• by Steven Rosenbaum , Featured Contributor, November 4, 2024

Donald Trump took to Mar-a-Lago last Tuesday to extol his recent Madison Square Garden rally, declaring it a “lovefest.” “The love in that room, it was breathtaking... an absolute lovefest, and it was my honor to be involved,” he gushed, as The New York Times recently noted.

It’s a striking choice of words, especially given the event’s undertones — rhetoric that singled out immigrants as “vicious and bloodthirsty criminals” and a comic’s jab at Puerto Rico as a “floating island of garbage.”

The psychology behind using “love” in these contexts is simple but effective. Love creates bonds; it’s a potent psychological tool that keeps followers engaged and loyal.

But Trump’s version of “love” is fueled by anger and fear. His language implies that only those who share his grievances are worthy of his affection.

This isn’t love in any genuine sense; it’s a bait-and-switch, offering his followers a hollow promise of validation in exchange for their allegiance.

By using love as a mask, Trump tells his followers “You’re part of something bigger, something honorable,” even when the language on stage is about tearing down others.

Trump’s approach here isn’t unique; it’s a well-worn authoritarian tactic. Historian Ruth Ben-Ghiat, in her book “Strongmen: Mussolini to the Present,” explains how leaders use affection as a tool for control, creating a sense of special connection that keeps followers fiercely loyal.

As quoted in The New York Times, Ben-Ghiat says that expressing emotion can “make people feel protective of them,” binding them to the leader’s vision. But the “love” Trump offers is empty, self-serving, a love that exists only as long as it serves him.

What’s troubling is the way Trump’s “love” and hate coexist so seamlessly. Madison Square Garden was once home to a 1939 pro-Nazi rally, cloaked in the guise of “patriotism.”

Trump’s “lovefest” rhetoric isn’t far off; it’s a tactic that turns bigotry into a badge of honor. By equating his rally with love, he sanitizes the hate within, recasting it as a righteous stance.

For Trump, this performative “love” allows him to sidestep accountability. It’s a hollow, transactional affection that serves only to shield his harsher messages.

His love isn’t about connection or warmth — it’s about manipulation, a loyalty he demands rather than earns.

And the same speeches that promise devotion to his followers also demean immigrants, mock communities, and stoke divisions. Trump’s “love” is ultimately self-serving — a tool to deflect criticism while amplifying resentment.

Trump’s so-called lovefests aren’t about compassion or unity. They’re about creating a following that will overlook his most divisive language, bound together by a shared anger rather than a genuine connection. When he calls an event a “lovefest” while railing against “vicious” immigrants or dismissing Puerto Rico, he creates an emotional paradox — a version of “love” that is ultimately fueled by hate, anger, and division.

As The New York Times article points out, Trump’s use of “love” rhetoric has ramped up, perhaps in response to Kamala Harris’s message of “joy.” But this isn’t joy, and it isn’t real love. It’s a tactic designed to neutralize critique, to sanitize his divisive rhetoric by dressing it up as patriotism.

And what kind of love is this, really? Throughout American history, presidents have demonstrated connection and compassion through acts of kindness and symbols of loyalty, often shown through their relationships with pets.

Trump, as NPR’s A.O. Scott notes, stands apart — the first in over a century without a pet to humanize his image. Where past presidents have had dogs, cats, or even raccoons to soften their public personas, Trump has none.

For him, loyalty isn’t quiet companionship. It’s fierce, unquestioning allegiance.

The absence of a pet in Trump’s life is more than a quirky fact — it’s a reflection of his hollow version of love. Where a dog offers unconditional loyalty, Trump’s idea of love is purely transactional. He doesn’t want quiet devotion; he wants a fervent, performative loyalty that echoes his anger and hostility.

His rallies lack the warmth of a presidential pet, but are filled with a crowd that mirrors his grievances.

This isn’t a president’s love — it’s the love of a narcissist, a hollow affection that masks division as devotion and leaves nothing real behind.