Confessions of a Free Speech Lawyer: Charlottesville and the Politics of Hate

CONFESSIONS OF A FREE SPEECH LAWYER

Charlottesville and the Politics of Hate

RODNEY A. SMOLLA

CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS

ITHACA AND LONDON

To my family

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

1. A Call from the Task Force

2. The Charleston Massacre

3. Becoming Richard Spencer

4. Reverend Edwards

5. The Charlottesville Monuments

6. Blut und Boden

7. Mr. Jefferson’s University

8. Kessler v. Bellamy

9. The Monuments Debate

10. Competing Conceptions of Free Speech

11. May Days

12. Cue the Klan—Stage Right

13. The Rise of the Marketplace

14. Cue the Counterprotesters—Stage Left

15. A Rolling Stone Gathers No Facts

16. The Marketplace Doubles Down

17. The Day of the Klan

18. When Speech Advances Civil Rights

19. Duke and the Disciples

20. The Russian Connection

21. A Call to Conscience

22. Preparations

23. The Day of the Cross

24. The Idea of the University

25. Heckler’s Veto

26. Channels of Communication

27. Rednecks and Saint Paul

28. The Lawn and the Rotunda

29. Bloodshed

30. Aftermath

Notes

Index

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I thank Anna Smolla, Connie Sweeney, Sara Evans, Evan Ryser, Stephen Wesley, Jessica O’Hearn, Emily Andrew, and Joshua Brownlie for their assistance and support.

1

A CALL FROM THE TASK FORCE

I received a call from the governor’s office in Richmond, Virginia, on the Monday following Labor Day weekend in September 2017. The call came from Shannon Dion, who was working in the office of Governor Terry McAuliffe. Dion had been my student at the University of Richmond School of Law, where I had served as the school’s dean. She was phoning on behalf of the governor and Virginia’s secretary of public safety, Brian Moran. Governor McAuliffe had created a governor’s task force to study the racial violence in the city of Charlottesville during the summer of 2017. That violence had claimed the life of Heather Heyer on August 12, when a white supremacist, James Alex Fields Jr., slammed his speeding car pell-mell into a crowd of counterprotesters confronting a Unite the Right rally.

The work of the task force, Dion explained, would require it to delve deeply in the constitutional protections of freedom of speech and freedom of assembly and the rules of engagement governing what society could or could not do when confronted with racial supremacist groups rallying in a city, surrounded by opposing groups determined to confront and shout down the messages of racism and hate. The governor and the secretary were hoping I would be willing to serve as an expert consultant to the task force on those First Amendment rules of engagement. The request came on very short notice. The task force would commence its meetings in just two weeks. But I instantly agreed to serve, assuring Dion that I would do whatever needed to adjust my schedule to travel from Delaware, where I lived and worked as dean of the Delaware Law School, to travel to Richmond, Virginia’s capital, for the task force hearings.¹

Dion knew me as a law professor and law school dean and as a constitutional law litigator and scholar. When we hung up on the call, I wondered if she remembered that I had been the lead attorney in a famous free speech case involving vicious racist hate speech, Virginia v. Black.² The case involved a cross-burning rally of the Ku Klux Klan in rural western Virginia in 1998, and a second cross-burning incident in Virginia Beach, Virginia, also in 1998, in the yard of an African American, James Jubilee. The case went all the way to the Supreme Court of the United States, where I represented and argued on behalf of the racist cross-burners, asserting that the First Amendment protected their right to brandish symbols of racism, though it did not protect actual incitement to violence, or true threats intended to intimidate victims.

I had watched with horror the television images of racist violence in Charlottesville the month before. With so much of the nation, I had been shocked and traumatized by the gruesome video of James Fields slamming his car into the crowd of innocent counterprotesters, murdering Heather Heyer. Not so much with the rest of the nation, however, I felt special pangs of guilt, doubt, and remorse over the violence that engulfed Charlottesville, and the death of Heyer. For I had personally argued the Supreme Court case fighting for the rights of racist groups like the Ku Klux Klan and American neo-Nazis to spread their bile on the streets and parks of Virginia. What had my advocacy wrought? I felt vaguely complicit in the hate speech, in the violence, in the carnage and the death.

