Since Kamala Harris secured the Democratic nomination on Aug. 5, 2024, the presidential campaign trail has erupted into a whirlwind of rallies, media firestorms, and crowds brimming with raw electricity.
In this photo essay, Seattle’s own Nate Gowdy and L.A.-based Carrie Schreck pull back the curtain on a country teetering on the edge of two opposing visions. Gowdy, whose political photography appears in Mother Jones and Rolling Stone, among others, published the sole book of photojournalism about the Jan. 6 attack on the U.S. Capitol. He’s also known locally for his “American Superhero” portrait series and his work celebrating Seattle’s LGBTQIA+ communities. Schreck, a photographer, filmmaker, and essayist with a focus on far-right extremism, brings her eye for confrontation and drama. Her work has recently been featured in The New Yorker and CNN.
Since Oct. 17, Gowdy and Schreck have roamed battleground states by car, documenting two starkly different worlds. Harris rallies feel like community gatherings, with a shared sense of purpose and urgency in the air. Trump rallies, by contrast, are a carnival of spectacle — a sprawling market where loyalty is stamped on every “Made in China” hat and flag, sold to those hungry for a taste of the old days.
Through their lens, Gowdy and Schreck capture a country split in two, each rally a snapshot of the visions and values clashing in these days of a divided time to be American.
The first Harris rally we attended in Atlanta felt like stepping into a whole new atmosphere. Joyful, diverse, and welcoming, it was more a community gathering than a political event. Everyday people from all backgrounds filled the crowd, radiating a genuine sense of optimism and hope. It was refreshing to be in a space where people seemed eager to unite and move forward together.
In sharp contrast, Trump rallies carry a chaotic, charged energy. Poorly organized and rough around the edges, these events leave attendees — many elderly — fending for themselves through logistical obstacles: sparse restrooms and minimal food or water, if any. For the thousands who come, it’s often an exhausting, even punishing experience. Yet their loyalty is unshakable, enduring these grueling conditions to show up for Trump.
The scene outside Trump’s final rally at Madison Square Garden was a surreal, claustrophobic spectacle. Blocks of red hats stretched endlessly, people packed in so tightly they could barely move — penned in like cattle, waiting for entry. Hours passed in that human tide, a display of loyalty and eerie uniformity.
There’s a palpable sense of camaraderie at these events, almost familial, but it’s bound by something darker — a shared anger and hardened worldview.
Madison Square Garden — by far the darkest space we’ve ever stepped foot in. The air was thick with hate, the kind you could almost taste, and it reeked of something dangerous simmering just below the surface. When Trump took the mic and started on about rounding people up, a man near Carrie let loose a shout: “Kill them all. Make it painful!” We’ve each seen some twisted things — Jan. 6, 2021, was chaos incarnate — but this? This was a whole other beast. It wasn’t just hostile, it was venomous: an arena crackling with animosity, like we were strangers on the wrong side of a one-way mirror, watching it all go down from outside the pack.
And getting in at all is an ordeal. The Trump campaign rejects the vast majority of media credential requests, and I (Nate) have been blacklisted for two years running, so we’re forced to go “undercover”’ blending into the crowd and lying low, praying not to be sniffed out as photojournalists. One wrong move, one suspicious glance, and you might be out the door, barred from entry. It’s like working as a double agent, tiptoeing around a mob that would turn on you in a second if they knew what you were there to capture.
Being in the crowd when Trump singles out the media is an unsettling experience. We’re hemmed in by rows upon rows of people, and the moment he launches into his familiar rant about “fake news,” branding the working press as “the enemy within,” the whole atmosphere shifts. Suspicious, hostile stares zero in on us, cameras in hand. The paranoia is thick, and it’s as if we really are the enemy he’s warned them about. It’s a strange irony, surrounded by people openly filming on their own phones, yet all it takes is the sight of cameras to trigger that flash of distrust. For all these supporters know, we could easily be on their side … but reality has no place here.
Trump rallies are still a sea of white faces, but something’s shifted since 2016. The crowds now have this restless, younger pulse — a few more shades in the mix, but harder, meaner, like the air itself has teeth. There’s an edge to them, an eagerness for confrontation, eyes narrowed, hanging on every sharp word that spills from the stage. You can feel it — a whole demographic drawn into Trump’s more dangerous rhetoric, a twisted evolution of his message pulling in a wider, angrier crowd, as if the campaign found the raw nerve of a country and struck it.
Harris rallies are a well-oiled machine, and the care for attendees is clear from the moment you arrive. Volunteers work the lines, handing out water, snacks, even the occasional Pop-Tart or cotton candy — small comforts to keep spirits high. Popular local DJs keep the energy up, each bringing a unique vibe that feels fresh and connected to the community. Wide aisles, plenty of seating, and a genuine sense of hospitality create a welcoming atmosphere. It’s not just a rally; it feels like a community event, as if every detail is designed to make people feel seen and looked after. People aren’t just attending; they’re being cared for, and it shows.
