing to an AIDS-related illness in 1986, he never admitted being gay, seemingly attacking others to quell his own inner turmoil.
Cohn’s tactics directly affected families like mine. He fed our names to the House Un-American Activities Committee, indicating that my parents and uncle could face charges of sedition—a serious threat at the time. Ironically, by the 1950s, my father had shifted from supporting the extreme left to aligning with the extreme right, a transformation many former communists experienced. He was being persecuted for his past beliefs rather than his present ones—a situation reminiscent of Trump’s attempts to revoke citizenship of patriotic Latinos who initially entered the country illegally. They too might face penalties for past actions.
Living under the threat of persecution changed us entirely. During McCarthyism, even institutions like schools, workplaces, and religious institutions were enlisted to ferret out suspected communists. The less children knew about their parents’ affiliations, the safer the family was; silence at home ensured that a child couldn’t unintentionally betray their own to teachers or peers who might tell all to adults. But those deemed “red diaper babies” often sensed their parents were withholding something. Today, in states where abortion is illegal, silence still acts as a shield. Reckless word of mouth from a child could implicate an older sibling and their healthcare providers. The danger of exposure now lurks in the digital realm; careless posts can tip off authorities equipped with far more sophisticated surveillance tools than those available in McCarthy’s era.
Historian Richard Hofstadter, in his 1964 classic “The Paranoid Style in American Politics,” characterized paranoia mainly as a right-wing trait. This is inadequate. Our minor faction of the left engaged in paranoia grounded in the reality of McCarthyism—a sentiment that many might feel about Trumpism today. Paranoia, real or imagined, erodes trust at its roots. McCarthy and Cohn’s style was somewhat superficial. Their attacks often seemed random, and faced with staunch opposition, they typically sought new targets. Figures like Arthur Miller deflected McCarthyite accusations by aggressively countering them, whereas others, like choreographer Jerome Robbins, faced unrelenting pressure. My uncle, confronted by the FBI, flipped the script by filing personal injury lawsuits against the agents harassing him, prompting the FBI to lose interest. For Cohn, these pursuits were about gains; he only persisted if persecution promised a reward.
However, with Trump, it’s a different story. A perpetual grudge-holder, Trump cherishes no enemies more than those he seeks vengeance against. As a businessman, Trump followed Cohn’s advice, being “transactional,” and cutting ties when relationships weren’t advantageous. As a politician, past slights—whether from his 2020 loss or from figures like Barack Obama and Nancy Pelosi—remain ever-fresh in his mind.
This highlights the broader distinction between McCarthyism and Trumpism. The fervor McCarthy ignited eventually waned. By 1954, as he targeted the US Army, his influence was fading; the excitement of his campaign had dwindled from its peak four years earlier, leaving only dedicated extremists standing by him. Communists and ex-communists aimed to endure beyond McCarthy’s targeted attacks—a luxury not afforded with Trumpism. The ideology Trump embodies is unlikely to dissipate; it’s fueled by enduring fears and grievances such as racism, sexism, homophobia, nativism, and climate skepticism, sustaining his followers’ zeal.
Younger generations often ask if there’s a lesson from the old left relevant to life in Trump-era America. If there is one, it lies in the commitment to civic life. When politics oppressed, many turned away from national issues, favoring local, informal civil society efforts, such as engaging with synagogues, churches, business groups, or cooperatives. For my mother, the silence at home was countered by her meaningful involvement with service to a housing community—unpolitical by party standards, but profoundly enriching to the life she was building.
