Despite her background in professional wrestling, Linda McMahon is not known for bombast. Indeed, she’s terrible at it: in the many years during which the former World Wrestling Entertainment CEO would make occasional appearances in her company’s programming as a version of herself, she was always derided by fans for her lack of charisma and wobbly speaking voice.
The most notable thing she did in any of the storylines was pretend to be comatose in a wheelchair while her husband, the vastly more explosive Vince McMahon, sexually harassed one of his female wrestlers in a skit. Linda won’t be winning an Emmy anytime soon.
That’s ultimately what makes her a threat: she doesn’t seem like one. She is falsely perceived as a “moderate” and will come across as the “good cop” in a collection of awful ones. When she was nominated as director of the Small Business Administration in 2017, under Donald Trump, she was the only cabinet pick who passed with substantial Democratic support – 81 out of 100 senators voted to confirm her. She made it through her two-plus years in the role without drawing attention (despite the fact that her husband was simultaneously making lucrative business deals with the Saudi government). She will almost certainly be confirmed by the Senate again with relatively little difficulty. They have other things to worry about.
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But senators should be worried about putting McMahon in charge of education policy. Behind her grandmotherly affect beats a cold heart. As I documented in my biography of her husband, Ringmaster, Linda and Vince have presented a united front at all times even amid accusations of sexual assault. She was almost certainly aware of a massive pedophile ring that ran within the McMahons’ World Wrestling Federation (as it was known) from the 1970s to the early 90s.
Just last month, five additional men stepped forward in a lawsuit to accuse Linda and Vince of knowingly allowing their childhood sexual assaults. Naturally, the McMahons deny any wrongdoing. (Vince is also under federal investigation for sex trafficking, a fact that Linda has yet to publicly comment on.)
McMahon’s reasonableness is nothing more than ‘kayfabe’
So far, Linda hasn’t mimicked Trump’s wild attacks on his opponents or the institutions of the US government. Her first statement since receiving Trump’s nomination was bland: “All students should be equipped with the necessary skills to prepare them for a successful future.” But I would doubt that her tenure will be moderate.
She has never spoken or acted in opposition to any of Trump’s extremist policies in the past, and she has been friends with him since the early 1980s. She ran the biggest pro-Trump Super Pac in 2020 and is currently the co-chair of Trump’s transition team. There is no reason to doubt that this lifelong Republican and dedicated Trumpist operative will enact large swaths of the Project 2025 agenda, which calls for slashing school budgets and censoring educational content on race and gender.
There is an illusion at play here. McMahon will be held up as a “reasonable” woman. But given that she works for Trump, her reasonableness is nothing more than “kayfabe”.
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Emerging from carnival sideshows in the 1880s, pro wrestling has always been built on a platform of deception. This deception is known in the industry as “kayfabe” (rhymes with “hey, babe”). For wrestling’s first century of existence, kayfabe was relatively simple, if arduous: wrestlers pretended to be violent madmen and performed staged matches “against” each other – but unlike film actors, they had to stay in character at all times, even on their off-hours. To commit to this code was to “stay in kayfabe”; to violate it was to “break kayfabe”. It was a lie, but it was wide and flat, so you could stand on it easily.
However, those days are long gone. In the 1980s, Vince and Linda admitted their product’s fakeness in legal proceedings, so as to avoid taxes, regulations and fines. The secret was out, and nobody could credibly claim wrestling was on the level any more. So kayfabe evolved. What emerged was powerful – and often malevolent.
In Ringmaster, I coined a term for this new form of misdirection, which still reigns: “neokayfabe”. Instead of insisting to the audience that what they were seeing was real, McMahon allowed fans to see behind the curtain and learn that not all was as it seemed.
The chaos is, of course, the point
Wrestlers were encouraged to bring up real-life disputes with fellow grapplers, or even with McMahon himself, when they appeared in the ring. Previously taboo truths were confessed. Salacious teases of people’s personal lives came to the fore: first, it was just revelations of behind-the-scenes business frustrations; then, it graduated to things like a live interview with a wrestler’s widow about his drug overdose, the day after he died. Eventually, you had spectacles like a closeted gay wrestler being forced to sing Boy George lyrics and then get gay-bashed by another grappler. It’s hard to overstate how shocking – and gripping – these neokayfabe developments were for wrestling fans.
