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USA Today
14-06-2025
- Politics
- USA Today
Man 'intentionally' drives into protesters at 'No Kings' in Virginia, police
Man 'intentionally' drives into protesters at 'No Kings' in Virginia, police Show Caption Hide Caption Millions march in 'No Kings' protests across country Millions marched in cities and towns across the U.S. in "No Kings" protests to rally against the Trump administration. Authorities in Virginia arrested a 21-year-old man they said intentionally drove an SUV through the crowd at the town's "No Kings" day event. Culpeper police officers arrested Joseph R. Checklick Jr., of Culpeper, on June 14, at the conclusion of the demonstration. Participants were leaving the area and crossing through a business's parking lot when an SUV drove "recklessly through the crowd of pedestrians," the department said in a news release. Culpeper Police charged Checklick with reckless driving, according to the release. He appeared before a magistrate and was ordered to be held without bond at the Culpeper County Jail. Officers said they stopped the vehicle and identified the driver as Checklick. Their preliminary investigation determined that Checklick had "intentionally accelerated his vehicle into the dispersing crowd, striking at least one person with his vehicle." No injuries were reported to police. The person Checklick is accused of striking with his vehicle has not been identified by law enforcement, the release said. Incident occurred amid 'No Kings' protests The incident in Virginia occurred as millions took part in coordinated "No Kings" protests from coast to coast, criticizing the Trump administration. The "No Kings" marches, rallies and demonstrations were organized to coincide with the Army's "Grand Military Parade and Celebration, which falls on Trump's 79th birthday and Flag Day. Woman killed at Virginia protest in 2017 after man drove car into crowd Several years ago, a car drove into a crowd of counterprotesters about an hour from Culpeper in Charlottesville, Virginia, killing a demonstrator. James Alex Fields Jr. was convicted of killing a woman named Heather Heyer, after intentionally driving into a group protesting a 'Unite the Right' rally in Charlottesville on Aug. 12, 2017. Fields was convicted of first-degree and eight other charges, including aggravated malicious wounding and hit and run. Heyer, a 32-year-old paralegal and civil rights activist, was killed, and nearly three dozen were injured during the attack.
Yahoo
12-06-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Unearthing the Deep Fascist Roots of the Unite the Right Rally
On August 11, 2017, hundreds of white supremacists carrying tiki torches mobbed the University of Virginia's campus, shouting racist and antisemitic slogans and violently attacking the students who stood up to them. The next day, the same hateful crowd rallied in a Charlottesville park that held a statue of Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee. The city of Charlottesville had recently engaged in a public debate over whether to get rid of the statue, and supposedly the white supremacists were there—summoned by a number of neo-Nazis, chief among them Richard Spencer, and a local racist troll named Jason Kessler—to defend it. Really, they had come to court attention and cause harm. They succeeded on both fronts. Their event, called Unite the Right, became national news when they swarmed the UVA campus, chanting, 'Jews will not replace us.' (This had what to do with Robert E. Lee?) It became a national tragedy when, on August 12, James Alex Fields Jr., who kept a framed photo of Hitler by his bed, rammed his car into a crowd of counterprotesters, injuring several and killing 32-year-old Heather Heyer. The biographer and essayist Deborah Baker's Charlottesville: An American Story is both an account of those two horrifying days and an intellectual history of the far right in the United States. It mixes investigative rigor—Baker must have listened to hundreds, if not thousands, of hours of archived Charlottesville City Council meetings, as well as far-right podcasts and YouTube videos—with emotional intensity and wide-ranging cultural critique. Baker reaches from Virginia's slaveholding history to the poet Ezra Pound's deluded post–World War II fascism to the misogynistic trolls of Gamergate in her quest to understand Unite the Right. The result is not merely smart but shattering. It joins the ranks of some of the best American nonfiction in recent years—Patrick Radden Keefe's Say Nothing; Sarah Schulman's Let the Record Show—as testimony to events we'd be unwise to forget. Baker's approach to her material is distinct in two ways. One is that, like Schulman but unlike many authors of researched nonfiction, she's not a reporter, and shows no deference to the norm of representing both sides. She did not interview any of the white supremacists that came to—or came from—Charlottesville. Baker saw them as tricking 'conscientious journalists into following them down rabbit holes,' or taking advantage of those who 'couldn't imagine they believed what they said they believed. [The media] thought it was a game, not a calculated strategy to spread their message.' Nor does she show a journalist's inclination to suppress her judgment. Baker writes damningly about the