In accepting the invitation to join the efforts of the task force, I vowed to myself that I would check all preconceptions and prejudices and approach the effort with an open mind about the meaning of freedom of speech and assembly and the tensions between our American commitment to freedom of expression and our concurrent commitments to equality and human dignity. It was in that spirit that I approached the work of the Charlottesville Task Force. It was in that spirit that I came to see that the events of Charlottesville in the superheated, hateful summer of 2017 had meaning and resonance far beyond that time and place. This story is the chronicle of my exploration of that meaning and resonance.

A few months before I received Dion’s call, I had received another call, inviting me to represent Jason Kessler, one of the leaders of the alt-right supremacists who had organized the Unite the Right rally that led to Heather Heyer’s death. In August 2017, just days before the scheduled Unite the Right rally, the City of Charlottesville sought to move the rally from the streets and parks in downtown Charlottesville, near the University of Virginia campus, to McIntire Park, a spacious forest preserve and recreational park on the outskirts of the city. Kessler and Richard Spencer, the national alt-right leader and driving force behind the Unite the Right rally, did not want the rally moved. The two monuments to the Confederate generals Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson were in the city’s downtown parks. One of the announced purposes of the Unite the Right rally was to fight attempts by Charlottesville to remove or relocate the monuments. Kessler and Spencer, both graduates of the University of Virginia, also wanted to march through the UVA campus in a kind of in your face defiance of the UVA community, which they perceived as captured by radical progressive political correctness.

Why would I be called to represent the likes of Kessler and Spencer? For starters, I had been a stalwart free speech lawyer who had represented racists before—the Ku Klux Klan, for god’s sake—in Virginia v. Black, all the way to the Supreme Court. I also had long-standing ties to two nonprofits in Virginia that often brought litigation on free speech issues: the American Civil Liberties Union of Virginia, and the Rutherford Institute. I had just finished writing an amicus curiae (friend of the court) brief on behalf of the Virginia ACLU and the Rutherford Institute in the Supreme Court of Virginia, in a case involving the free speech rights of judges to speak on issues of public concern. The Virginia ACLU and the Rutherford Institute volunteered to represent Kessler in his lawsuit against Charlottesville.

When I was approached by the legal director of the Virginia ACLU, Leslie Chambers Mehta, I was in the midst of a family vacation and preparing for the wedding of my eldest daughter. This was an emergency request for legal assistance, and I had not been following the breaking day-by-day and hour-by-hour events. Based on my outsider’s view from the news coverage of the pending Unite the Right rally, and my own knowledge of the topography of Charlottesville, it was very difficult to make any clean and clear judgment as to whether the efforts of the city to move the rally were or were not legally permissible. I had often taken my children, including my daughter who was about to have her wedding, to McIntire Park. I knew the park well and could see why, given the pressure-cooker atmosphere building in Charlottesville, there was some commonsense logic to moving the entire event to McIntire Park. I also had some gauzy, inarticulate, vague intuition that something did not seem right—though at the time I was still quite far from any thoughtful understanding of what was bothering me. I took a pass, telling the Virginia ACLU that I would not participate as counsel for Kessler and his group.

The decision not to take the case had consequences for me. It kept me at an objective distance from the events, which would ultimately keep me free to accept the later offer from the office of Governor McAuliffe to participate, as a disinterested scholarly expert, offering testimony and advice to the task force that was convened to review the Charlottesville events.

And it kept me free to write this book.

All of us are constantly influenced by what’s on the air and in the air. My exploration for the meaning of Charlottesville was constantly influenced by all that was in and on the air as I worked. As I was writing this book in 2018, Spike Lee, a visionary movie director, released a film masterpiece, BlacKkKlansman. The movie tells the true story of an African American police detective who managed to infiltrate the Ku Klux Klan in Colorado Springs, Colorado, in the 1970s. The white supremacist David Duke is featured prominently as the celebrity supremacist who is duped by the black detective. Duke also features prominently in this book as the precursor to the next generation of supremacists who orchestrated the bloody confrontations in Charlottesville in the summer of 2017. Spike Lee chose to end his movie with footage from Charlottesville in 2017, including the carnage that led to the death of Heather Heyer.

