The mezzanine floor of the Tampa Convention Center hums with the chaotic energy of right-wing discourse—conspiracy theories, political grievances, and Christian nationalism fill the air. Everywhere you look, someone bathed in harsh studio lights is drawing a crowd, broadcasting live to their followers.
Ahead of me, Russell Brand lounges on a white sofa, streaming live on the conservative platform Rumble, with alt-right influencer Jack Posobiec as his guest. To the left, down a corridor lined with small broadcast booths, longtime Trump adviser and self-described “dirty trickster” Roger Stone holds court on a podcast. Behind me, Steve Bannon’s War Room channel plays on a large metal scaffold, switching between live footage of a small protest outside the event and ads for Trump-branded merchandise.
The scene perfectly embodies one of Bannon’s infamous PR tactics: flooding the zone with noise. This is the Turning Point Student Action Summit, an annual gathering aimed at young conservative Gen Zers, drawing thousands from across the country. It played a key role in Trump’s strong support among young male voters in the last election.
In the main arena, a parade of MAGA stars take the stage to deliver fiery speeches, backed by pyrotechnics, pounding dubstep, and flashing lasers. Brand delivers a strange, rambling monologue—part stand-up routine, part evangelical sermon—about his recent conversion to Christianity, peppered with wordplay and disjointed tangents. Notably absent is any mention of the multiple rape and sexual assault charges he faces in the UK (to which he has pleaded not guilty).
Next up is Tom Homan, Trump’s outspoken border czar, who pumps up the crowd with chants of “USA! USA!” while referring to himself in the third person: “Tom Homan is running one of the biggest deportation operations this country has ever seen!” The mix of fearmongering, tough talk, and self-congratulation is dizzying—a perfect snapshot of Trump’s America.
My colleague Tom Silverstone and I are here as the first stop on a journey through southern Florida. Once a quintessential swing state, it’s now solidly Republican—home to some of Trump’s biggest sources of wealth, including Mar-a-Lago, as well as a hub for his mass deportation plans.
The frenetic pace of the summit mirrors the first six months of Trump’s second term—a whirlwind of scandals, extreme policies, and blatant self-enrichment. From accepting a $400 million luxury jet from Qatar to launching a private members’ club in DC with $500,000 annual fees, the administration has operated at breakneck speed.
The most brazen example? Trump’s foray into cryptocurrency. Just three days before taking office, he launched the $TRUMP memecoin—a highly volatile digital currency with little real-world use. Analysts estimate his family has raked in around $315 million from the scheme, while countless investors have lost money. The whole affair reinforces the argument that Trump’s return marks a new Gilded Age—an era of unchecked corruption and stark inequality, reminiscent of post-Civil War America.
For some, the dream has already turned into a nightmare. In May, major $TRUMP coin investors were invited to a…Here’s a more natural and fluent rewrite of your text while preserving its original meaning:
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After dining with the president at his Virginia golf course, the group received a VIP tour of the White House—a move some critics called a blatant pay-to-play scheme. White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt has defended Trump, stating he follows all conflict-of-interest laws “that apply to the president.”
Yet no one at Turning Point appears troubled by these questionable dealings. In the convention’s merchandise area, where limited-edition gold Trump golf shoes sell for $500, contributor Anthony Watson brushes off my questions about the Qatari private jet.
“What’s wrong with accepting it?” he says when I suggest it could be seen as a bribe. “What did they get in return? Until you know, it’s just speculation.”
I ask Roger Stone how the Founding Fathers—who wrote the Constitution’s foreign emoluments clause to prevent corruption and foreign influence—would view Trump’s memecoin venture. Stone sidesteps the question: “I don’t think they could’ve imagined cryptocurrency, or the tech era we’re in.”
Beyond sheer audacity, these money-making schemes highlight a contradiction in the MAGA movement’s “America First” stance. Some of the biggest investors in Trump’s memecoin are foreign nationals, including one with ties to the Chinese Communist Party. How does that align with putting America first?
At the Turning Point summit, Trump’s former border chief Tom Homan takes the stage, drawing chants of “USA!” as he praises mass deportations.
I put the question to Steve Bannon, who greets me with a smile and claims to love The Guardian—despite calling us “fucking commies from England.” He admits some discomfort, especially regarding the Chinese Communist Party connection, but defends the White House VIP event as promoting “entrepreneurial capitalism.”