When neokayfabe fully took hold in the late 1990s, ratings soared. Fans knew for sure that the matches were staged, but they also knew that thrilling revelations were bursting to the surface. The appeal wasn’t about who “won” or “lost” any more. It was about digging up the truth and deciphering it.
You’d see a wrestler throw a particularly vicious personal insult at another one and start to wonder if their hatred was real, even if the match result wasn’t. You’d see Vince wrestle as a sadistic owner called “Mr McMahon” and be astonished that a Fortune 500 CEO was risking life and limb by falling 20ft from the side of a steel cage and landing on a table – was he really hurt after that fall, or was it all part of the show? Conversely, when the wrestler Owen Hart fell 70ft in a zipline accident during a 1999 live show and died after hitting the ring, the McMahons’ show went on, leading many in the crowd to assume it had all been staged. On top of all that, McMahon would toss in obscene sexual references and unconscionable bigotry to mock the marginalized.
Much like Trump, McMahon was a master at capturing your attention because you couldn’t quite believe he was able to do what he was doing. Yet there it was. And all the while, Linda was the hidden hand behind him, steering the ship through the choppy waters of industry and emerging with a (somewhat) respectable media empire worth over a billion dollars.
In her time running the company, she and Vince cultivated relationships with a wide array of people who now find themselves at the top of the Republican food chain. Most notably, Trump hosted two installments of the annual WrestleMania extravaganza in the late 80s, attended many additional shows and even participated in a long storyline where he pretended to be in an explosive rivalry with Vince, back in 2007. Before that storyline, Trump had rarely, if ever, worked up a rowdy and interactive crowd. But he was a quick study, and we can all see what he learned when he addresses his rally crowds.
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But Trump wasn’t the only key contact. The McMahons were early corporate partners of the mixed martial arts promotion UFC, getting to know its deeply controversial head, Dana White (and, for what it’s worth, missing an opportunity to buy UFC in its infancy, only to watch as MMA dwarfed wrestling in popularity). It was the McMahons who made the wrestler Hulk Hogan (born Terry Bollea) an international superstar in the mid-80s. By 2024, both White and Hogan, as well as Linda, were primetime speakers at the Republican national convention.
The reasoning for that prominent placement was easy to suss out: Trump just flat-out loves wrestling, and has since he was a preteen in Queens, watching local shows organized by Vince’s father. Trump did a late-stage campaign interview with the retired wrestler Mark Calaway (better known as the Undertaker), and was so excited that he essentially turned the tables and started interviewing Calaway with childish questions (eg “What stops somebody from going nuts and starting a real fight?”).
If you watched Trump’s face throughout the convention, you saw him practically – and sometimes literally – falling asleep during the speeches. Not so when Hogan got up there. Trump was rapt and grinning while Hogan ripped off his shirt and declared that “Trumpamania” would take the former president all the way back to the White House. Hogan proved more prescient than many highly paid pundits, in that regard.
The introduction of pro-wrestling culture into mainstream politics has brought a huge dose of chaos. That chaos is, of course, the point. It’s a shock-and-awe tactic: the enemies of pluralistic democracy are attempting to overwhelm us with statements and actions that confuse and unsettle. The Trump team is doing what it does best, which is keep the world off balance by warping our sense of reality. We no longer trust that anything we see or hear from Trump is strictly “real” – he lies as easily as breathing and routinely gets bored with his plans – but nor do we feel certain that he won’t act on his most ludicrous promises. We are immobilized in a state of constant panic and bewilderment.
All of which is to say, Trump and his team have learned the most essential lessons of Trump’s favorite art form. If you don’t understand wrestling, you’ll never understand Trump.
And you must know wrestling to understand our likely next secretary of education, as well – even though she doesn’t come across as a typical wrestling personality. She will mask herself in neokayfabe and do what her boss tells her to do. She will seek to tear up American education, from starving public kindergartens of cash to crushing protests at universities. She will be the sharp end of the presidential spear, all while seeming more like a kindly southern aunt than an efficient tool of neo-fascist revolution. She, and all of her ilk, will deceive and misdirect us. We must be vigilant. Don’t believe the hype.
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