intellectual cowardice and inconsistency that set the stage for the city of Charlottesville's and University of Virginia's mismanagement of Unite the Right: At both the march and the rally, police not only failed to defend the counterprotesters, who were left to protect themselves against heavily armed, malevolent throngs, but, in some instances, attacked them. The author knows some of that inconsistency personally, which is the other distinctive piece of her approach. She grew up partly in Albemarle County, Virginia, where Charlottesville sits. Her father, though he came from a family of New England abolitionists, was also raised there, and he lends the book a telling moment. In 1968, when Baker was in elementary school, he published a 'thin volume' called Strike the Tent: In the Steps of Robert E. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia. In its preface, he wrote that, although his account might seem 'a bit sentimental and slanted' toward its Confederate subjects, he wanted not to glorify or redeem them, but to comprehend why it is that, as he wrote, '[w]hat men may sincerely believe they are fighting for is often unrelated to the consequences of their doing so.' Any Confederate who thought he was defending 'individual liberty and freedom' was risking his life for its opposite. Baker isn't caught in this rhetorical (or maybe emotional) trap, but she's intimately acquainted with its distinct Virginian manifestation. All over the country, Americans tell themselves romantic stories about the Confederacy, narratives in which Southern troops were scrappy underdogs who didn't care about saving slavery. Of course, this narrative has its own moral bankruptcy: Not caring about slavery is differently, not less, rotten than championing it. But Virginia's white elite, squinting backward from Lee and Stonewall Jackson to George Washington, James Madison, and Charlottesville's own Thomas Jefferson, have their own set of 'fairy tales. That the South stood for something fine and brave. That Virginia was exceptional in the same way that America, above all other nations, was [and] Virginians were a breed apart from the regular run of Americans. Finally, to be a Virginian was to live in accordance with the most exacting code of chivalry, 'for here the ideals of the nation were born.'' Because Baker knows this vision of Virginia, she can—and does—write against it. She suggests that for white Charlottesvillians, a real reckoning with history would involve not only removing Confederate statues, which the city did in 2021, but confronting the toxic effects of Virginian exceptionalism: state, city, and university authorities' refusal to admit the presence of hate; white Charlottesvillians' unwillingness to listen to Black ones; an overriding inability to react to new information. Of course, the whole country suffers from these issues. We always have. One of Charlottesville's central arguments is that the nation's refusal to reckon with history is connected to its most violent, authoritarian elements. Donald Trump, of course, is radically anti-historical. During his first term, he created a commission for 'patriotic education' in reaction to The New York Times' 1619 Project, which described the centrality of slavery to America's founding, and this March, he issued an executive order banning 'anti-American ideology,' which seems to mean any discussion of race, from exhibits at the Smithsonian museums. It is as if he believes that, by erasing racism from the historical record, he can also erase its effect on our present, though the effect he and his supporters have in mind isn't structural inequality but what they call 'wokeness'; as if, by forbidding talk of racism, he can prevent protest of it, too. Charlottesville is full of this absurd way of thinking, and Baker makes no bones about its link to fascism. Fascist movements, from Benito Mussolini's to Richard Spencer's, claim they will turn back time to an illusory past in which the dominant social order went unquestioned. Trump wants to do the same. In 2020, a Charlottesville clergyman who counterprotested the rally told Baker, 'We're in the shit. America is Charlottesville now. Everywhere is Charlottesville.' In 2025, he's more right than ever. During the two days of Unite the Right, Charlottesville, Virginia, was the place where the nation's better ideals came to die, and one of the places its dark new ideology, the one now ripping civil society and the civil service to shreds, was starts with the statues. In 2015, a Charlottesville high schooler named Zyahna Bryant launched a petition to get the city's sculptures of Lee and Jackson taken down and the parks where they stood renamed. At 15, Bryant wasn't a stranger to activism: Baker, who has a novelist's instinct for detail, writes that, after Trayvon Martin's murder three years earlier, Bryant had organized a 'protest at the federal courthouse: a twelve-year-old girl corralling ten-year-olds with popsicle stains on their shirts.' In high school, she called the city's vice mayor, Wes Bellamy, and asked him to get on board with removing the statues. He did, and Charlottesville created a special commission to examine the issue, but conversation stagnated. Baker writes that, at community forums (which she listened to after the fact), the statues' white defenders 'believed that four