Though “cult language” comes in different varieties, all charismatic leaders — from Jim Jones to Jeff Bezos to SoulCycle instructors — use the same basic linguistic tools. This is a book about the language of fanaticism in its many forms: a language I’m calling Cultish.
I was drawn to read Cultish: The Language of Fanaticism for reasons of my own (more on this later)*, but despite the book’s pop-sciencey blurb and Amanda Montell’s self-description as a “linguist”, this wasn’t nearly as language- or academic-based as I had hoped. Montell gives some overviews of groups we undeniably think of as cults (Jonestown, Heaven’s Gate, Scientology) — including quotes from conversations she’s had with people who successfully fled those groups — and she makes some generalisations about the language tools that their leaders used to recruit and retain members. Montell then casts a wider net in search of groups that use “cultish” language — from Amway to CrossFit and QAnon — and makes judgments as to how pernicious these organisations are. Montell herself features squarely in this book — sharing personal experiences, detailing text conversations with old friends who got caught up in pyramid schemes, describing how her research led her down social media rabbit holes — and along with countless cultural references that mark her as so much younger than I am, the whole tone was more informal and conversational than I had been expecting. Not a deep dive into the topic, but not a total waste of time.
Ultimately, the needs for identity, purpose, and belonging have existed for a very long time, and cultish groups have always sprung up during cultural limbos when these needs have gone sorely unmet. What’s new is that in this internet-ruled age, when a guru can be godless, when the barrier to entry is as low as a double-tap, and when folks who hold alternative beliefs are able to find one another more easily than ever, it only makes sense that secular cults — from obsessed workout studios to start-ups that put the “cult” in “company culture” — would start sprouting like dandelions. For good or for ill, there is now a cult for everyone.
* Taking a gentle jab at the author’s “more on this later” quirk, here, nonetheless, is the more: I attend a HIIT-bootcamp-style gym, and other than feeling fitter and stronger, I most enjoy the camaraderie I’ve found with the other women I sweat along with at 6:45 every morning. I understand that this gym is an American company — started by a big, buff white American man; my local gym is one of three owned by a local big, buff white Canadian man — but there was nothing particularly American(or cult)-styled about it…until just before COVID hit. In a directive that came right from California HQ, at the end of every “class”, we were encouraged to clap our hands together rhythmically, gather in a circle, and “put our hands in” (which always takes more of the form of Evangelical arm waving or Nazi salutes than the football huddle I assume they’re going for) while the coach riffs on the thought of the day: “Don’t look back, you’re not going that way” or “When you feel like quitting, think about why you started”. And then the coach says, “OK, family on three”, and everyone is supposed to chant “One, two, three, family” and break to start the cool down. But I don’t want to do that. And I refuse to do that; this is not my “family” and saying that it is feels cultish. And in the beginning that wasn’t a huge problem, except COVID closed the gyms, and we started getting our workouts via video, and the coaches always started with a chirpy, “Hey FitFam!” And then the gyms opened and it seemed natural for everyone to use the new language and participate in the new culty routines, and especially since there were a couple of new young female coaches who no one wanted to make feel uncomfortable by not chanting along with them. All of my fellow sweaty gymgoers (who privately mock the chant but not the feeling of being a “FitFam” who got through the lockdowns together, if physically apart) have been just going along with it all, but I don’t. (If there’s one thing I learned from Stay Sexy & Don’t Get Murdered, it’s that I shouldn’t allow my gender-ingrained politeness to force me into behaviours that make me feel uncomfortable.) So, is this a fitness cult (like Bikram Yoga or, for its instructors apparently, Peloton) or threatening to become one? Montell might point to the chanting and other coercive linguistic tools, or the fact that it’s (white) men at the top and women at the bottom of the power structure, to say that it shares some cult-like features. But there really isn’t anything abusive going on — this is a very supportive group of coaches that welcomes, and retains, members of all sizes and colours (even if it vastly attracts more women than men to the workouts) — and no one is pushed to the point of injury, there are no escalating fees for acquiring higher knowledge, no isolating behaviours or barriers to leaving. Not a cult, but in a corporate-America kind of way, a generally well-meaning business trying to make money off of secular people’s search for ritual and community. I'm still not willing to engage with "family on three".
It would be easy enough for me to write off all these groups, from SoulCycle to Instagram, as cultish and thus evil. But in the end, I don’t think the world would benefit from us all refusing to believe or participate in things. Too much wariness spoils the most enchanting parts of being human. I don’t want to live in a world where we can’t let our guards down for a few moments to engage in a group chant or a mantra. If everyone feared the alternative to the point that they never took even small leaps of faith for the sake of connection and meaning, how lonely would that be?
I guess I ultimately got what I came for, but I'm still leaving wanting more.