“I’ve got too much on my plate to focus on memecoins,” he says, downplaying cryptocurrency’s significance. This is a shift for Bannon, who in 2019 hailed crypto as part of a “global populist revolt” and reportedly co-managed an anti-Biden memecoin, $FJB (officially “Freedom Jobs Business,” unofficially “Fuck Joe Biden”).
When I ask about allegations of missing funds, failed charity donations, and a possible DOJ probe, Bannon calls the reports “fake news.” He admits losing $500,000 on the venture.
After Bannon’s speech—which cheers immigration crackdowns with cries of “Mass deportations now! Amnesty never!”—we drive four hours south to the Everglades. There, a bright-blue sign announces “Alligator Alcatraz,” a mosquito-ridden detention center in the swamps outside Miami.
The administration’s immigration enforcement is as brazen as Trump’s profit-seeking—unapologetic and out in the open.
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Photo: Marco Bello/Reuters
During a July visit to the facility, Trump appeared to take satisfaction in its severe conditions—a stark display that seemed carefully orchestrated. The detention center has come to represent this era of mass deportations. Of the 57,000 people held by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), over 70% have no criminal record.
This morning, a small group of protesters stands by the roadside, watching in dismay. One sign reads: “This place is shameful.”
Photo: Dave Decker/Shutterstock
Protesters gather outside the “Alligator Alcatraz” detention center in Florida.
I explain that I’ve come from Tampa and ask how they see the connection between this detention center and my discussions about Trump’s financial gains during the convention.
“It’s all part of the same thing,” says an older woman in the group. “For Trump, it’s about power and money. He’s doing everything he can to profit while in office, but he knows he needs to stay in power to keep it going. And this?” She gestures toward the detention center. “This is about power—and fear.”
Photo: Andrew Caballero-Reynolds/AFP/Getty
Donald Trump, Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, and Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem tour “Alligator Alcatraz.”
Minutes later, a white SUV pulls over near the roadside. A family steps out—they had tried to visit a relative, Martin Sanchez, but were denied entry.
Sanchez, they tell me, has lived in the U.S. without documentation for 25 years after arriving from Mexico. He has two young children, no criminal record, pays taxes, and works as a landscaper in Palm Beach. Four days earlier, he was arrested on his way to work.
“He calls me constantly,” says his cousin, Janet Garcia. “He hasn’t even been allowed to shower. They’re treating him like a criminal—just for working.”
She stares at the detention center under the harsh sun. “Without immigrants, this country will fall apart,” she says. “We have a felon in the White House, but the people locked up here don’t even have a traffic ticket.”
The location of Sanchez’s arrest is striking. Palm Beach County, on Florida’s east coast, has some of the state’s widest income gaps. Average home prices here are six times higher than the median income. Known as the “Wall Street of the South,” its business-friendly tax policies have attracted major financial firms and at least 67 billionaires—including Trump, whose Mar-a-Lago club recently raised its membership fee to $1 million per year.
Near Trump’s club, we stop at a food pantry where a line of about 20 people waits for it to open. A sign on the wall states that immigration officials need a warrant to enter and that the pantry serves everyone, regardless of legal status.
The county is also home to many Haitian immigrants, now facing deportation after Trump ended temporary protections for them.
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The rewritten version maintains the original meaning while improving clarity, flow, and readability. Let me know if you’d like any further refinements!Many immigrants are losing their temporary protections despite the country’s security crisis. “Some are too afraid to come,” says a volunteer minister. “It’s difficult—imagine having no food but staying home because of your immigration status.”
Ruth Mageria, the program’s director, shows me the pantry’s stocked refrigerators and explains that demand has surged by 71% over the past five years. The situation is expected to worsen after a Republican-backed spending bill, signed by Trump, slashes food assistance for roughly 22.3 million families nationwide while delivering tax cuts for the wealthy. The pantry is now preparing to ration its supplies.
As a storm brews over the Atlantic, dark clouds looming like a tidal wave, we head toward Mar-a-Lago. Standing on a bridge along the newly renamed President Donald J. Trump Boulevard, we gaze at Billionaires’ Row—a reminder that this community was born during America’s first Gilded Age.
It’s a grim conclusion to this 400-mile journey across the state. The roads are empty, but a handful of soaked landscapers still trim the towering palms outside the club.
Oliver Laughland is the Guardian’s US Southern Bureau Chief.
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