BlacKkKlansman exhibits Spike Lee’s masterly ability to tell a moral tale without getting in your face. It is not polemical, or manipulative, or dishonest, artistically or intellectually. Lee’s decision to cut to images of Charlottesville at the end of his film speaks for itself. It reminded me that the dark comedy he has conjured from events in the 1970s, in which a clever black cop dupes the white supremacists of that day, remains the stuff of dark tragedy at large in America today.

The year 2018 also marked the fiftieth anniversary of the death of Martin Luther King Jr., who was struck down by an assassin’s bullet in Memphis on April 4, 1968. I was invited to partner with Rev. John G. Moore of Wilmington, Delaware, to stage a creative event commemorating Dr. King’s death. Moore had perfected performances in which he reen-acted King’s many famous speeches. His act was brilliant. As I watched him demonstrate his performance, I felt as if Martin Luther King had been brought back from the past and stood before me. The plan for our program was somewhat edgy. I would interview Dr. King, played by Moore, who would respond in character, borrowing as much as possible from King’s own words. It was part historical drama, part theater improv. I was researching for our performance as I was writing this book and in the process became fixed on one moment in King’s life.

King stirred the conscience of the nation from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on the Washington Mall in 1963, declaring in a tremolo voice that seemed transported from the Promised Land, I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’ Only eighteen days after King’s I Have a Dream speech, four African American teenage girls, Addie Mae Collins, Denise McNair, Carole Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley, were killed in a bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, their dreams silenced and their families shattered in the screams and shrapnel of a race-hate bomb. King descended from the Lincoln Memorial highs to the Birmingham mourning depths.

In his eulogy for the slain girls, King challenged the grieving congregation to consider not who killed the four girls, but what killed them. The nation would ask both questions when King himself was cut down. I, however, could not stop asking simply who killed Heather Heyer in Charlottesville on August 17, 2017, but what killed her. And as I explored both the who and the what, I was constantly haunted by the nightmare that perhaps among the who in the cast of those complicit was me. And with that nightmare, its companion night-terror, that the what included my many blind spots on issues of American history, culture, and law on matters touching the intersection of freedom of speech and identity in all its complex forms—race, gender, sexuality, religion, national origin, citizenship, and politics.

As these thoughts were swirling, I happened to attend a program in my role as dean of the Delaware Law School, sponsored by the law school’s Black Law Students Association, on the writings and speeches of James Baldwin, as reflected in a posthumously published book, and then a film, I Am Not Your Negro.³ In a 1985 speech at Cambridge University, Baldwin may have shocked his audience in criticizing Attorney General Robert Kennedy’s suggestion that in forty years, America might have a black president. Baldwin noted that to white people, Kennedy’s observation probably seemed like a very emancipated statement. For me—a white civil rights and civil liberties lawyer reflecting on what Kennedy said—Kennedy’s notion would indeed seem emancipated, and even prophetic, given the election of President Barack Obama. Yet Baldwin warned that many black people saw it differently. White people, he observed, were not in Harlem to sample the reaction to Kennedy’s statement. They did not hear (and possibly will never hear) the laughter and the bitterness and the scorn with which this statement was greeted, Baldwin said. Bobby Kennedy only got here yesterday and now he’s already on his way to the presidency, Baldwin continued. We’ve been here for four hundred years and now he tells us that maybe in forty years, if you’re good, we may let you become president.⁴ Baldwin’s remarks haunted me as I considered how I, thinking myself enlightened on issues of freedom of speech and emancipated on issues of race, could not entirely perceive the crosscurrents of perception and emotion spurred by images of Ku Klux Klan members burning a cross, or a monument to Confederate general Robert E. Lee placed in prominent display in the center of a southern city.

