These Pilgrims Returned to the Hallowed Ground Where Trump Was Shot

At daybreak, a line of pilgrims stretch back a half mile from a spot that Donald J. Trump will consecrate as hallowed ground at sunset. The ex-president returns today for a rally to Butler, Pennsylvania, where he survived an assassination attempt on July 13. He will be joined by J.D. Vance and Elon Musk. The morning has messianic hints as a man roams the lines carrying a full-sized cross and muttering about Christ’s mercy. There is a Lourdes-like aura for the devout as they move slowly toward metal detectors, a trip that will take around three hours. 

An older woman ahead has two canes and heavy braces on both knees. Her face grows redder and sweat drips off her nose as we make progress toward security. Someone suggests she go through a separate line reserved for the aged and infirm. She shakes her head. “No, I want to be able to tell people I walked through with everybody else.”

Maybe it’s the early hour, but everyone is quiet and respectful. This just makes the t-shirts even more jarring. There’s the classics — Let’s Go Brandon — and new ones inspired by the July 13 events here, ‘Fight, Fight’ with a silhouette of Trump raising his fist second after being grazed on the ear by a bullet. The line doubles back through a maze of rope lines so every few minutes I see a little girl, maybe second or third grade. She has glasses and reminds me of Anna Chlumsky in “My Girl.” The child wears a Trump t-shirt as well. It’s an image of Trump seen through a rifle’s scope. It reads, “You missed bitches.” She catches my eye and gives me a smile. She then reaches up and grabs her momma’s hand.

I’VE BEEN TO two other Trump rallies, but both as a reporter, meaning preferred parking and expedited security lines. Sure, you were cordoned off in the media section where Trump could point you out, inspiring the crowd to give us the fingers and other words not taught to me at CCD. This time, I am attending the Butler as a civilian to try and understand the pain and suffering the Trump faithful go through to see their leader give a variation of the same speech he has now been giving for eight years. (Also, we missed the media credential deadline.) I take good advice from Trump, who suggests anyone at his rallies shouldn’t express sympathy for Kamala Harris, lest they get hurt. I keep my political opinions to myself.
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The more difficult question to answer is why they do it. Is it for a sense of community, a place where they don’t have to worry about the sneers of their neighbors? A place where they can let their Fuck Everybody freak flag fly? Or maybe it’s just for the sheer spectacle and the bragging rights to tell folks, “I was there when Musk went full MAGA.”

Turns out it is all of the above. Whatever your intentions, the rally is not for the meek. Hotel rooms are sold out or going for $400 a night, so many sleep in their cars. They form a pre-line before the sun comes up in hopes of getting one of the few hundred seats either in front or behind the stage. I arrive at 8:00 a.m. — ten hours before Trump will speak — and it’s clear that I’ll be standing with a limited view of the stage. Once through security, I see a small patch of shade behind a pallet of bottled water and stake my claim. I quickly learn this is “smoker’s row.” It’s a community of sorts — you are not allowed to bring in lighters, so for the rest of the day it’s an endless exercise to keep one cigarette lit so the next smoker can light up.

Maybe that’s what attracts a thirty-something woman in an Alice Cooper For President t-shirt and her frail dad, who’s wearing a version of the ‘Bitches You Missed’ t-shirt in black. They wear matching Trump hoodies, peeling them off to place on the damp ground. The woman tries to make her 58-year-old father comfortable.

I’ll call them Bella and Ben. They’re from a middle-class suburb six hours away and drove through the night.
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“We were supposed to leave at six, but Dad kept making deliveries so we didn’t get on the road until midnight,” says Bella. “I wanted to get him a seat. When Trump was shot, he told me he wanted to come here when Trump came back, I couldn’t stop him.”

Ben is chain-smoking even though he looks quite ill. Bella whispers later that Ben has lung cancer. She tells me her father has been smoking since he was nine and he can’t quit it. Later in the day, I asked Ben if he had tried Nicorette patches. He smiles and rolls up the sleeve and shows me he has a patch going. “I’m trying,” says Ben.

Ben tells me that his doctors want to take out a portion of his lung, but he wants to put it off until after the election. “I think there’s going to be a civil war,” Ben says. “I’d rather die fighting than in a hospital bed.”

The conditions here are not great for a sick, chain-smoking man. The wait for a hot dog is over two hours and our shade disappears by noon. Still, Bella says the vibe here is better than at other Trump rallies. “I wouldn’t take him to one near us, too many fights, too many troublemakers,” says Bella. She guesses it is because a trip to Butler is a commitment, you must be dedicated. “Everyone here is so nice.” And she’s right. A woman from New York in Prada sunglasses with coral polish on her toes and fingers hands out water, basically for ten hours. People assume she’s a Trump staffer and start giving her tips.

Bella says she used to be a blue-collar Democrat but Trump turned her into a Republican. She speaks in almost perfect Fox News-speak, as if she is reading off Jesse Watters’ teleprompter. “We’re not doing enough for Americans,” says Bella, lighting another Newport. “FEMA spent all their money on illegal aliens, now they’re only giving $750 to people in North Carolina. And Elon is trying to help and they’re stopping his aid from getting in.”

Neither is true. FEMA has enough money, the $750 is a stopgap, and even Elon Musk backed off on his spurious claims of governmental interference blocking private help, after Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg schooled him on his own platform. The governors of North Carolina, Georgia, and South Carolina have all praised the federal government’s efforts.

None of that penetrates here where people speak with 100 percent confidence that Kamala Harris is brainless and a tool of the deep state. Ben took a gummy to help with his pain and he speaks freely about his life as a contractor and as someone who “has never caught a break from the government.”

