Ophelia Ladner is studying sociology at Roanoke College in Virginia. She grew up in Brunswick.
In the summer of 2020, I was drawn into a battle of politics.
Blake, a burly 20-year-old contractor, had commented on his right to an assault rifle stashed beyond his bedroom door. My puzzled look invited debate and soon our opinions had sharpened and became pointed.
“I need it for protection because …” he whispered, “I’m scared.”
I watched the underpinnings of his argument unveil themselves as fear. I realized his emotions had driven him toward one side of the discussion, mine to the other. In the wake of rising radicalism, I wondered how many shared this sentiment of fear.
Five years later, hoping to find the answer, I read work by Arlie Hochschild untangling
the intersection of emotion and political identity.
A sociologist from UC Berkeley, Hochschild immersed herself in the poor, rural, Southern communities of Lake Charles, Louisiana, and Pikeville, Kentucky. The time spent and people met in these unfamiliar communities helped her understand how economic desolation, shifting social standards and seething visceral emotion shape political radicalism.
During Hochschild’s time there, she saw a language communicated not only through words but feelings. Pride and shame are currency; an individual’s value within the social hierarchy reflects how much pride or shame they bear. Those who have fallen economically concurrently reckon with their fall in social status building calloused resentment in personal identity.
Traditionally in the United States, economic setbacks are blamed on individuals while critiquing social structures that explain such circumstances are rejected as excuses. We shame the people who struggle within this system, without curiosity as to why they turn toward radical rhetoric.
Trying to make sense of it, Hochschild uncovers invisible barriers that hinder our understanding of one another. If we break down these walls, we can open a conversation previously soiled — one that leads to reunion.
Within our sociopolitical landscape, Hochschild implicitly exhorts us to take responsibility for the dehumanization of our neighbors and the polarization of our country. Confrontation with our responsibility in this divide is pertinent in our discussions of radicalism.
By ignoring the power of emotion on the construction of political identity we allow radical ideology to burrow deeper and deprive us of any opportunity toward reconnection. Empathetic perspective is the missing piece in our divided nation.
How can we start to stitch back our political canvas?
Our first step forward starts with the white, working-class men who have been synonymous with economic and social stability for generations. Secure jobs, reliable income and history of local power made them pillars of the community. Their professions granted them purpose: “The coal you mine keeps America’s lights on!”
True, until industrial shifts toward automation emptied their pockets and sense of self. Economic and cultural dismissals such as this have primed individuals for political radicalism. Their anger is often shame and loss in disguise. President Trump has capitalized upon this emotional narrative, creating a platform that offers an untamed release for shame and hurt.
To understand why this emotional unraveling is so appealing, we need nuance. The working class has watched the attainability of the American dream deteriorate around them, leaving a breeding ground for those who feel cheated and also ashamed of their perceived failures. Our neighbors, cut from a life of stability and purpose, are most vulnerable to the rising tides of political radicalism that swell from fear, shame and hurt.
Climbing unemployment alongside antagonistic national leadership leads to socioeconomic instability intertwining with feelings of cultural loss and persecution. Tension is latent in white working-class identity, stemming from now disconnected societal expectations and individual reality. Once revered as providers to their families, communities and America, now, automation has left an eerie silence where applause and admiration once roared.
This quiet loss can mutate into self-loathing and become the prologue toward radical identity. These feelings then develop into diffidence and shame, which serve as master keys into political identities.
At Charlie Kirk’s memorial in October 2025, Erika Kirk stood as a vessel of pain and selfless amnesty for her husband’s killer. Trump supporters consumed her preachings: forgiveness, compassion and mercy. Later at the same memorial, President Trump juxtaposed Kirk’s testimony, raving, “I hate my opponent and I don’t want what’s best for them!” The crowd jeered with loyal conviction. In the same breath they shared forgiveness and hate.
The assembly bathed in the satisfaction of moral superiority while simultaneously receiving Trump’s endorsement of hate. If we care about mending our country, a response that understands the emotional web of identity as complex and layered is vital.
The seeds of political radicalism are blooming, but they were planted well before Trump’s
second term. These seeds were sowed when industries replaced workers with machines and moved offshore. Germinated by shared sentiments of cultural devaluation and scorn of traditional norms left individuals to navigate a changed society with no map.
These seeds flourished as individualistic propaganda isolated and faulted those left behind rather than the social structures and power truly to blame. Today, we have borne ruinous fruit. To stitch back our nation, emotion and its pressure on political behavior must be a part of the conversation.
Misunderstandings of each other’s cultural experiences have shaped our manner of empathy in United States politics. This narrative of emotion must be addressed. If it is not, our democracy is at risk.