The long hot 2017 summer in Charlottesville was also the first summer of the presidency of Donald Trump, and certainly not the winter of his opponents’ discontent. Many of those who reacted with fear and loathing at the election of President Trump interpreted his election as a rear-guard yearning for America’s racist and xenophobic past, a yearning for an America in which greater is code for whiter, conjuring images of ethno-state revivals of America in 1924 or Germany in 1933. The chants of the newly coined alt-right movement, shouting slogans such as you will not replace us or blood and soil, were perceived in some quarters as surrogates for Trump’s own subliminal (and at times explicit) messages of racism and xenophobia.⁵

My ruminations naturally included reflections on the multiple roles I have played as a professional, including lawyer, scholar, teacher, and university administrator. The Unite the Right rally was not just a rally in the city of Charlottesville. It was a rally at the University of Virginia. I’d spent the bulk of my professional career on American college and university campuses, and I was aware that the crossfire hurricane of conflict that descended on Charlottesville in 2017 spun off multiple tornados on the campus of that great university.

The University of Virginia did not admit women until the 1970s, when ordered to cease its all-male admissions policy by a federal court. UVA would become the epicenter of the American maelstrom over campus gender politics when an article published in Rolling Stone magazine described a brutal ritual gang rape of a UVA freshman at a campus fraternity event. I was a lawyer in the ensuing litigation, representing the fraternity. The story accusing the fraternity turned out to be entirely false—a fabrication. The painful raw-nerve firestorm ignited by the immediate reaction to the story, however, was entirely real.

For all this, however, Charlottesville and the University of Virginia were also, by 2017, among the American bastions of left-wing progressive liberal activist opposition to racism, sexism, xenophobia, and homophobia. Charlottesville and the University of Virginia were claiming a seat next to other famous American campuses, like the University of California at Berkeley, or Yale, as ardently active beacons of the rights of the oppressed and dispossessed. The mayor of Charlottesville declared the city the capital of the progressive resistance. It stood for the rights of people of color, religious minorities, gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender persons—the champion of all colors and causes that the supremacists of the alt-right despised. Here were fear and loathing in Charlottesville, fueled from the right and the left, isobar highs and lows of love and hate, generating a perfect storm.

If Charlottesville may be defined as a crossroads for politics, it has also proven a ripe environment for creativity. It has been home to musicians, actors, and writers, from Dave Matthews to Sissy Spacek, Edgar Allan Poe to William Faulkner to John Grisham. It has been home to great eccentrics, including Anna Anderson, the putative sole survivor of the massacre of the Romanov royal family during the Russian Revolution, who claimed to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia. (We now know that her claim to be Anastasia was concocted.)

William Faulkner lived in Charlottesville for five years, from 1957 until his death in 1962. In 1957 and 1958 he was the University of Virginia’s first Balch Writer in Residence. When he strolled the university’s famous Academical Village in the late 1950s, sporting his signature collegiate tweed suit, the famous literary gentleman from Mississippi had already won the Nobel Prize for literature, a Pulitzer Prize, and two National Book Awards. While some at stately UVA had feared bringing him to the campus—Faulkner was as notorious for the hardness of his drinking as he was acclaimed for the fluidity of his prose—he did his duties to his students and his colleagues, if not also to his bourbon, living in Charlottesville to be close to his only child Jill, whose husband was attending the UVA Law School.⁶ In his masterpiece novel Absalom, Absalom! one of Faulkner’s characters, Rosa, explains that she became more than even love; I became all polymath love’s androgynous advocate.⁷ Charlottesville in 2017 seemed to capture advocacy for all polymath love, and all polymath hate. The city became the symbol of America’s ongoing struggle to reconcile its ever-optimistic dreams for the future with the haunting nightmares of its history. Or to again borrow from Faulkner, as his character the lawyer Gavin Stevens says in A Requiem for a Nun, The past is never dead. It’s not even past.⁸

2

THE CHARLESTON MASSACRE

On June 17, 2015, Dylann Storm Roof, a white supremacist, brutally murdered nine African Americans at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina. Roof’s evil massacre of innocents would have ripple effects far beyond Charleston. His actions renewed debates over guns and the Second Amendment and the right to bear arms. His actions also changed the dynamics of American debate over symbols of the Confederacy, including the Confederate battle flag and monuments to Confederate leaders such as Jefferson Davis, Stonewall Jackson, and Robert E. Lee. The ripple effects reached across the South, and the nation, and took on special intensity in Charlottesville.

