I was an extremist. Twice. Once when I had just graduated from college in 1985, and once when the economy tanked in 2008. I wasn’t a terrorist. I am afraid of violence. But I am convinced I could have become one if I had continued down the rabbit hole. Now, after decades of study and reflection, particularly in the science of the brain and mind, I understand what happened. Let me explain.
My first foray into extremism came at the end of my college career. It was the 1980s, and the U.S. was knee-deep in interventionist machinations in Central America. I, however, remained relatively uninformed at the time; that was until I was invited to participate in a pro-Sandinista rally in Boston. Within months I was attending political actions up and down the East Coast.
During my two years of full-time left-wing political activism, I ran from police at CIA headquarters and bought cans of spray paint to author slogans of resistance on the sides of buildings; I spent nights in jail and days in courthouses; I penned excoriating screeds about the evils of U.S. geopolitics and smiled as they were published in local newspapers. Abbie Hoffman slept on my couch. Amy Carter dined on grilled cheese sandwiches in my kitchen. Life was, well, good. I had found meaning! I was a radical political extremist, and I knew beyond any doubt that I was right. I was also 100% certain that violence in support of revolutionary change was entirely justified.
My second dive into the belly of extremism came in 2008, when the economy entered what we now refer to as the Great Recession. I was, at the time, quasi-employed. My teaching career had foundered on the rocks of bad decisions and overwhelming circumstances. Marriage was a struggle, being a dad terrified and confounded me, and I had started drinking again (after 17 years of sobriety).
Cue the economic collapse. For many, this moment in time was disastrous. For me, however, the Great Recession was my savior. As I learned more about the purported malfeasance by those in government and the banking sector, my blood boiled. I began blogging about impending doom, about the end of fiat currency and the destruction of civilization as we had come to recognize it. I hosted a radio show on blogtalk radio and many listened in.
I bought my first gun and began hoarding food and ammunition.
I knew with 100% certainty that the end was nigh, that the collapse was coming. Had I not received a teaching job offer in 2010 and moved to Oklahoma for a year, and had the efforts at quantitative easing not succeeded (they did, by the way; I was wrong), who knows where I might have ended up? I was an extremist, and it felt great. Frighteningly, my experience is not at all unique.
The human brain, despite all of our growing understanding of neurophysiology, is a renegade organ. The melange of neurotransmitters and hormones that wash over and through our brains and bodies, the unrelenting and mystical power that our amygdala and sympathetic nervous system holds over our consciousness, seems more from the pages of a science fiction novel than from the journals of medicine and psychology. And the reality of our minds’ ignorance to these internal processes is both tragic and inevitable.
I became an extremist because I was in distress. On both occasions, my life had become unmanageable — a college graduate without direction, a young professional without a career. I was adrift, scared and confused, ashamed and defeated. And the feelings that these states of being precipitated were unbearable.
In the parlance of the neuro-informed, my nervous system was entirely dysregulated. I was experiencing a crippling dearth of the feel-good neurotransmitters and hormones and an overflow of the edgier stuff. The resulting experience was physically painful and emotionally overwhelming.
Enter extremism. It was a godsend. It gave me purpose and meaning. The certitude I felt, the communities I became connected to, changed my neurophysiology. I felt good again. I had a future. My nervous system was no longer jangly. I was saved!
It has been 10 years since I emerged from the bunker of my Great Recession meltdown. In the years since I have devoted much effort and study to understanding the complexity of the human brain. (My study really took off after reading The Feeling of What Happens by Antonio Damasio.) My research has led me to conclude that the power of our neurophysiology is beyond our ability to manage. During times of distress and uncertainty, our brains often trick us into believing that which is false, into unwittingly taking actions in a desperate attempt to simply feel OK.
And here we are, in 2020. Uncertainty is our watchword. From a terrifying pandemic to crushing economic insecurity, from a future of quasi-employability to the specter of a seemingly irreversible climate crisis, we are adrift. Add to this toxic neural stew the incendiary accelerant of social media and a president bent on exploiting these variables, and you have the perfect storm for a humanitarian crisis of gripping proportions.
As a history teacher, I used to hang my hat on that old saying about history repeating itself. But now what I realize is this: It’s not ignorance of history but ignorance of human neurophysiology that haunts us as a species.
The United States stands on the brink of tragedy. Extremism is on the rise, and it is moving inexorably from the fringes toward the middle, the mainstream. Conspiracy theories floated by some fellow named “Q” have captured the hearts and minds (well, the brains and nervous systems) of millions. Armed militias descend on state capitols, ready for battle. Spend time in the comment sections of such political websites as Breitbart and ZeroHedge and you will read the words of those who have, quite literally, lost their minds.
The stage is set. We are experiencing a mass neurophysiological hijacking, and in an effort to feel “better,” people are going to do terrible, terrible things.
I should know. I came close to being just like them.
Dan Weintraub, of Quechee, is a teacher and a singer-somgwriter. He works as an education consultant and plans to travel the country this spring and summer as a digital nomad and masked troubadour.