generations in Virginia, or a Confederate ancestor who was by Lee's side at Appomattox, or simply their childhood memories should give special weight to their testimony.' Many of the city's longtime Black residents steered clear of the debate, recognizing that in the face of such willed obliviousness, 'Silence was the only power [they] had.' And the obliviousness was intense. One white Virginian wrote to the commission that, although she agreed that the story of slavery needed telling, the statues should remain in place because she appreciated their beauty alongside the parks' blooming trees: She imagined, Baker writes, that 'these two histories might peacefully coexist, one ugly and painful, the other framed by flowers.' But not all the statues' defenders prevaricated in this way. In fact, as the commission stalled, local white supremacists—whose presence, Baker notes, was widely known, though rarely acknowledged—came out of the woodwork, so that instead of parks without Confederate statues, Charlottesville now had ones full of Confederate flag-wavers 'protecting' the bronze generals. One of Charlottesville's most impressive qualities is Baker's subtle insistence on keeping her eye on guns. She links gun culture to video game culture, to whiteness, to the Civil War. She summons the writer Tony Horwitz's argument that just as 'Americans had once appeased and abetted the Slave Power, they were now appeasing and abetting the spread of guns.' Baker excoriates a dominant culture that accepts mass shootings and armed vigilantism as part of life, that tolerates a gun lobby that bullies and railroads anyone who considers 'the proliferations of guns unsettling' or sees 'freedoms curtailed by the shadow guns cast over our lives.' In Charlottesville, after the statue debate and, of course, on the weekend of Unite the Right, this shadow was overwhelming. Baker describes armed white supremacists telling injured, unarmed counterprotesters that 'this is what you get when you get in the street,' as if their weapons gave them the right to hurt anyone in their way. Of course, those white supremacists weren't only local. The statue debate got Spencer's attention, too. A University of Virginia graduate and professional hate-monger who coined the term 'alt-right,' he was, in 2017, as Baker writes, 'openly audition[ing] for the role of Trump's brain.' He was also adopting harassment techniques he'd learned from Gamergate, the concerted threatening, stalking, and doxing of the game designer Zoë Quinn in 2014. In writing about Spencer, Baker decodes an aspect of Unite the Right that initially bewildered her. Early in Charlottesville, she writes that after the virulent antisemitism of the torch march, she 'was hard pressed to see the connection between Charlottesville's Confederate statues and Hitler Youth, between Southern white supremacy and European fascism. Which histories—whose histories—were in play?... It felt as though American and European national creeds were being remixed and weaponized in ways I couldn't wrap my mind around.' She wasn't alone in her confusion: She writes that even a Charlottesville rabbi she spoke with struggled to see why neo-Confederates hated Jews. I can relate. I'm Jewish, and a branch of my family settled in Richmond, Virginia, not long before the Civil War. One of my ancestors was conscripted into the Confederate Army, a shameful bit of family history that is part of a greater legacy of Jewish complicity with slavery: Consider the Lehman brothers, who built their fortune on plantation cotton. In my estimation, the involvement of many Jews in one of America's great sins binds us to the nation; it's proof of Jews' Americanness. We're obligated to do what we can to remediate slavery's harms. Unite the Right didn't change my mind about that. But it did make me take seriously the alt-right's belief that Jews aren't American at all. Baker takes it seriously, too. In researching the history of fascism in the United States, she came to understand that 'Jews were the glue that held the ideology of white supremacy and white nationalism together.' She traces this idea to the 1930s, when Ezra Pound, who had moved to Europe, became a fascist. Hoping to ground Mussolini's and Hitler's ideas in U.S. history in order to better promote them at home, he turned to Virginia's sage, Thomas Jefferson. He argued that Jefferson's vision was, in fact, the same as Mussolini's, and, in the 1950s, acquired a young protégé, John Kasper, who he hoped could help spread these ideas and 'give fascism an all-American face.' Kasper did so, Baker writes, by going to Charlottesville in the wake of the Brown v. Board of Education decision and arguing that Jews had put Black people up to demanding integration. Some 50 years later, Spencer took the Confederate statue debate as an excuse to do precisely the same. Baker writes that fascists like Pound, Kasper, and Spencer, looking to Hitler, argue that the 'liberal elite driving the conversations in media, business, and culture, were either Jews or in the pay of Jews, and thus hostile to a political order in which Christian white men claimed ascendancy.' This conspiracy theory allows them to reject the idea that Black Americans might achieve something on their own: Really, the Jews are behind them. It also allows them to foment grievance. Baker describes