Professional wrestling is not fake.

Sure, it utilizes all the high drama of theater, circus and sport. Although what goes on in the ring requires a high level of skill and physicality, the most dangerous wrestling moves are choreographed. All the feuds and storylines are scripted, and to enjoy it requires suspension of belief.

However, the word “fake” is inadequate to describe this form of entertainment that has roots in European carnival and has found fertile cultural soil to thrive in Mexico, Japan, and the U.S.

In the early days of the “sport,” maintaining the illusion of reality wasn’t difficult. Only what happened in the ring was staged. No one cared about the wrestlers in “real life” because the entertainment ended when they walked out of the ring.

But once the phenomenon expanded to include character development, which led to storylines and “feuds,” distinguishing between what was “real” and what wasn’t became more of a challenge. It required the illusion to extend beyond the ring.

The term that emerged in the 20th century to describe the maintenance of the illusion was “kayfabe.”

Several theories exist about the word’s etymology, including that it is derivative of the Latin phrase “caveo,” meaning “to look out for.” The idea is that those in on kayfabe need to look out for those who aren’t, keeping up the act and maintaining the illusion.

For the rare American who has had no exposure to professional wrestling, kayfabe is marked by violent masculinity. It sees the world in binary terms–black and white, winners and losers, good and evil. It has no room for nuance. For much of its history, it portrayed gay men as being simultaneously weak and dangerous. It portrayed Black men as animals.

Kayfabe evolved in the 1980s with the cross-pollination of the World Wrestling Federation (WWF) and MTV. During that time, WWF personalities appeared in pop stars’ music videos, and pop stars attended and participated in wrestling events.

In retrospect, this didn’t require much stretching of the imagination, since the world of pop music is its own kind of theater. But still, there was a certain level of “breaking kayfabe” associated with professional wrestling storylines piercing the “fourth wall” and influencing other spheres outside the ring.

Last week in Milwaukee, kayfabe solidified its influence on another dominant American institution at its nominating convention: the Republican Party.

Early in the week, GOP officials announced that one of the people introducing their then-presumptive nominee, Donald Trump, would be Hulk Hogan, a name synonymous with professional wrestling. Hogan rose to fame in the 1980s as the cartoonish embodiment of an “All-American Male.”

During that time, he laid the kayfabe on thick.

He was billed as being from Venice Beach, California, known for its bodybuilding culture. In reality, Terry Bollea (his real name) was born in Georgia and grew up in Florida. He told young boys that all they needed to do to be as strong as him was to exercise every day and eat raw eggs. He later confessed to taking steroids for most of the 70s and 80s.

Hogan’s speech last week in Milwaukee was instructive of how kayfabe has developed and its power over American culture.

He began, in character, speaking to the “Real Americans” in the audience and at home. The message was clear: Trump supporters are “Real Americans,” and “they,” (presumably non-Trump supporters) aren’t. He dangerously tied “they” to the horrific assassination attempt on Trump’s life. He paced back and forth on the stage, cupping his hand to his ear, urging shouts of “USA! USA!”

Hogan, face red from guttural grunts, then removed his sportcoat and ripped off his American Flag t-shirt to reveal a Trump-Vance undershirt. What happens next is revealing of the current state of the Republican Party, and American culture in general.

He told the crowd, “I didn’t come here as Hulk Hogan, but I just had to give you a little taste.” The crowd laughed, then he continued, “You know, my name is Terry Bollea…”

In front of an audience of millions, Hogan/Bollea wanted the world to believe he had just broken kayfabe. But, in reality, the kayfabe continued.

“As an entertainer, I try to stay out of politics,” he said. “But after everything that’s happened to our country over the past four years, and everything that happened last weekend (referring to the assassination attempt,) I can no longer stay silent.”

With this statement, Hogan/Bollea parroted MAGA’s favorite kayfabe storyline, that they have remained silent up to some point in time, but then got fed up and stopped being quiet. But in 2016, Hulk Hogan endorsed Donald Trump and suggested he should be Trump’s vice presidential nominee.

That’s not someone who has tried “to stay out of politics.”

There has always been a level of kayfabe in political theater. In the digital age, sadly, getting elected requires a candidate who knows how to create and maintain an image for the public that doesn’t necessarily reflect reality.

But Democrats and traditional, non-MAGA Republicans who yearn for our “better angels” to emerge in political discourse need to come to terms with a concerning trend that Hulk Hogan’s performance highlighted: Most people know what is and isn’t kayfabe in politics. 

But an ever-increasing number of people simply don’t care. They’d rather have the kayfabe than reality.

What is true for the political kayfabe of last week’s RNC pales in comparison to the religious kayfabe that found an eager audience in Milwaukee.

Since the late 1970s, the GOP has tied its political fortunes to conservative Christians. What began as an awkward alliance with the presidencies of Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush became a holy union with George W. Bush. The marriage struggled with the candidacies of Mitt Romney and John McCain, traditional conservatives who, while Christians, weren’t evangelicals.

But in 2016, everything changed. Evangelical leaders, missing the proximity they once had to presidential power, made a bargain. They would look the other way at the severe character flaws of a man who was the antithesis of everything they had ever preached. In exchange, they would get their power back.

Their only request was that Trump try his best to kayfabe Christian faith. They would help him figure this out and would provide cover when he couldn’t.

Rumors leaked in the evangelical corners of the internet that Trump had given his life to Jesus and was a “baby Christian.” Images began to circulate with Jesus placing a hand of protection behind Trump in the Oval Office. Trump claimed to bring “Merry Christmas” back to prominence.

All of it was kayfabe, and it wasn’t even particularly good kayfabe. He was far more convincing when he participated in an actual WWE storyline.

The RNC last week took the act to entirely new levels, using the assassination attempt as their muse. Senator Tim Scott suggested that Satan tried to take Trump’s life, but God intervened. 

Other figures spoke of Trump in messianic terms. Trump himself said he felt safe during the shooting because “I had God on my side.”

The portions of the speech where Trump recounted the attempt on his life have been lauded, even by liberal pundits. This praise feels like an attempt by many to find some area of grace for the former President. But his entire delivery, including his kissing the fire helmet of the victim who lost his life in Pennsylvania, was dripping with kayfabe.

What happened in Milwaukee was proof that many self-proclaimed evangelicals who can recognize kayfabe for what it is simply don’t care. They’d rather have it over reality.

Eight years into the Donald Trump political experiment, naming all this seems like a broken record. But it can’t be stressed enough. People are abandoning faith altogether because they refuse to suspend disbelief while their spiritual leaders allow Donald Trump to make a mockery of their faith.

In his acceptance speech, Trump noted that Franklin Graham was trying to get him not to curse as much. Shane Claiborne wrote on X, “I just keep thinking of how Trump has turned the 7 deadly sins into a way of life and made a mockery of the Beatitudes and the Sermon on the Mount… and Franklin asked him not to curse.”

What Graham actually asked him to do was to try to not break Christian kayfabe.