Prior to committing the murders, Roof toured South Carolina historical sites with links to the Civil War and slavery, posting photographs and selfies of his visits. Four of the photographs on Roof’s site showed him with the Confederate battle flag.¹ His online narrative, styled as his manifesto, was the story of his racist radicalization. Roof’s rambling screed was infested with attacks on African Americans, Hispanics, and Jews.

I have no choice, Roof asserted. I am not in the position to, alone, go into the ghetto and fight. I chose Charleston because it is most historic city in my state, and at one time had the highest ratio of blacks to Whites in the country.² Roof portrayed himself as one of the few with the courage to do what it takes. We have no skinheads, no real KKK, no one doing anything but talking on the internet, he stated. Well someone has to have the bravery to take it to the real world, and I guess that has to be me.³

Recall that Martin Luther King’s eulogy for the four African American girls killed in the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church bombing in Birmingham had challenged mourners to ask not who killed the girls, but what killed them, echoing themes King had raised in his famous Letter from Birmingham Jail. The Charleston massacre, like so many other recent acts of mass violence, focused the country yet again on the what question. The what question often centers on gun control, the Second Amendment, and the right to bear arms. The gun debate would be part of the aftermath of Dylann Roof’s Charleston shooting, as it has been with mass shootings before and since.

But the what question is not so cleanly separated from the who question. When the shooter or bomber has ties to the international war on terrorism, to ISIS or Al-Qaeda or other strains of violent Islamic jihad, the what question also turns to radical elements in the Middle East and their radical domestic lone-wolf followers. In Dylann Roof’s case, however, the radical terroristic impulses were not foreign, but domestic. Soon after the shooting, images from Roof’s social media postings depicting him wrapped in the racist symbols of the Confederacy went viral on the internet. Soon thereafter, the internet was abuzz with reports about the various social media sites that Roof claimed had influenced him in his journal of radicalization and violence.

Roof was radicalized by material he read on websites. One of the organizations that had influenced him was the Council of Concerned Citizens.⁴ The first website I came to was the Council of Conservative Citizens, Roof stated.⁵ Among the Council’s stated guiding principles is opposition to all efforts to mix the races of mankind.⁶ The material on the Council of Concerned Citizens site, coupled with Roof’s views of the controversy surrounding George Zimmerman’s shooting of Trayvon Martin, an unarmed black Florida teenager, truly awakened him.⁷ Roof thought Zimmerman was right to shoot Martin. But more than that, Roof perceived murders of whites by blacks as a call to whites to murder blacks. The Council of Concerned Citizens materials contained pages upon pages of these brutal black on White murders,⁸ Roof explained. I was in disbelief. At this moment I realized that something was very wrong. How could the news be blowing up the Trayvon Martin case while hundreds of these black on White murders got ignored?⁹

As news that the material posted by the Council of Concerned Citizens had influenced Roof surfaced in the media, the Council reacted. In a message posted for the organization, and in a more personalized message posted by the organization’s president, Earl Holt III, Roof’s murders were condemned, but Roof’s message was affirmed.