the Nazi Andrew Anglin whipping up his followers' emotions by listing their humiliations—student debt, addiction, trauma and injuries from fighting in meaningless wars—and then, to 'relieve them of their shame, [directing] their attention to the root cause of their tribulations: Jews.' Immediately after, he led them into the streets of Charlottesville. There, the alt-right mob encountered no resistance from the University of Virginia's authorities—its president, Baker writes, assumed that because Spencer was an alum, he'd abide by the university's honor code—or from Charlottesville and Virginia police. Baker draws a direct line from the city's underwhelming response to the statue debate sparked by Zyahna Bryant to its failure to prepare properly for Unite the Right, although police intelligence analysts and anti-fascist activists had given warning. The city and state governments and police chiefs just didn't want to take seriously the threat that the alt-right posed. And the Unite the Right organizers applied for, and got, a permit for their march. In the city's eyes, this entitled them to do what they liked, even as their rally turned into a violent and then murderous riot. Meanwhile, the unarmed Charlottesvillians who opposed the white supremacists received no police protection. They were accused of unlawful assembly; cops watched blankly as armed men kicked, hit, and maced them. It seems that not one trooper or officer was present when Heather Heyer was killed. Charlottesville's counterprotesters and the anti-fascists from around the region who helped them are Charlottesville's heroes. One of Baker's central subjects is Emily Gorcenski, a local data scientist who went from monitoring fascist chatter on the internet to confronting Spencer and his cronies face-to-face, bearing a storm of physical violence and anti-trans abuse. Others are members of the Charlottesville Clergy Collective, a group of Christian faith leaders who learned the techniques of nonviolent resistance in order to stand up to Unite the Right. She talks to a local arts administrator who turned into an activist after the statue debate, the founding members of Charlottesville's chapters of Black Lives Matter and Showing Up for Racial Justice, and citizen journalists who captured the riot in real time. Many of these people were both physically and morally wounded that weekend. Andy Stepanian, an activist who helped manage the counterprotesters' crisis communications, told Baker that, when he saw Heyer receiving chest compressions, it was as if his brain 'short-circuited. From that moment he lost the ability to live in the here and now. It has never returned.' All those decisions—even, or especially, the ones that don't feel like decisions at all—create room for fascism to flourish. Charlottesville is not a book of the here and now. It's too wide-ranging for that. In all its movement through time, through archives and forums and the intellectual history of America's ugliest movements, it seeks to locate 'the germ of the present in the past'—a mission of which Baker declares herself skeptical; maybe, she writes, it's 'just something writers tell themselves to exert control over events that are effectively beyond their control. But it was what I knew.' It's also a way of looking into the future. By linking Spencer to Pound, Baker demonstrates that American fascism is hardly newer than its Italian and German inspirations; by highlighting Pound's Jeffersonian pretensions, she reminds us of how deeply the crime of slavery affects not just the nation's founding philosophies but their later uses; and by tying the Jefferson-Pound-Spencer lineage to gamer culture, she reminds us how contemporary—how online—these problems are. Unite the Right happened through the internet. So did Trump's electoral victories. He's handed the reins of government, it seems, to alt-right activists who agitate on social media; he's letting Elon Musk, a tech billionaire who promotes far-right parties around the world and celebrated Trump's inauguration with a Nazi salute, dismantle the civil service. Charlottesville tells us how the country got here: by kowtowing to guns, by refusing to accept responsibility for racism close to home, by too many people ignoring what they don't want to see and not taking seriously what they don't want to hear. All those decisions—even, or especially, the ones that don't feel like decisions at all—create room for fascism to flourish, just as Charlottesville's white supremacists took the town's foot-dragging on removing the Lee statue as an opening to wave guns and Confederate flags in public parks. At the very end of the book, Baker challenges readers to attend closely not only to the hateful currents she investigates in chilling detail, but to the activists who resisted them in Charlottesville and continue to do so to this day. She is clear that these activists are responding to a deeply entrenched hate that preceded them and is more powerful than them—so powerful that its representatives are now in Congress and the White House. Yet these grassroots movements, she thinks, are our only hope. She writes that we must listen to them. 'We must regard them not as radicals … but as ordinary Americans standing up and fighting in a myriad of ways for what is right.' At this point, we've all got to do the same.
