“As best as could be determined after the fact, there were about six hundred people inside the Murrah building’s nine floors on April 19…Of these, 163 were killed, including 15 of the 21 children in the day care center… Four people died nearby... One rescuer, a nurse named Rebecca Anderson, was killed inside the building when she was struck by falling debris… At 7 p.m. on April 19, a fifteen-year-old girl…was found alive and freed hours later. She was the last survivor. The bomb damaged 324 buildings in a fifty-block area of downtown Oklahoma City. The explosion was felt fifty-five miles away and registered 6.0 on the Richter scale…”
- Jeffrey Toobin, Homegrown: Timothy McVeigh and the Rise of Right-Wing Extremism
In writing, there is a fine line between laudable ambition and biting off more than you can chew. Jeffrey Toobin’s Homegrown aptly proves that point. Toobin certainly swings big, attempting to present the life story of infamous Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh, while simultaneously providing a survey of America’s long drift toward anti-government extremism, which culminated in the shameful invasion of the United States Capitol on January 6, 2021.
Unfortunately, these two big, complicated subjects get shoehorned into a volume less than 400 pages in length, resulting in something that feels rushed and undercooked, and that often substitutes broad conclusions for careful analysis.
Don’t get me wrong: Homegrown is not a bad book. To the contrary, like everything else by Toobin, it’s enjoyably readable, and well-researched. Still, given Toobin’s extraordinary talent – Zoom abilities excepted – this should’ve been better.
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The subtitle promises more, but Homegrown is first and foremost a biography of a mass murderer. McVeigh’s life, his crime, and his trial provide the spine of the book, with only a relatively small amount of space devoted to the general rise of extremism in America.
To that end, Homegrown works just fine. Toobin is not an elegant writer, but he has a well-honed ability to tell a fast-paced story. He briskly covers McVeigh’s early life, raised in a middle-class family with his sole trauma coming from his parent’s divorce. McVeigh tried college, couldn’t do it, and ended up in the U.S. Army, where he served with distinction in the First Gulf War. Toobin marks the turning point in McVeigh’s life as the moment he washed out of Special Forces training in two days. Instead of preparing himself better and trying again, McVeigh – who lived by the motto of “if at first you don’t succeed, quit and blame others” – left the Army.
McVeigh’s post-Army life consisted of marinating in racist and anti-government propaganda, misdirecting affection toward weaponry, and roaming the gun-show circuit selling bumper stickers with lame slogans. In short, he was a frustrated mooch who leeched off friends or acquaintances until they tired of him, then moved somewhere else. During this roving, parasitic existence, he nursed grievances – both real and perceived – against the Federal government’s exercise of police power.
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It is well known that Timothy McVeigh was motivated by the twin F.B.I. blunders at Ruby Ridge and Waco. Given Homegrown’s subtitle and Toobin’s introduction, I expected him to spend a good deal of time on these events. Surprisingly, Toobin just glides over each with a bare minimum of explanation. In particular, the complex collision at Ruby Ridge is sketched so thinly that it won’t make any real sense unless you already know about it.
Homegrown does much better with McVeigh’s planning and execution of the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Toobin methodically lays out the steps, explains the roles of Terry Nichols, and Michael and Lori Fortier, and dispenses with many of the lingering theories of the bombing, such as a Middle Eastern connection.
While Toobin’s handling of the bombing itself is subpar – clumsily narrated and dramatically inert – he excels at describing McVeigh’s criminal trial. This is unsurprising, as Toobin is a Harvard-trained lawyer, wrote an excellent book on the O.J. Simpson trial, and was a CNN legal analyst for many years before forgetting to turn off his computer camera during a private moment. As Toobin notes, there is a vast swath of material to draw from, much of it from McVeigh’s ethically dubious attorney, Stephen Jones. He arranges this abundance skillfully, and makes interesting points about the tension between then-prosecutor Merrick Garland’s narrow approach, and the desire of President Clinton for a broader attack on extremism.
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Homegrown has to contend with the shadow of Dan Herbeck and Lou Michel’s American Terrorist, which is the touchstone book on McVeigh, written with his input and cooperation. American Terrorist is more in-depth, but Homegrown has better perspective and judgments.
Consciously or not, Herbeck and Michel tended to endorse McVeigh’s viewpoints, giving them logical credence they don’t deserve. Toobin rightly points out that McVeigh was an intellectual bottom-feeder who didn’t know the first thing about any of the topics on which he pompously opined.
McVeigh knew one undisputable thing, and that’s how he should be judged, today, tomorrow, and forever: How to mix together a few thousand pounds of ammonium nitrate, nitromethane, and diesel fuel, and then park it right in front of a daycare.
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Homegrown falls short when dealing with the overall extremist shift we’ve seen since the 1950s and 60s. Toobin’s thesis is that there’s a direct link between McVeigh and the January 6 Insurrection. However, he doesn’t really describe this connection with any true insight. Instead, throughout the book, he periodically ends a section with a few sentences that broadly compare McVeigh’s actions to those of the Capitol mob.
To support his hypothesis, Toobin needed to do a lot more work, which would have required a lot more pages. Ultimately, though, it’s hard to pin January 6 on McVeigh, since the extremist shift started before his birth, and continued after his death in very different ways. Beyond that, the extremist movement is composed of many different sub-groups – white supremacists, anti-tax protestors, survivalists – that often overlap, but are not always on the exact same page. This makes them harder to track, harder to combat, and harder to define with precision.
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Toobin does make an important point in his concluding chapter on the misuse of American history for political ends. Specifically, much of today’s anti-government movement is based on an entirely made-up – and anarchic – vision of the American Revolution, in which the central proposition is that you get to overthrow the government whenever you feel “tyrannized.” This essentially narcissistic belief is cobbled together from half-truths, myths, and Jeffersonian quotes ripped from their context.
The true essence of the American Revolution was in creating a new, democratic form of government, one that derived power from the bottom-up, rather than the top-down. Following ratification of the Constitution, this government was meant to endure. For that to happen – as Abraham Lincoln repeated endlessly during the American Civil War – elections have to be respected, especially by the losers. The idea that anyone with a gun and strong feelings can overturn electoral results is necessarily at odds with this basic requirement, and such a person is in fact practicing the “tyranny” they’re pretending to guard against.
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Timothy McVeigh was fundamentally, profoundly ignorant. He didn’t learn so much as consume processed nonsense distilled by others just as uninformed.
Because of this, Tim McVeigh never stopped to think about the elements composing “the government” he so desperately despised. It’s a damn shame, because it’s right there in the preamble to the United States Constitution, the same Constitution McVeigh feigned to have read, understood, and respected. In fact, it’s in really big letters, making it hard to miss: “We the People…”
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On the grounds of the Oklahoma City National Memorial Museum stands the Field of Empty Chairs, 168 bronze backed chairs with granite seats placed in nine rows, representing the nine floors of the Murrah Building. In terms of breathtaking power, it is a monument equal to the Vietnam War Memorial’s long black wall of names.
Within the museum itself is a more standard remembrance, though no less affecting: the Gallery of Honor. Here, the pictures of the dead have been placed in clear plastic boxes set in clusters against a wall. Each individual picture is at the back of the box; in the front, there is a small representative token of that person’s life: for Thompson Hodges, his pipe, and a small soccer ball to symbolize his years coaching; for Captain Randolph Guzman, a Marine Corps patch; for Antonio Ansara Cooper – who lived halfway to one year – a small stuffed animal.
That’s the “government” that McVeigh cowardly attacked. Trying to position him as the vanguard of something more runs the risk of obscuring this reality: McVeigh’s legacy is that of a murderer, a child-killer, and a charlatan.