Jared Taylor, a spokesperson for the Council, proclaimed that the Council unequivocally condemns Roof’s actions.¹⁰ Yet Taylor also stood behind the content of the material on the Council’s website, and the conclusions to be drawn from that content. Taylor asserted that the Council stands unshakably behind the facts on its website, and points out the dangers of denying the extent of black-on-white crime. Taylor asserted that every year there are about 500,000 violent, interracial crimes, of which about 85 percent are committed by blacks against whites.¹¹

The reverse, Taylor maintained, was not true. Every year, there are some 20,000 rapes of white women by blacks, but rapes by white men of black women are so unusual, they scarcely appear in crime statistics, he asserted. Taylor argued that if these figures were reversed—if there were wide-spread white-on-black rape and violence—it would be constant national news. Instead, the true nature of interracial violence is ignored. Taylor claimed that this pattern led to the frustration of persons like Dylann Roof and predictably led to acts such as Roof’s violence.¹²

Jared Taylor’s writings had influenced the thought of Richard Spencer. Taylor graduated from Yale in 1973, where he majored in philosophy, and then received a master’s degree in international studies from the Paris Institute of Political Studies. He was born in Japan, the child of Christian missionaries, and lived in Japan until he was sixteen. His work as a white nationalist included leadership roles in many various supremacist groups, with interlocking relationships. Taylor was the founder of an online racial supremacist magazine, American Renaissance. He had been a director of the National Policy Institute, which Richard Spencer would come to lead. Taylor, like Spencer, brought a quality of urbanity, sophistication, elite education, and intellectualism to white supremacy. If Spencer was no dumb Nazi, Taylor was no dumb Ku Kluxer. As the Southern Poverty Law Center put it, Taylor is a courtly presenter of ideas that most would describe as crudely white supremacist—a kind of modern-day version of the refined but racist colonialist of old.¹³

The Council of Concerned Citizens had contributed money to the campaigns of several candidates for the Republican nomination for president, as well as Republican candidates running for Congress and state political posts. Four of the Republican presidential hopefuls, Scott Walker, Rand Paul, Ted Cruz, and Rick Santorum, led many Republicans in immediately cutting ties to the Council of Concerned Citizens, stating that they would either return contributions or donate to charity money contributed by Earl Holt or the Council.¹⁴

I was in South Carolina when the funerals for the victims of the Charleston massacre were held. President Obama delivered a stirring eulogy, which ended with his spontaneously leading the assembled mourners in the singing of Amazing Grace. While the funeral was being held, I was driving through Columbia, the capital of South Carolina, with members of my family. When I had been president of Furman University in South Carolina, I’d quietly worked behind the scenes to see if a deal could be brokered that would finally get the Confederate battle flag removed from the South Carolina state capitol grounds. But those efforts never got anywhere. I drove with my family past the capitol building, and we stopped our car in front of the flagpole where the Confederate battle flag was still flying. I took a picture of it on my iPhone and got into the car. Maybe this shooting will finally get the damn flag removed, I told my wife, Anna. At that moment I had little confidence that it would. That night I wrote an opinion piece for Washington Monthly magazine urging that the flag be taken down. But at that point I still had very little hope that any such thing could happen.

But I was wrong. The South Carolina governor Nikki Haley, who would later serve at the US ambassador to the United Nations in the early administration of President Donald Trump, was present in Charleston with President Obama at the funeral service for the Emanuel African American Methodist Church victims. Following the funeral, Governor Haley rose to the historic moment. With her urging, the South Carolina legislature voted to remove the Confederate battle flag. I savored this victory. With so many others, I saw it as a rare moment of bipartisan unity spurred by the recognition of our shared humanity, a light shining in the face of tragic darkness.

My savoring was ill-considered and short-lived. The decision by South Carolina to remove the flag led to a tsunami across the South. Many civil rights leaders and other progressives began questioning the legitimacy of all symbols of the Confederacy. There were calls in many quarters to remove monuments to famous Confederate leaders, such as Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee, and Stonewall Jackson.

The swelling calls to remove the Confederate symbols in turn triggered a massive countermovement, as if an echo-boom to the South’s period of massive resistance in the wake of the 1954 desegregation decision in Brown v. Board of Education.¹⁵ What I had seen as the simple common-sense, compassionate exercise in human decency reflected in the removal of the Confederate battle flag from the South Carolina capitol suddenly erupted in a national referendum over whether the country should expurgate all symbols honoring the cause and leaders of the Confederacy. Faulkner was right. The past is never dead.

