The Normalization of Authoritarianism...

Back in the day, indigenous cultures disciplined or banished members of the tribe who were greedy—who prioritized personal gain over communal well-being. There were words for such people. The Rise of the "Me Society" and the Cult of Greed in the 1980s marked a pivotal shift in the American psyche, a decade when the pursuit of personal gain was elevated to a cultural ideal, reshaping the nation’s values and power structures. This era, epitomized by the rise of figures like Donald Trump—then transitioning from the privileged son of a wealthy real estate developer to a national symbol of hedonism and avarice—saw the philosophy of greed ascend from the fringes to the core of American political and economic life. Supply-side economics, once a marginal ideology, became the guiding doctrine of a major political party, heralding billionaires and businessmen as “job-creators” and “masters of the universe.” This ethos found its voice in Gordon Gekko’s infamous declaration from the 1987 film Wall Street: “Greed is good, greed is right, greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit.” These words, though fictional, captured a cultural truth that would propel the consolidation of oligarchic power and set the stage for the authoritarian tendencies we witness today.

The roots of this philosophy stretch back to earlier ideologies that celebrated individual gain over collective well-being. In the late 19th century, social Darwinism justified the excesses of the robber barons, framing their wealth as evidence of natural superiority. In the mid-20th century, Ayn Rand’s “objectivist” philosophy, which Gore Vidal critiqued as “nearly perfect in its immorality,” preached the “virtue of selfishness.” Rand’s novel Atlas Shrugged imagined a world where capitalists, portrayed as heroic producers, went on strike against “parasites” and “looters”—a thinly veiled attack on workers and government regulators. Her earlier work, The Fountainhead, which Trump has cited as a favorite, resonated with his self-image as a visionary tycoon, akin to its protagonist Howard Roark, who prioritizes personal ambition over societal constraints. These ideas, though once niche, found fertile ground in the 1980s, a decade when wealth became synonymous with virtue and success.

This veneration of the wealthy reshaped American values, creating what can be described as a “me society.” In a nation often called the most religious in the developed world, money emerged as the true object of worship. To be rich was to be smart, superior, and morally justified; greed and selfishness were recast as virtues rather than sins. The profit motive, rooted in Adam Smith’s concept of the invisible hand, became the guiding principle, suggesting that individual self-interest would unintentionally benefit society. While this theory held some truth in Smith’s era of local artisans and small-scale commerce, its application in the age of globalization and multinational corporations has produced perverse outcomes. As wealth concentrated, the incentives of the profit motive often led to behavior that prioritizes financial gain over human welfare, a tendency that borders on the psychopathic.

This dynamic is vividly illustrated in a Goldman Sachs report on gene therapy, which questioned whether curing patients was a sustainable business model: “While this proposition carries tremendous value for patients and society, it could represent a challenge for genome medicine developers looking for sustained cash flow.” Such logic, where profit trumps societal good, underscores the moral bankruptcy of a system driven by greed. In the United States, this philosophy underpins a for-profit healthcare system that stands in stark contrast to the public service models of other developed nations, where healthcare is seen as a communal responsibility rather than a commodity. The entrenchment of greed as a cultural norm has thus created a society where corporate interests often supersede human needs.

