People are just turned off by his personality
In the coal hollows of Buchanan County, Virginia, where Donald Trump once claimed nearly four-fifths of the vote, loyalty has not vanished so much as grown tired. The mines that were supposed to reopen never did, the pandemic doubled unemployment and shuttered schools, and even the most faithful supporters now speak of their candidate with a weariness that policy alone cannot cure. What this corner of Appalachia reveals is an older human story: the gap between the promises that bind people to a cause and the reality that quietly erodes their certainty.
- Coal never came back — mines stayed closed, prices collapsed, and two operators who once toasted Trump's election have pivoted to growing hemp just to survive.
- The pandemic cracked the county open: a mask mandate lasted only days before social media protests killed it, schools suspended in-person learning, and unemployment doubled to 11.3 percent.
- Even loyal Trump voters use words like 'demeanor,' 'bombastic,' and 'brassy' to describe what is turning people off — not his policies, but the relentless noise of his presence.
- A lifelong Democrat turned Trump voter, a nurse who runs a health clinic, has flipped back — blaming the president's dismissal of science for making her daily work nearly impossible.
- The town manager, a former coal operator, plans to decide on Election Day itself, embodying the county's unresolved tension between cultural loyalty and quiet, accumulating doubt.
Grundy sits at the center of Buchanan County, Virginia, a place that gave Trump nearly 79 percent of its vote in 2016. Four years later, the county remained solidly Trump territory — yet something had shifted in the coal towns and hollows, a weariness that no policy victory could quite dispel.
In early 2017, a handful of mine operators gathered to celebrate what they believed would be a new era. They were wrong. Coal prices collapsed, China imposed heavy tariffs, and the mines never reopened. Two of the operators abandoned coal entirely, turning to hemp for CBD products. Tye Brinager, who closed his own mine in 2019, stayed loyal to Trump — 'I'd have a stroke if I voted Democrat,' he said — but added a caveat: 'He'd be better off without that demeanor.'
Buchanan County is whiter, older, and poorer than America as a whole, its population shrinking by a third since 1990 to just 21,000 people. Residents explained their support through policy — pro-coal stances, opposition to abortion — but also through a deeper cultural identification. Many saw in Trump a recognizable Appalachian archetype: the larger-than-life businessman who flouted convention and thumbed his nose at elites, whose combativeness seemed to prove his authenticity.
The pandemic introduced a new fracture. A mask mandate lasted only days before social media protests forced it to be rescinded. Unemployment doubled to 11.3 percent. Schools attempted hybrid learning, with some students driving to the high school parking lot to access broadband, before suspending in-person instruction entirely after positive cases emerged.
Frances Minton, a 69-year-old nurse who had voted for Trump as a lifelong Democrat, changed her mind over his handling of the pandemic. She blamed him for making her daily work — convincing patients to take the virus seriously — nearly impossible. Others, like Logann Taylor-Deskins, acknowledged that Trump's 'brassy' personality was muting public appreciation for his accomplishments.
Dennis Ramey, Grundy's town manager and a former coal-mine operator, embodied the county's uncertainty most plainly. He had switched to Trump in 2016 but remained troubled by his bombastic style. He saw something appealing in Biden's promise of cross-party cooperation, yet doubted the man's capacity at 77. He planned to decide on Election Day itself — a small but telling sign that in a county once considered certain, nothing felt quite certain anymore.
Grundy sits in the heart of Buchanan County, Virginia, a place that gave Donald Trump nearly 79 percent of its vote in 2016—the highest share of any county during that year's Super Tuesday primaries. Four years later, as the 2020 election approached, the county remained solidly Trump territory. Yet something had shifted in the coal towns and hollows of southwestern Virginia, a weariness that no policy victory could quite dispel.
In early 2017, a handful of mine operators gathered at a Chinese restaurant in Grundy to celebrate what they believed would be a new era. With Trump in the White House, they reasoned, environmental regulations would loosen and capital would flow back into coal. They were wrong. Over the next three years, coal prices collapsed. China imposed heavy tariffs on American coal as trade tensions escalated between the two nations. The mines never reopened. Two of the operators who had gathered that day abandoned coal entirely, pivoting instead to growing hemp for CBD products. Tye Brinager, who closed his own mine in 2019, remained committed to voting for Trump—"I'd have a stroke if I voted Democrat," he said—but his loyalty came with a caveat. "He'd be better off without that demeanor."
Buchanan County is whiter, older, more rural, and more evangelical than America as a whole. Its median income sits at half the national average. The population has hemorrhaged since 1990, shrinking by a third to just 21,000 people. Susan Mayhew, dean of the Appalachian School of Pharmacy and a Trump supporter, captured the mood plainly: she had felt the energy for him in 2016, but not anymore. "People are just turned off by his personality," she said, worried that disgust might keep voters home entirely.