Trump’s rallies are an entirely different beast. Here, supporters are mostly left to fend for themselves, braving the elements and the wait without much help. If you’re thirsty, you’ll find a lone vendor pacing the line, hawking water and soda at a premium. There’s rarely any shade, so people stand for hours in the sweltering sun, worn out by the time Trump finally takes the stage. And yet, the familiar soundtrack — unchanged since 2015 — loops through the speakers, echoing the same tunes over and over, as if each song is a link to the past they’re fighting to reclaim. The supporters seem to welcome it, clinging to the routine and predictability of it all, much like their longing for a country they believe once was. Many trickle out early, exhausted, but few seem to connect their discomfort to the campaign’s lack of organization. Instead, there’s a sense of quiet endurance — a willingness to bear it all just for a chance to see him.
In Las Vegas this past spring, we witnessed one of the most surreal displays of devotion yet. After hours of standing in line under the relentless Vegas sun, a plane flew overhead, and the crowd erupted in cheers, absolutely convinced it was Trump himself — even as it bore the presidential seal, clear evidence it couldn’t be his. But logic had no place here. The people around us were electrified, bound together in this shared fantasy that Trump, still their president, was somehow watching over them from above. When I tried to point out the discrepancy, it was like talking to a wall — met with pure disbelief and denial. They held on to this illusion with a conviction that turned fiction into fact, as if this belief was essential, a bond stronger than reason, untouched by reality.
Religion looms large at Trump rallies, and the sense that Trump is more than just a political figure is unmistakable. To many here, he’s a divine instrument, chosen by God to fulfill a mission. His brush with a would-be assassin’s bullet has only deepened this belief, as if fate itself intervened to protect him. Merchandise blares with phrases like “Jesus is our Savior, Trump is our President,” blending faith and politics until it feels nearly crusade-like. The devotion borders on the fanatical, with a conviction that God has ordained Trump’s role as a leader — a loyalty that goes well beyond the ballot box.
Contradictions don’t seem to stick; loyalty here means believing what needs to be believed, even if it doesn’t quite add up. In one conversation, a woman denounced electric cars as an environmental scourge. But when I pointed out how her logic applied to Elon Musk’s cars, she waved it off, pivoting easily to praise Musk’s brilliance. Musk, of course, plays the part of one of Trump’s primary surrogates — America’s tech billionaire pitching a vision of salvation from the very system he profits from. It’s a strange dance of faith and selective reasoning, where the narrative matters more than the details, so long as it upholds Trump and everything they believe he stands for.
At Kamala Harris’s rallies, the message hits like a battle cry: unity, progress, and the fight to pull America back from the edge. She calls out fear-mongering and urges voters to choose freedom over the siren song of autocracy. Alongside her stand high-profile changemakers and surrogates — activists, artists, and political heavyweights — each fueling the crowd with their own brand of fire. It’s Medicare for All, affordable housing, abortion rights — policies with a purpose, aimed at undoing years of chaos and clawing the country back from division. The energy is electric, urgent, as Harris steps up as the antidote to dysfunction, her vision part rallying cry, part line in the sand. It’s a campaign less about promises and more about survival.
The merch scenes outside Harris and Trump rallies tell you almost everything you need to know about the crowds. At both, vendors line the streets, but it’s outside Trump’s rallies where business booms and the scene takes on a full-blown carnival feel. It’s a strange pilgrimage for many, the first time they’ve come to see him live, but scattered among them are the die-hards we recognize: the ones who follow him rally to rally, hoarding gear like relics from a traveling road show. And the entrepreneurial types know it: They’ll slap Trump’s name on almost anything, and it all sells. Flags, hats, shirts, mugs, even bobbleheads. The crowd eats it up — anything emblazoned with his name or slogans that swing from patriotic to downright profane.
It’s an irony all its own: The same people who’ll tell you inflation is squeezing them dry, that corporate greed isn’t the problem, are dropping hard-earned cash on this merch, every last “Made in China” trinket. But for them, it’s all part of the spectacle — a show of loyalty, each purchase a pledge to the cause.
The treatment of Kamala Harris is steeped in ugly currents of sexism and racism, visible in every corner of the rally. Slogans on flags and T-shirts scream “Joe and the Ho gotta go,” and public figures like Tucker Carlson fan the flames. At Madison Square Garden, Carlson openly mocked Harris’s ethnicity, casting her background aside with an offhanded, sneering tone. Compared to the rhetoric against Hillary Clinton in 2016, the attacks on Harris feel uglier, more pointed, and far more personal.
Harris rallies, by contrast, are quieter on the merchandising front. Most attendees come decked out in official campaign gear bought directly from the source, with proceeds going back to fund the campaign itself. The independent vendors outside barely get a glance. There’s a different kind of loyalty here, a sense of purpose that goes deeper than memorabilia. But at Trump rallies, the ritual of merch, fanfare, and commerce fuels the experience, a carnival of conviction and contradiction, a dance of belief and business that somehow feels right at home.
Nate Gowdy and Carrie Schreck will be at Howard University for the Harris Walz Election Night event on Nov. 5, 2024.
Special thanks to Mika K. Chew for help with this story.
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