Conveniently, the trio of white nationalist regimes that I’ve discussed so far—Rhodesia, Nazi Germany, and the Confederacy—feature similar fan-fictionalization DNA:
1. Valorization. Whatever the actual historical fate of the states, their “fans” transform them into places of triumph—or, at least, tragic tales of paradise lost.
2. Centralization. In all cases, “fans” place the whiteness of the people at the center of their fictionalized triumph. That is, the whiteness defines the triumph and paradise.
3. Kinship. “Fans” manufacture a kinship connection to the fictional triumphant state via their common whiteness.
In 1, we should note that details of what actually happened in history (who won wars, etc.) are less important than the ideals. For example, “fans” love Rhodesia not because of any specific event but because it was an audacious pro-white state that was in armed conflict with black people. Similarly, certain defenders of Confederate monuments in the US speak of the virtues of its political and military leaders. Slavery, the issue that defined the Civil War (and underlies most salient political conversations), receives fan fictional short shrift. In the minds of "fans," slavery might be relevant, but less so than the legacy of Robert E. Lee, an awesome dude who was totally misunderstood.
Items 2 and 3 are where the nationalistic elements emerge. Whether from Alaska or Alabama, “fans” find more solidarity with a hypothetical Rhodesian than an actual African American. But these relationships are built out of magic. The connection between that Rhode Islander parked at the edge of a liberal college campus and a hypothetical Rhodesian is whiteness alone—not culture or history. Only the whiteness. Same for all the young men on the internet who, after a few hours on the white supremacist website Stormfront, are experts on their phantom Viking heritage.
This cult of whiteness, its essentiality and omnipotence, is the straw that stirs and spreads the nationalist pixie dust. And it is in the conjuring of this identity that the expansive imagination of fan fiction really emerges. Whiteness is akin to the Force in Star Wars: Only some people can lay claim to it, and it grants those people super powers.
Elaborations on this idea now invoke a fairy tale genetics that far surpasses the X-Men in absurdity, including the milk chugging ritual as a signal of advanced (white) mutant powers. The argument goes something like this: The ability to break down the milk sugar lactose into adulthood—a trait called lactase persistence, which is prevalent in certain geographical human populations—is a marker of European ancestry, a sign of whiteness, and a symbol of superiority. The ritual might only be racist and corny if it wasn’t also embarrassingly wrong—lactase persistence evolved independently in sub-Saharan Africa.
But, again, this is fan fiction we’re talking about. It’s not supposed to be true.
Or is it?
Fictional spins on historical figures and events can be a lot of fun. We read Harriet Tubman, Demon Slayer because we’re curious how the author managed to fuse a historical figure to demon slaying. We don’t expect to learn new things about the the actual life of Harriet Tubman. And yeah, fiction can entertain and teach, but it is crucial that the reader understand the difference between the history and the fantasy.
White nationalism applies fantastical details to historical source material but forgets that it is fiction. In doing so, it has become among the most destructive, democracy-corroding movements in existence, and a threat to national security. To equate white nationalism to fan fiction is not to trivialize it, but rather to understand why it is so virulent. It isn’t borne from a common culinary history, nor shared music, language, or politics. It’s a brand of fan fiction we call Us versus Them, and it lives in the darkest parts of our imagination.