The county's residents explained their support for Trump through policy—his pro-coal stance, his opposition to abortion. But there was also something deeper, a cultural identification. Many saw in Trump a recognizable archetype from Appalachian history: the larger-than-life wealthy businessman who flouted convention and made his own rules. Arthur "Smiley" Ratliff, a coal operator from decades past, had used Ming vases as umbrella stands and once petitioned Britain to let him build an estate on an uninhabited Pacific island to escape Washington regulation. Trump, in this reading, was a modern version of that figure—a man who thumbed his nose at elites and the press, whose very combativeness seemed to prove his authenticity.
But the pandemic had introduced a new fracture. In April, a Covid-19 outbreak at a private boarding school prompted the county to require masks in stores and limit capacity to 20 percent. The restrictions lasted only days before social media protests forced them to be rescinded. Few people wore masks after that. Unemployment had doubled from the end of 2019 to 11.3 percent by July, though it eased slightly to 8.9 percent the following month. Schools attempted a hybrid model, with some students from mountain homes lacking broadband driving to the high school parking lot to access internet. By mid-October, the county suspended in-person instruction after three students tested positive.
Frances Minton, a 69-year-old nurse who owned a health clinic, had voted for Trump in 2016 as a lifelong Democrat, hoping he would revive the local economy. The pandemic changed her mind. She blamed the president for refusing to listen to Dr. Anthony Fauci and the scientific community, making her job of convincing patients to wear masks nearly impossible. "I say to them, 'That's your right, but you won't get service' without a mask," she said. Logann Taylor-Deskins, 30, who had moved back to help her father start a CBD business, acknowledged that Trump's "brassy" personality was dampening enthusiasm for his accomplishments, particularly tax cuts. "It mutes their view of the benefits he has brought," she said.
Dennis Ramey, Grundy's town manager and a former coal-mine operator, embodied the uncertainty. He had last voted Democratic in 2004, then switched to Trump because he saw Hillary Clinton as hostile to coal. But Trump's "bombastic" style had bothered him then and bothered him now. He identified as a Blue Dog Democrat—southern, conservative—and saw in Joe Biden a politician who might work across party lines, the kind he once admired. Yet at 77, Ramey wasn't sure Biden was up to the job. "If Trump would lay the phone down" and stop tweeting, Ramey said, he might vote for him again. But he didn't expect that to happen. He planned to decide on Election Day itself.
The county's sheriff, John McClanahan, had switched to the Republican Party in late September, citing Democratic calls to defund the police. Trump-Pence signs dotted lawns. A caravan of Trump supporters in pickup trucks waved flags as Black Lives Matter protesters gathered nearby. The machinery of support remained visible. But the margin of Trump's victory in Buchanan County, and the number of people who would actually turn out to vote for him, had become uncertain in a way it had not been four years before.
Citações Notáveis
I'd have a stroke if I voted Democrat. He'd be better off without that demeanor.— Tye Brinager, mine operator who closed his mine in 2019
I felt the energy for candidate Trump in 2016 but not as much now. People are just turned off by his personality.— Susan Mayhew, dean of the Appalachian School of Pharmacy
If Trump would lay the phone down and stop tweeting, I might vote for him again, but I don't expect that to happen.— Dennis Ramey, Grundy town manager and former coal-mine operator
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did those coal operators pivot to CBD instead of waiting for Trump's policies to help them?
The economics didn't wait. Coal prices collapsed globally, and China's tariffs made American coal uncompetitive almost immediately. Policy support can't override market forces that severe. They had to survive.
So Trump's pro-coal stance was genuine, but it couldn't overcome the actual conditions on the ground?
Exactly. The operators still believed he tried. That's what kept them voting for him. But belief and results are different things, and people were living with the results.
What's the significance of the mask mandate being rescinded so quickly?
It shows how polarized the response to the pandemic had become locally. The county leadership tried to follow public health guidance, but social media pressure forced them to back down within days. That kind of reversal erodes trust in institutions.
Frances Minton switched from Trump to Biden because of Covid. Was she unusual?
Not entirely. She was a Democrat who had crossed over once, hoping for economic help. The pandemic gave her a reason to cross back. But she was more explicit about it than most. Many others just felt fatigue without necessarily switching.
Dennis Ramey seems genuinely torn. What would actually move him?
He said it plainly: if Trump stopped tweeting and acting bombastic, he'd consider voting for him again. But Ramey didn't think that was going to happen. So he was waiting to see if Biden felt like a safer bet, even with age concerns.
Does the county's shrinking population matter to the election outcome?
Enormously. Buchanan lost a third of its people since 1990. Fewer voters means less political power, even if Trump's margin stays high. The county's influence on statewide and national politics is diminishing just as it becomes more important to Trump's coalition.