3

BECOMING RICHARD SPENCER

Richard Bertrand Spencer was born in Boston in 1978.¹ He grew up in Dallas, a son of privilege. His father was a respected Dallas ophthalmologist. His mother was an heiress to cotton farms in Louisiana. He attended St. Mark’s of Texas, an elite private all-male prep school.²

Spencer started college at Colgate University in upstate New York but transferred after his freshman year to the University of Virginia, majoring in music history and English. After graduating from UVA, he went to the University of Chicago, where he got a master’s degree, and then entered a doctoral program at Duke. He left Duke in 2007 before getting his doctorate, spurred by the Duke lacrosse team case. As Spencer put it, he decided to drop out of Duke to pursue a life of thought-crime.³

Before his time at Duke, Spencer traveled to Germany in 2002, living on Lake Chiemsee, in Bavaria southeast of Munich. He worked for the Bavarian State Opera and immersed himself in the study of German history and literature. He was particularly moved by the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche, the nineteenth-century philosopher whose work would be co-opted by the Nazis. It was during his time in Germany that his ideas about race began to form.

Spencer’s work as an active conservative intellectual and political player began in the conservative mainstream. His first gig, which grew directly from the Duke lacrosse scandal, was with the American Conservative, which he joined after leaving Duke. The American Conservative had been founded in 2002 by Scott McConnell, Patrick Buchanan, and Taki Theodoracopulos, to add a more aggressively conservative publication voice to the marketplace than the National Review or the Weekly Standard. Spencer then became executive editor of Taki’s Magazine, an online publication founded by Taki Theodoracopulos, the conservative Greek journalist popularly known as Taki. In an article in the Spectator called Cult of Victimhood, Taki opined, I was brought up to believe that one never pays a woman for her conversation, but only for her silence.⁴

Taki, some might think, could have influenced Donald Trump’s playbook. In the same article Taki explained his views of race. Race is more than skin deep, no ifs or buts about it, Taki wrote. On average, Orientals are slower to mature, less randy, less fertile, and have larger brains and higher IQ scores. Blacks are at the other pole, and whites fall somewhere in the middle, although closer to the Orientals than the blacks.⁵ If Taki was Spencer’s mentor, it was plain enough in what direction Spencer would be moving.

Spencer’s evolution can be seen in a 2009 piece he wrote in Taki’s Magazine titled White Like Us. In the article Spencer attacks affirmative action, diversity, and political correctness. But Spencer in White Like Us is not yet over the edge, any more than racy erotic scenes from Sex in the City should be confused with hard-core porn. Spencer was not yet radically supremacist, not yet visioning America as a white ethno-state.

As I’ve learned from some friends who work at large law firms at New York, Spencer wrote in the article,

the entry fee for the game is an abiding respect for diversity and the institution of gay marriage and an intuitive knowledge of when and when not Asians and Jews are considered protected classes and when and when not to mention in a hiring session that a gay applicant might add to diversity. (I’ve even noted that megafirms like Kirkland and Ellis have taken to holding outreach hiring fares for potential GLBT associates—which, no doubt, have inspired many straight white guys to do Tootsie routines, camp it up a bit and hope to land a super job as a diversity hire.)⁶

Lamenting the confused state of white consciousness, Spencer argued that whites have instituted the PC [politically correct] regime on themselves (and rigorously enforce and maintain it). Spencer observed, "No alien power or coalition of disgruntled minorities have forced whites to act is such stupid ways and believe such stupid things; it’s all been the fault WASPs, Jews, and other shades of blanche. Spencer claimed that while many blacks might enjoy the benefits of affirmative action, very, very few of them genuinely believe in Diversity Dogma quite like whites do. Rather, Spencer claimed, most blacks I’ve known are refreshingly heretical when it comes to PC (that is to say, honest-er.)"⁷

In his 2009 piece, Spencer mused that an activist white consciousness is probably not possible, regardless of whether it’s desirable. Nevertheless, Spencer concluded, there remains a pressing need for the people of the West to develop dignified and rational ways of relating to peoples of other races and cultures—and without resorting to the nauseating ‘anti-racism’ and one-world-ism we’ve all been hooked on since the ’60s. For this, real honesty about ourselves is a good place to start.⁸

The Spencer in this essay was not yet the most dangerous racial supremacist in America, but he was well on his way. What made so many regard him as the ultimate danger, however, was not simply the extremity of the views he would finally come to embrace, but the suave slickness of the persona in which they were packaged.

