Populism has become one of the most studied political forces of the 21st century, but new research suggests something unusual: American populism doesn’t behave like populism elsewhere. In most democracies, populist attitudes—resentment of elites, belief in the “will of the people,” skepticism toward institutions—tend to predict support for populist leaders. Yet in the United States, the data don’t line up neatly. Support for Donald Trump, for instance, seems less tied to populist ideology and more connected to a complex mix of racial resentment, cultural anxiety, and partisan identity.
The global logic of populism
Across Europe, Latin America, and parts of Asia, populism follows a familiar script. A charismatic leader frames society as divided between “the pure people” and “the corrupt elites.” This leader promises to restore power to ordinary citizens by rejecting technocratic expertise and institutional restraint. Whether it’s Viktor Orbán in Hungary, Jair Bolsonaro in Brazil, or Andrés Manuel López Obrador in Mexico, populist movements often emerge when citizens feel left behind by globalization or ignored by political elites.
Political scientists have long quantified these trends using surveys that measure populist attitudes—questions about trust in experts, belief in direct democracy, or anger toward politicians. Typically, higher scores on these scales predict higher support for populist candidates. It’s not a perfect system, but it does hold surprisingly well across dozens of countries.
Then comes the American exception. Studies comparing nations find that populist sentiment in the U.S. doesn’t translate into support for populist strongmen. Instead, it fragments along cultural and partisan lines. The emotional undercurrent may sound familiar—anger, distrust, frustration—but its political direction is filtered through race, religion, and a two-party system that leaves little room for new movements.
What makes American populism different
One explanation lies in history. The U.S. has had its own populist waves before—think of the agrarian Populist Party of the 1890s or the anti-establishment rhetoric of George Wallace in the 1960s. But these movements were deeply entangled with issues of race and regional identity. Populism in the American context has rarely been just about “the people” versus “the elite.” It’s often been about who gets to count as “the people” in the first place.
When researchers control for racial resentment or anti-immigrant sentiment, the predictive power of populist attitudes on Trump support almost disappears. That doesn’t mean economic grievances are irrelevant; they matter, especially in communities hit by industrial decline. But the American populist story is as much cultural as it is economic. For many, it’s tied to a sense that traditional hierarchies—racial, religious, or gender-based—are being upended.
I’ve noticed this pattern in my own conversations with voters. Some speak less about “elites” in Washington and more about feeling alienated by cultural change itself—the language of diversity, the shifting norms around gender, or the perceived loss of patriotism. It’s not populism in the ideological sense; it’s identity politics wrapped in populist language.
Inside the psychology of a divided electorate
Political psychology helps explain why American populism resists tidy categorization. In much of Europe, populism emerged as a protest against the European Union or economic austerity. In the U.S., however, political identity is strongly tribal. Republican and Democratic affiliations operate almost like social identities—complete with moral boundaries, emotional investment, and media ecosystems that reinforce belonging.
That tribalization changes how populist messages land. When a leader claims to speak for “real Americans,” the phrase is not just a political stance—it’s a cultural marker. The people who respond positively often do so because it validates their group identity, not necessarily because they hold abstract populist beliefs. The distinction is subtle but crucial. A voter might distrust elites, yet if those elites share their values, the distrust fades. Conversely, even a populist-leaning voter may reject a populist leader if that leader seems culturally alien.
In my own reading of the data, it’s striking how little traditional populist indicators—like belief in direct democracy or skepticism of experts—explain U.S. voting patterns. Instead, measures of racial resentment, authoritarian tendencies, and perceived cultural threat predict far more. Populism here has fused with identity politics in a way that makes it uniquely American.
Everyday expressions of American populism
To understand this more concretely, it helps to look beyond national elections. Consider local school board meetings or community debates about public health. The rhetoric often sounds populist—“we don’t trust the experts,” “let the people decide”—but the underlying motivations differ. They might stem from religious values, distrust of government, or broader partisan loyalties.
Here’s a small example. Last year, I attended a town hall in a midwestern community where residents were debating renewable energy projects. One man stood up and said, “We don’t need outsiders telling us how to live.” The room erupted in applause. Yet when I spoke with a few attendees afterward, their frustration wasn’t really about wind turbines—it was about feeling that decisions were being made without local input, that their way of life was being dismissed. That’s populism, yes, but it’s filtered through geography, class, and pride of place.
In such settings, populist rhetoric becomes a language of belonging. It’s a way to assert control in a system that feels distant and unresponsive. But because American institutions are structured around two entrenched parties, that language quickly gets absorbed into partisan narratives rather than forming distinct populist movements.
Future research on American populism
Scholars are still debating what these findings mean. Some argue that American exceptionalism in populism is overstated—that the same emotional mechanisms exist elsewhere, just expressed differently. Others suggest that U.S. racial politics make the country incomparable to most democracies. The truth may lie somewhere in between.
Future research is likely to focus on how social media accelerates cultural polarization. Online spaces amplify outrage and make populist appeals more personal, even intimate. Yet they also blur ideological lines, allowing conspiracy theories, health misinformation, and anti-institutional sentiment to mingle freely. That blend might be the new face of populism—less about organized movements, more about diffuse distrust.
There’s also the question of resilience. Can democratic institutions adapt to a form of populism that is more emotional than ideological? Some evidence suggests they can, but only if voters feel heard in tangible ways—through local governance, transparency, and civic participation that doesn’t rely solely on national elections.
What this tells us about democracy
The American case reminds us that populism isn’t a single phenomenon. It’s a mirror that reflects whatever anxieties dominate a society at a given moment. In the U.S., those anxieties are bound up with race, identity, and belonging. That makes them harder to address through policy alone.
When I think about the future of American populism, I’m less concerned with whether a specific leader fits the populist mold and more interested in how citizens define “the people” themselves. As long as that definition remains narrow—tied to culture, race, or ideology—populism will continue to divide rather than unite. But if it can be reimagined as genuine inclusion and shared power, it might yet become a force for renewal.
That’s the paradox: populism promises democracy’s revival but often ends up testing its limits. The American version just makes that tension harder to ignore.
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