Donald Trump’s rise to prominence in the 1980s and his eventual presidency embody this cultural shift. His billionaire status was seen as a qualification in itself, proof of his ability to “fix” what was derided as a “malfunctioning corporation” called the U.S. government. The belief that government should be run like a business, and that successful businessmen are inherently suited to lead, gained traction in a society that equated wealth with competence. Trump’s administration, filled with fellow billionaires and corporate allies, was a test of this ideology. Yet, the results have been catastrophic, marked by unprecedented corruption. As Joy Crane and Nick Tabor noted in New York magazine, Trump has used the presidency to enrich himself, securing loans, steering buyers to his properties, and easing regulations for his businesses. Jonathan Chait likened this venality to the scandals of the Harding administration or the Gilded Age, while former FBI director James Comey compared Trump’s leadership to that of a mob boss, driven by ego and personal loyalty.This outcome was predictable. Trump’s career, built on greed and self-interest, thrived in the autocratic world of private business, where he wielded unchecked power. Yet, governing a democracy, constrained by checks and balances, requires compromise and accountability—qualities at odds with his authoritarian style. His administration’s scandals—peddling merchandise with the presidential seal, securing foreign deals, and appointing loyalists to dismantle public institutions—reflect the dangers of applying a corporate mindset to governance. The notion that wealth or business acumen qualifies one to lead a nation has been exposed as flawed, yet it persists in a society that continues to idolize the rich.The psychological allure of the “me society” lies in its simplicity: it promises that individual ambition will naturally yield collective prosperity. However, as wealth concentrates and power consolidates, this promise unravels, giving rise to oligarchic systems that undermine democracy. The cultural shift toward greed, amplified in the 1980s and entrenched through decades of policy and ideology, has paved the way for the authoritarian tendencies that now threaten democratic norms. Understanding this psychological and historical foundation is crucial to recognizing how societies slide into oligarchy—and how they might resist it.

Humanity’s capacity to adapt to the unbearable is both its resilience and its vulnerability. Over time, societies can become accustomed to conditions that once seemed unthinkable, a phenomenon that unfolds not with dramatic upheaval but through a gradual, insidious process. This creeping normalization, where outrage fades into apathy, has shaped the rise of authoritarianism and oligarchic power across the globe. From the slow erosion of democratic norms to the consolidation of wealth and influence in the hands of a few, the psychological underpinnings of this shift reveal a troubling truth: the human psyche, with its tendency to rationalize and conform, often paves the way for systems that prioritize the individual over the collective, leading to the oligarchic structures we see today in corporate capitalism and populist movements alike.

The process begins subtly, as Victor Klemperer observed in his 1942 diary, reflecting on life under Nazism: “Today over breakfast we talked about the extraordinary capacity of human beings to bear and become accustomed to things. The fantastic hideousness of our existence... and yet still hours of pleasure... and so we go on eking out a bare existence and go on hoping.” Klemperer’s words capture the human ability to endure even the most oppressive conditions by finding moments of normalcy, a psychological defense that allows life to continue but also dulls the urgency to resist. Similarly, Milton Mayer, in They Thought They Were Free, described how ordinary Germans adapted to fascism through small, incremental steps: “Each step was so small, so inconsequential, so well explained or, on occasion, ‘regretted,’ that, unless one were detached from the whole process from the beginning... one no more saw it developing from day to day than a farmer in his field sees the corn growing.” This gradual habituation, where each new violation of norms is only slightly worse than the last, numbs the collective psyche, making the intolerable feel routine.

In recent years, this pattern has manifested in the United States and beyond, where democratic ideals have been eroded by the steady drip of authoritarian tactics. A decade ago, the idea of a U.S. president attempting to overturn an election, praising dictators, or calling the press “the enemy of the people” would have been unthinkable. Yet, as these actions have unfolded—drip by drip, crisis by crisis—the public’s capacity for outrage has waned. When federal agents in unmarked vans began detaining protesters in Portland in 2020, the nation was shocked; now, such tactics are met with shrugs. When dehumanizing rhetoric, like labeling immigrants “animals” or political opponents “scum,” first emerged, it sparked headlines; now, it’s part of the daily churn. This normalization, as M. Gessen notes, lulls societies into complacency: “And so just when we most need to act... we tend to be lulled into complacency by the sense of relief on the one hand and boredom on the other.” The psyche’s tendency to adapt, to seek comfort in familiarity, becomes a tool for those who seek to consolidate power.

This psychological vulnerability aligns with the emergence of oligarchic systems, whether through corporate capitalism or populist authoritarianism. At the heart of these systems lies what Indigenous cultures, like the Algonquin and Lakota, have long recognized as a form of mental illness: greed, or hoarding. The Algonquin term Wétiko, meaning “cannibal,” and the Lakota term Wasi’chu, or “he who takes the fat,” describe individuals who prioritize personal gain over communal well-being. Historically, such behavior was disciplined or banished, as it threatened the survival of the collective. Yet, in modern societies, this hoarding impulse has been elevated to a virtue, particularly under the influence of neoliberal ideologies that champion individual wealth over societal good. The result is a “me society,” where a small elite—whether corporate titans or populist strongmen—amass disproportionate power and resources, leaving the majority to struggle.