He was dangerous because he was smart. Spencer was no dumb Nazi. The smarts were not just in his credentials—St. Mark’s, Colgate, UVA, Chicago, Duke—but what he knew of history and politics and culture, and how he used what he knew. Spencer evolved as the illiberal product of a liberal education, pressing his study of music, language, history, philosophy, politics, and culture into the service of ethnic cleansing.

Spencer was not just smart. He could flat-out write. Spencer could turn a phrase and flip a pun with the best. And he dressed well. His clothes were expensive, stylish, and cosmopolitan. He could speak with disarming wit and charm when he wanted to, even make himself sound perfectly reasonable. Spencer would begin to create his own mythology as one of America’s most disarming far-right activists, relishing the attention as his myth grew. To his opponents, it was the very fact that Spencer did not look or sound like radical right extremists were supposed to look or sound that made him all the more formidable.

Richard Spencer kept migrating, moving righter and whiter. His breakthrough came in 2011. Louis Andrews, the head of the National Policy Institute, a white nationalist policy think tank, became ill and had to step down. The National Policy Institute was founded in 2005 by William Regnery II. Regnery was a member of a wealthy conservative publishing family, and a white nationalist. The National Policy Institute’s mission was to elevate the consciousness of whites, ensure our biological and cultural continuity, and protect our civil rights.⁹ Andrews also ran a related publishing company, Washington Summit Publishers. Spencer was recruited to succeed Andrews as head of the National Policy Institute and head of the publishing company. Spencer took the job and promptly moved the two entities to Whitefish, Montana, where his mother owned a commercial building and a vacation home.

Spencer then grew increasingly radical in his white supremacist thinking. At a 2013 conference of white nationalists called the American Renaissance, Spencer gave a speech urging the creation of a White Ethno-State on the North American continent. He became an advocate for ethnic cleansing. History, Spencer asserted, had unfortunately given ethnic cleansing a bad name. Today, in the public imagination, ‘ethnic-cleansing’ has been associated with civil war and mass murder (understandably so). Spencer, however, believed that ethnic cleansing could be peaceful, accomplished without mass murder, but simply through the fiat of law mandating ethnic redistribution. Spencer envisioned this as a living and breathing future reality, as something that could really happen, asserting, It is perfectly feasible for a white state to be established on the North American continent.¹⁰

By this time Spencer had coined the phrase—and laid claim to the founding of—the alt-right. Spencer started Alternative Right, an online magazine, in 2011. He began to think of himself as having the potential to play a major role in history, which would require him to live dangerously and cultivate controversy.¹¹

Spencer’s views of race were heavily influenced by the German conception of Volksgeist, a word that means the spirit of a people. Johann Gottfried von Herder, a nineteenth-century German philosopher, theologian, and literary critic, captured the Volksgeist ideal in his lament: But now! Again I cry, my German brethren! But now! The remains of all genuine folk-thought is rolling into the abyss of oblivion with a last and accelerated impetus. For the last century we have been ashamed of everything that concerns the fatherland.¹² Spencer would come to channel this theme in his thoughts on white consciousness and the need for whites to shed their shame over their race. Spencer would also be influenced by a German legal thinker, Carl Schmitt. Schmitt was a lawyer and legal philosopher who became one of the leading jurists of the Third Reich. He was editor-in-chief of the Nazi newspaper for lawyers, the Deutsche Juristen-Zeitung, the German Jurists’ Journal, and was a law professor at the University of Berlin. Schmitt led the Nazi book-burning rallies, arguing for the destruction of all un-German ideas.¹³ Schmitt had a brutal conception of politics