My Week Inside a Right-Wing “Constitutional Defense” Training Camp

My Latest for The New Republic

Last September I went to a five-day training course called “Constitutional Defense” in Raton, New Mexico, hosted by an outfit called Patriot Academy.

Today, my feature piece about the experience came out in The New Republic. You can read it here.

I hae never agonized about a piece to the extent that I agonized over this one. I submitted it 9 days late and in pieces. My editor, Patrick Caldwell, figured out a way to make it work. I still can’t believe it came together and I’m so happy with how it turned out.

(My editor also says that I’m exaggerating — I believe the exact term he used was “hogwash.” I insert this parenthetical in case you, dear reader, are an editor who is considering paying me to write something. Please hire me. I’m delightful)

As always happens when I write about the right, I am both excited and terrified of the reception the piece will get. Not of the hate mail, which comes with the territory, but of the people I wrote about reading the piece and feeling betrayed. No matter how many times you tell people they may not like everything you have to say about them, they never really believe it until they see it in print.

I tend to like the people I write about on a personal level. You have to, I think, if you’re going to write about them accurately. These people aren’t monsters, even if the things they believe tend to be monstrous. They believe they’re doing the right thing and, what’s more, they’re willing to put a lot of energy into doing what they think is the right thing. It’s hard for me not to respect that, to feel a sort of bond over it which is utterly absent when I talk to a dreadful centrist or someone disconnected from politics.

You do not have to hate people to hate the things that they believe.

My goal, always, is for people to recognize themselves in the things I write, even if they disagree with every conclusion I draw. Sometimes they recognize themselves. Sometimes they don’t. When they don’t, I feel like a failure. Healthy or not, that’s who I am.

And so I am braced for all kinds of reactions from people I got to know pretty well over five days of intense handgun training. Because I do not pull punches when I write about people either. And I certainly didn’t pull punches in this article.

Here’s an excerpt:

“You’re at a gas station.” Firearms instructor Jamie LaBarbera’s voice crackles over the portable speaker system. “Out in the shadows, you see this guy walking up.”

We are standing at the firing line. The world is dust and sun and the kind of oversaturated deep blue sky possible only at high altitudes where the air is thin. Each of us stares down our own personal Bob, as the instructors have named him: a beige, featureless paper silhouette already pockmarked with holes.

LaBarbera, our handgun instructor, continues his story. “You can’t tell, but he’s got something in his hand. He’s getting a little close, you’re a little worried, you can’t tell what it is. Challenge!”

Our hands fly up, palms out in the universal signal for the thing we shout: “Stop right there!” The New Mexico prairie swallows the words without an echo.

“He keeps coming, but you don’t know what he has in his hand. Present!”

All down the line, we hear the click of handguns freed from holsters. They point at the ground, ready to come up at a moment’s notice. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

“It’s a knife!” LaBarbera shouts. “He’s still coming! THREAT!!”

No words this time, just the thunder of gunfire up and down the line. I take my time aiming to ensure I hit Bob where I’m supposed to: inside what the instructors call the thoracic cavity, where all the vital organs live.

I am approximately halfway through Patriot Academy’s Constitutional Defense course, a five-day program run by a right-wing organization that promises to give participants both “the physical training you need to be able to defend your family” and “intellectual ammunition to defend the Constitution.” It’s late September, and my classmates and I—a group of about 60 in total—have sent approximately 200 rounds through various forms of Bob over the past day and a half. There are 600 more rounds in the trunk of my rented Chevy Malibu, currently dwarfed by rows of pickup trucks in the parking lot behind our line of fire.

The idea of combining political instruction and 35 hours of intense, combat-focused pistol training in 2023 America seems insurrectionary on its face. And it is, but not in the immediately obvious way. The guns are a red herring. The insurrection, if Patriot Academy has its way, will be bloodless: a heart transplant for the body politic. Patriot Academy, along with many fellow-traveler evangelical organizations across the country, is engaged in a life-and-death struggle to rewrite America’s Constitution—and teaching its supporters how to defend themselves with a handgun, just in case.

Read the rest at The New Republic

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