“I knew from day one the vax was bullshit, just to make the pharmaceutical companies richer,” he says. “I didn’t get it, my kids didn’t get it, and my grandkids didn’t get it.”

If you live in a blue state and ever been to Starbucks with a friend, you’ve had a conversation about that one classmate who lost their mind and went to Trump. Here, you catch the flip side. “How can anyone vote for Harris when she didn’t get a single vote?” asks Bella. “And with inflation, you’d have to be brain damaged.” 

Bella says she and her partner make over $100,000 together but they still have a hard time paying the bills, even though their house is paid off. A TV crew comes nearby and starts interviewing another woman. Bella shouts, “I just got turned down for food stamps, when illegals get them off right from the start.”

It’s part of a collective fury here, where the facts don’t always square with the rage. No household making $100,000 is entitled to food stamps unless there are a multitude of children involved. (Ben contributes to my confusion later by showing me photos of expensive art he claims to own.) It doesn’t matter. Soon, others in the crowd are shouting at the reporter. “Talk to her, she can’t even get food stamps.”

Ben tells me of the immigrants who have moved into his neighborhood. “They’re living 40 to a house,” he tells me. I ask him where they are from. “I don’t know, I’ve never talked to them.”

Bella leaves to fight the crowds for food. Another camera crew comes to where we sit, trying to get a glimpse of the build from where the shooter fired his shots. It’s all blocked off by trailers and remains unseen. This doesn’t stop a man from grabbing the reporter. “They’re going to kill him,” says the man. “The deep state is not going to let him become president again. They’re going to fucking kill him.”

No one around him disagrees.

Around 2:00 p.m., the speakers begin, a host of doctors, paramedics, and sheriffs who were here three months ago. They talk about God’s intervention and mention Corey Comperatore, the fireman who died after being hit by a stray bullet. Ben half-listens and shakes his head sadly. He spent most of his life as a contractor before switching to making deliveries when he was first diagnosed with cancer. “Kids don’t have a chance now,” says Ben. He shares with me the funnel cake that Bella bought him. “You want to be gay, you can be gay, but do they have to throw all that transition shit in our faces? Fuck them.”

Ben says America has never cut him a break, but still unsteadily rises to his feet when Lee Greenwood takes the stages and sings “God Bless The USA.” It’s a phenomenon I see all day long: polite citizens who viscerally hate 21^st century America, but are moved to tears by Greenwood’s corny lyrics and chants of ‘USA! USA!’

IT’S 6:00 P.M. and Trump takes the stage an hour late. He confirms immediately that everyone here are indeed American pilgrims.

“Forever, all who have visited this hallowed place will remember what happened here, and they will know of the character and courage that so many incredible American patriots have shown,” says Trump.

Then, the day’s only genuinely funny moment happens, an error-filled immigration chart flashes on the screen, the same one Trump was referring to when he was shot.

“And as I was saying…”

The crowd roars. Ben clenches his gnarled fingers and gives a fist pump. Trump then talks about the 7/13 martyr, fireman Corey Comperatore. He tells the crowd of how Comperatore was so excited that he had great seats for the July rally.

“Little did anyone realize that Corey would be on the stage three months later in an almost immortal position, and that’s where he is today. He’s on the stage in a, I think, in not almost, I think it’s a truly immortal position.”

A moment later, Trump pauses. “It is 6:11, 12 weeks to the time that the shooting began. I would like everyone to join me in a moment of silence.”

Electronic bells chime. Then the evening takes a Megalopolis turn. The jumbo screens that most attendees are watching on cuts to a man who belts out “Ave Maria.” The always operatic Trump has brought out an actual opera singer. Afterward, he reminds the crowd to stick around after his speech, the singer will be back with more tunes.

“I wouldn’t leave your seat too fast when we’re finished today,” says Trump. He then glances over to where J.D. Vance is sitting. “What do you think, Mr. Future Vice President, pretty good, right? I don’t know if you could do that, JD.”

Ben sits down, a content smile on his face. Bella asks if he wants to leave.

“We’re staying for Elon,” he says.

He gets his wish a few minutes later. Trump introduces the richest man on the planet and the tired, exhausted working-class crowd lets out a scream. It doesn’t last long because Musk is on stage jumping around like a jack-in-the-box who has left his box.

Bella shoots her dad a look of what the hell.

“I’m not just MAGA, I’m dark Maga,” shouts Musk, clad in a black Occupy Mars t-shirt and black MAGA cap.

“Freedom of speech is the bedrock of democracy and if people don’t know what’s going on, if they don’t know the truth, how can you, how can you make an informed vote,” says Musk, a billionaire born into apartheid South Africa who bought Twitter so he could have the world’s biggest megaphone to spread misinformation.

People begin streaming toward the exits. This isn’t meant as a criticism. It’s now 7:00 p.m., everyone has been on their feet for 12 hours, they are fucking exhausted. They have seen their messiah and his chief Pharisee. They can tell their grandchildren about it. Besides, they won’t miss anything other than Trump telling more non-truths, including the absolute lie that two women boxers won gold medals after transitioning from male to female.

Bella asks her dad if he is ready to go. She is worried about getting stuck in the parking lot, and then there’s the six-hour drive back to Michigan.

“Just a little longer,” says Ben.
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I say goodbye. Bella is right, the parking lot is a disaster. It takes me over three hours to exit as a chaotic blend of red lights head toward the single exit road. I curse and call friends, bitching about my plight. Eventually, I roll my window down. No horns are honking, people are out of their cars, smiling and chatting with their fellow prisoners.

Everyone is content to linger on hallowed ground.