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Few things are as uncomfortable as observing a hesitant actor on stage—chiefly when the unfortunate individual isn’t merely apprehensive but seems distinctly ill-prepared for the role they’re undertaking. Inadequacy tends to unnerve onlookers. A self-doubting performer deprives an audience of its confidence in both the persona and the entire endeavor.
Consider, for example, Friday morning’s peculiar and perplexing showing by Kash Patel, the obviously unsuited F.B.I. figure appointed by Donald Trump. He stood in Utah, beside that state’s governor, Spencer Cox, entrusted with the significant duty of announcing the arrest of Tyler Robinson, the young man who, on Wednesday, allegedly shot and killed the conservative advocate Charlie Kirk. In a certain light, this was a momentous state affair, an occasion for the government to exhibit its prompt, serious capacity to respond, and to calm the agitation that this dreadful and publicly visible slaying had provoked.
It was also a chance for Patel to gloss over some significant errors and salvage his standing. On Wednesday night, he’d prematurely declared on X that Kirk’s shooter was “in custody,” only to post again, a bit over ninety minutes later, that the “subject in custody” had been “released after an interrogation by law enforcement.” Speculation arose that he’d dispatched the second tweet while at Rao’s, an Italian dining spot in East Harlem, recognized for its tomato sauce and scandalous past. Irrespective of his tweeting location, Patel appeared to have overlooked that the fallout from an assassination might not align with the instant rewards—stimulation, continuous awareness—of real-time updates.
On Thursday, in an uncommon action for a law-enforcement representative in his position, Patel visited the scene of the crime. Former F.B.I. staff remarked that this would only create problems for the local office engaged in the actual investigative work. Earlier that day, he had supposedly conducted a virtual gathering of F.B.I. agents and reprimanded them with foul language for the investigation’s sluggish progress. Patel, whose suitability for the position faced intense, and frequently severe, assessment when he was initially chosen, required a platform to demonstrate his worthiness for the job.
So, when Patel stepped to the lectern on Friday, the stakes were undeniably high. He sported his familiar hairstyle, a collegiate blend of textures: smooth on the sides and upright up top. He donned an odd houndstooth neckpiece. He embodied a lack of seriousness. “This is what results when you allow adept officers to operate freely,” he stated, as an introduction—a meaningless phrase that was nevertheless in sync with the ideology of the Administration for which he is such a strikingly apt representation. Law enforcement, now unburdened by political correctness and moral standards, can resume their proper roles.
What remained unspoken was that, in this instance, perhaps the most noteworthy act of justice was enacted by Robinson’s father, who—surely undergoing inner torments I can barely envision—had aided in turning in his son. One of the more bizarre elements of Patel’s brief discourse was the manner in which he attempted to claim credit for this father’s heartbreaking decision. A signature of Trumpworld’s sanctioned rhetoric is the itemized roster of inflated achievements, presenting every triumph as comprehensive, every agonizing occurrence invariably steered toward the supremacy of the Leader. No event is too somber, in this realm, for a generous helping of blatant self-aggrandizement.
“In thirty-three hours, we have accomplished landmark progress for Charlie,” Patel asserted. What might this imply? To what “history” could he conceivably be alluding? Sometimes individuals perpetrate offenses and are apprehended immediately!
It’s ironic, though: Patel is as callous an opportunist as his superior, but noticeably less skilled at coordinating his behavior with the words leaving his mouth. He articulated too rapidly. Hearing him, one gained the sense that his heartbeat was accelerating. In his televised presence, he was striving to enact the role of the federal agent but faltering. His gaze darted around, unable to settle. He blinked frequently—unintentional snippets of Morse code, seeking aid. He took shallow breaths, disrupting his stream of stammered and blurred syllables. “I even had the opportunity to traverse that crime scene, and retrace the path the suspect took to gain greater insight into what was required,” he stated, in a peculiar boast.
Submerged in the character he was endeavoring to portray, Patel reiterated the singular metric that his team had managed to produce: “In less than thirty-six hours—thirty-three to be precise—owing to the complete force of the federal government, and in collaboration with the partners here in the state of Utah, and Governor Cox, the suspect was capt—captured in a record-breaking time period.” I gather he hesitated over the opening syllable of the word “captured” because he was eager to repeat “record-breaking.”
Following a few more clichés, Patel concluded his presentation with what he evidently considered its poignant climax. “Finally, to my friend Charlie Kirk,” he expressed, after emitting a melodramatic sigh, “rest now, friend. We are on guard. And I’ll see you in Valhalla.” What?
One of Trumpism’s most detrimental attributes—glaringly evident in the regrettable radicalization of Robinson, and in its absurd manifestation in the slaying of Kirk—is its overt conflict against the impressionable minds of young males. It instructs them to act assertively, speak bombastically, unleash their hostility on anyone appearing weaker or more thoughtful than they are. Trump and his associates, Patel included, frequently distort clear moral standards, depicting kindness as frailty, veracity as “fabricated intelligence,” brutality in word and action as indicators of masculinity. I trust that some of these young people, navigating those perilous formative years, witnessed Patel’s speech and recognized it for what it truly was. Securing the position and performing the role doesn’t equate to being a genuine man. ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