San Francisco Chronicle
02-06-2025
- Politics
- San Francisco Chronicle
Book Review: 'Charlottesville' a dramatic account of deadly 2017 rally and history behind it
Decades before the violent Unite the Right rally in 2017 in Charlottesville that drew white nationalists protesting the removal of a Robert E. Lee statue, the city was targeted by a white supremacist who hoped to ignite a race war. To understand the 2017 Unite the Right rally, Deborah Baker writes in 'Charlottesville: An American Story,' readers have to go back to 1956 and John Kasper's trip to Charlottesville to protest school integration. That historical context combines with a vivid narrative of the 2017 demonstrations to give readers a better understanding of the combustible atmosphere that converged on Charlottesville. The narrative is the heart of Baker's comprehensive history, including details of Heather Heyer's killing by James Alex Fields Jr. — who kept a framed photograph of Adolf Hitler by his bedside and drove his car into a crowd of counter protesters. Baker's writing style delivers an on-the-ground feel of what it was like in Charlottesville, including a harrowing account of the night torch-wielding white nationalists marched through the University of Virginia's campus. But Baker also dives into the history of key players in the events that day, including white nationalist leader Richard Spencer and Zyahna Bryant, who initiated the petition to remove the statues of Lee and Stonewall Jackson from the city's parks. She also explores the shortcomings by authorities, including officials who credulously took white nationalist organizers at their word. ___
Winnipeg Free Press
02-06-2025
- Politics
- Winnipeg Free Press
Book Review: ‘Charlottesville' a dramatic account of deadly 2017 rally and history behind it
Decades before the violent Unite the Right rally in 2017 in Charlottesville that drew white nationalists protesting the removal of a Robert E. Lee statue, the city was targeted by a white supremacist who hoped to ignite a race war. To understand the 2017 Unite the Right rally, Deborah Baker writes in 'Charlottesville: An American Story,' readers have to go back to 1956 and John Kasper's trip to Charlottesville to protest school integration. That historical context combines with a vivid narrative of the 2017 demonstrations to give readers a better understanding of the combustible atmosphere that converged on Charlottesville. The narrative is the heart of Baker's comprehensive history, including details of Heather Heyer's killing by James Alex Fields Jr. — who kept a framed photograph of Adolf Hitler by his bedside and drove his car into a crowd of counter protesters. Baker's writing style delivers an on-the-ground feel of what it was like in Charlottesville, including a harrowing account of the night torch-wielding white nationalists marched through the University of Virginia's campus. But Baker also dives into the history of key players in the events that day, including white nationalist leader Richard Spencer and Zyahna Bryant, who initiated the petition to remove the statues of Lee and Stonewall Jackson from the city's parks. She also explores the shortcomings by authorities, including officials who credulously took white nationalist organizers at their word. Baker's research and eye for detail give 'Charlottesville' the historical authority necessary for understanding the tragic events that occurred over those two days. ___ AP book reviews:
Yahoo
25-05-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Masked Patriot Front white nationalists march Saturday in Kansas City
Scores of masked white nationalists descended on Kansas City Saturday, holding a rally outside the National WWI Museum and Memorial and marching downtown carrying flags and chanting. Police said the event, carried out by the Patriot Front, did not result in any arrests. Talk about the march spread rapidly on social media throughout the afternoon and evening. The Patriot Front is a white nationalist 'and avowedly fascist nationwide organization' that was formed in the aftermath of the deadly 'Unite the Right' march in Charlottesville, Virginia, in 2017, according to the Institute for Research and Education on Human Rights. On Saturday, the group's members — faces covered and dressed in their signature navy shirts, khaki pants and tan caps — marched down the sidewalks chanting, 'Life, liberty, victory' and 'Reclaim America.' Some carried shields and many carried flags, including upside-down American flags, Betsy Ross flags and Confederate flags. A video posted on X showed more than 150 marchers lined up in formation outside the National WWI Museum and Memorial as leader Thomas Rousseau gave a speech. When the event was over, the members piled into U-Haul trucks. In a video posted later on X, Rousseau said that 'today was the largest action we've ever put on as an organization.' 