The rise of this “me society” can be traced to pivotal shifts, such as the neoliberal turn initiated by Ronald Reagan in the 1980s. By dismantling regulations and reducing taxes for the wealthy, Reagan’s policies empowered a new class of hoarders, whose wealth has grown to unprecedented levels. Today, billionaires own estates, yachts, and private jets, their hoarding syndrome unchecked by the societal constraints that once limited such excesses. The Supreme Court’s decisions, from 1976 to Citizens United in 2010, further entrenched this oligarchic power by equating money with free speech and granting corporations personhood, effectively legalizing political bribery. As a result, America’s middle class has shrunk from two-thirds of the population in 1980 to roughly 45 percent today, with two incomes now required to sustain the lifestyle a single income once supported. Meanwhile, the wealthiest individuals wield influence that rivals that of historical kings and emperors, shaping policy to serve their interests.

Populist authoritarianism, exemplified by figures like Donald Trump, operates on a similar psychological dynamic, exploiting the human tendency toward tribalism and fear of the “other.” By labeling opponents as “vermin,” “scum,” or “enemies of the people,” such leaders dehumanize dissent, eroding the shared understanding that all citizens are legitimate participants in a democracy. This rhetoric, rooted in the same playbook used by historical authoritarians like Hitler, Milošević, and Hutu leaders in Rwanda, conditions the public to accept escalating acts of repression. When Trump muses about suspending habeas corpus or purging civil servants, as outlined in the Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025, it tests the boundaries of public tolerance. Each unchallenged step—whether it’s caging children, pardoning traitors, or threatening judges—makes the next violation easier to accept, as the psyche adjusts to a new, degraded normal.

Yet, this psychological drift toward oligarchy is not inevitable. History offers examples of resistance, where individuals and movements have rejected the normalization of greed and authoritarianism. Figures like Bernie Sanders, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and Zohran Mamdani represent a countercurrent, advocating for a “we society” that prioritizes communal welfare over individual gain. Their vision echoes the Indigenous wisdom that inspired America’s Founders, who rejected dynastic wealth and sought to create a system that served the “general welfare,” as enshrined in the Constitution. Progressive leaders like Abraham Lincoln, who established land-grant colleges, and Franklin D. Roosevelt, who implemented the New Deal, built on this vision, expanding access to education, healthcare, and economic security. These efforts demonstrate that societies can choose to nurture collective well-being over oligarchic excess, but only through active resistance and engagement.

The antidote to normalization lies in reclaiming the capacity to be appalled. As Thucydides observed, “The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet nonetheless go out to meet it.” This requires a collective awakening, a refusal to accept dehumanizing rhetoric or unchecked greed as “just the way things are.” It demands action—not just in voting booths, but in streets, courtrooms, classrooms, and communities. When leaders call for loyalty tests or propose stripping citizenship, citizens must respond with outrage and organization, not apathy. When wealth concentrates to the point of threatening democracy, as it did in the Gilded Age and does again today, laws like the Sherman Anti-Trust Act or the Tillman Act must be revived and strengthened to curb the influence of the “me society.”

The psychological roots of oligarchy—whether in corporate capitalism or populist authoritarianism—lie in humanity’s capacity to adapt to the unthinkable and to prioritize individual gain over collective good. But the psyche is not fixed; it can be stirred to action by those who refuse to normalize the erosion of democratic ideals. The path forward requires vigilance, courage, and a commitment to the “we society” envisioned by those who built and expanded America’s democratic experiment. As Mayer’s German professor warned, “The world you live in... is not the world you were in at all. The forms are all there... but the spirit... is changed.” To preserve that spirit, we must reject the seduction of apathy and fight for a society that values every citizen, not just the few who hoard power and wealth. The stakes are clear: democracy is not self-sustaining. It demands our outrage, our action, and our unwavering resolve to resist the slow march of authoritarianism and oligarchy.