The Rake and the Algorithm
What We Really Voted for in 2016 (And in 2024?)
It was November 8, 2016. I didn’t know that night what we, as a country, were really voting for.
Before I begin: this is not another “Trump is bad” article. Those are easy, obvious, and frankly unhelpful. Mentioning Trump’s name is low-hanging fruit—always has been. But this thought came to me while doom-scrolling in the present, less about the man himself, and more about his inevitable legacy.
My friend RJ and I sat at 3rd Stop in West Hollywood, a bar better known for honest burgers and crowded booths. LeBron was still in a Cavs jersey on SportsCenter. As the highlights faded and the map of America turned red, RJ and I watched in disbelief. More surprising, though, was the group down the bar—cheering. In West Hollywood? In 2016? What were they celebrating?
One man, an ad exec, leaned over and answered our stunned expressions. He hadn’t voted for Trump, he said, but 2016 had been the best year of his career.
“Trump sells ads. I made more money this year than ever. That’s why it’s bittersweet,” he shrugged, lifting his drink. He wasn’t gloating. Just stating a fact.
That night stayed with me—not because of politics, but because of profit. It was the first time I truly understood what we had chosen. Whether consciously or not, Americans didn’t just elect a president. We affirmed a system: one that rewards outrage, rewards attention, and rewards profit. Trump was just the vessel.
Behavioral economics backs this up. As Dan Ariely writes in The Honest Truth About Dishonesty, most people will cheat “just a little” for money if they think no one will notice. Even small incentives can push people to bend their own morals, especially if they see others doing the same or believe the system is rigged. Think of Philip Morris defending cigarettes. The transatlantic slave trade. The bottom line usually wins. People love profit, far more than they love people.
Since that night nearly a decade ago, the algorithm has only grown hungrier. Hungrier for attention, for outrage, for our worst impulses. Political discourse has collapsed. Ragebait is even walking among us, usually at a Target.
“Angry users are the most engaged,” Facebook researchers declared back in the 2010s. Entire systems were built on that insight. How does it work? Why can’t we stop?
Put simply: when we’re angry online, we comment more, share more, and scroll longer. That increased engagement makes tech platforms richer—more ads, more eyeballs, more data. The angrier we get, the more we click. The more we click, the more they win.
And so, the algorithm learns to feed us content that upsets us. Not to help us understand the world—but to keep us addicted to it, the device. Like a carcinogen, it comes at a cost.
Look at platforms like Jubilee. Their viral “debates” monetize division under the guise of dialogue. A single progressive pitted against a wall of far-right voices, framed for maximum outrage and virality. It’s not conversation, it’s merely a spectacle. Same idea I learned at that bar in West Hollywood. We didn’t just elect Trump. We chose the spectacle. And we keep choosing it—click after click, view after view, dollar after dollar.
Let’s be honest. These aren’t just thumbnails or talking heads like Piers Morgan. They become real-life violence. Psychological warfare. We watched ICE raids tear families apart. Every day, people of color, immigrants, LGBTQ folks, women, anyone outside the accepted norm, wake up in a world weaponized by algorithms designed to amplify the worst in us. Harm isn’t abstract. It’s lived.
And I’m not sure who’s more responsible: those doing the hate, those spreading it, or those profiting off it. But that’s another discussion.
What I do know is that hate isn’t new. It’s as old as time. It cycles through societies like seasons. If we’re not careful, the leaves pile up—anger, division, cynicism—until we’re buried. Most scroll past. Some complain. Some join in. But few rake the leaves.
Sometimes, refusing to share what poisons your feed is enough. In my experience, direct confrontation online only feeds the cycle. Calling out racism used to feel productive. Lately, it seems to harden the opposition. The quieter work—curating your feed, amplifying voices that build community, modeling decency—can be more powerful. Sometimes the bravest rake is the quietest one.
It’s easy to blame the platforms, the politicians, the “dumb people.” But it’s our agency at stake. And honestly, we’re giving it away.
The only way forward is to push back against outrage. To choose dignity. To demand better—not just from others, but from ourselves. The spectacle may fade, but the leaves always fall again. The wind will blow more—sometimes from our neighbors’ yards onto ours.
The question is: will we let them pile up, or finally pick up the rake?