'It was remarkably successful, and we accomplished every single objective we set out to for the day.' Officer Alayna Gonzalez, a Kansas City Police spokesperson, said a patrol sergeant saw a group of about 100 marching on the sidewalk near the National WWI Museum and Memorial for about an hour. 'The KCPD was unaware this group was planning to come into our city as they do not advertise their protest/march locations,' she said in an email. 'We learned this group calls themselves the Patriot Front and it is believed everyone involved is from out of town and not local to Kansas City.' Gonzalez said it appeared the group did not need a parade permit for the event. 'A parade permit is not needed unless roadways need to be shutdown, and from information received at this point the group remained on the sidewalk and out of roadways,' she said. 'There is zero indication that KCPD was involved in any kind of escort capacity while the group was here. There were no arrests made or citations issued. The group has left Kansas City.' Mayor Quinton Lucas commented about the march in a post on X Saturday evening. 'While the First Amendment provides the right to bring any message to Kansas City,' he said, 'we know that our diversity, our welcoming community, and our respect for the rights of all reject whatever hate and cowardice come our way.' A spokesperson for the National WWI Museum and Memorial issued a statement Sunday afternoon denouncing the Patriot Front's views. 'The National WWI Museum and Memorial is aware of yesterday's gathering on the public grounds surrounding our institution,' said Karis Erwin, vice president of marketing and guest services. 'We respect First Amendment protections for peaceful assembly and free speech, and want to be unequivocally clear that the views expressed by this group do not represent or align with our values. We stand firmly against hatred, bigotry and divisiveness in all forms.' While the grounds include public park space where groups may gather, Erwin said, 'such use should never be interpreted as our endorsement of any particular viewpoint.' 'The Museum and Memorial remains committed to serving as a place of learning, reflection and unity for all visitors. This Memorial Day, as we do every day, we honor the lives of those who died in defense of liberty and freedom. This Memorial, a beacon for democracy, reminds us all of core values that seek to unite us and create a just and lasting peace for all nations.' Devin Burghart, president and executive director of the Seattle-based Institute for Research and Education on Human Rights, said Kansas City was the only city targeted by the Patriot Front on Saturday. 'The presence of a group of masked white nationalists tromping through the streets of Kansas City is a stark reminder that, in this moment, we must counter racism and bigotry on the margins and in the mainstream,' Burghart said in an email to The Star on Sunday. 'The attention-seeking neo-fascist group Patriot Front is well-known for utilizing stunts like this to generate publicity and attract broken young men to their ranks. Widespread community condemnation and long-term organizing are essential in making sure this new generation of white nationalists can't take root in our communities.' Rousseau founded the Patriot Front in an effort to rebrand the neo-Nazi organization Vanguard America after the violence in Charlottesville, according to groups that monitor far-right extremists. The white supremacist convicted of killing Heather Heyer when he intentionally plowed his car into a group of counter-protesters that day was seen in photographs holding a shield emblazoned with the Vanguard America logo. In June 2022, police arrested 31 Patriot Front members in Couer d'Alene, Idaho, after receiving a tip that men in face masks with riot gear were seen getting into a U-Haul outside a hotel. Police pulled the truck over near a park where an annual Pride event was to take place. Inside the truck, officers found a smoke grenade, shields and other gear as well as documents describing a plan to incite a disturbance at the park. A May 2023 IREHR report said that Missouri was the third most active state for Patriot Front activity. It said the group's members sometimes perform charitable acts to improve their image. 'On November 11, 2022, Patriot Front members handed out food and blankets to people experiencing homelessness in Kansas City,' the report said. 'Flyers about Patriot Front were attached to the brown bags they were handing out. 'This type of action is about more than helping the community. This recruitment tool gets young men and teenagers involved in the group.'
