October 2020 was a weird time. Honestly, the whole year was a fever dream, but things got particularly surreal in Chicago when Mayor Lori Lightfoot decided to walk into a press conference wearing a red cape and a Clorox-themed sandwich board.
She called herself the Lori Lightfoot Corona Destroyer. Or the "'Rona Destroyer," depending on which tweet you saw first.
She wasn't just doing it for the "gram." She was there to announce the city’s Halloween guidelines. The message was simple: trick-or-treat in groups of six or fewer, stay moving, and for the love of everything, wear a mask. But the image of a major city mayor dressed as a budget superhero brandishing a tub of disinfectant wipes? That stayed in people's heads long after the candy was gone.
The Birth of the 'Rona Destroyer
You've gotta understand the context here. Before she became the Lori Lightfoot Corona Destroyer, she was already the "Where’s Lightfoot" lady. It started back in March 2020. Chicagoans were restless. The lakefront was packed despite the lockdown. Lightfoot, known for her "tough prosecutor" vibe and baggy suits, was caught on camera staring down violators with a look that could melt steel.
The internet did what the internet does.
They photoshopped her everywhere. She was in the reflection of "The Bean," she was looming over the shoulder of the girls in Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, and she was even the Bat-Signal over the Chicago skyline.
Most politicians would have hired a PR firm to "manage" the narrative. Lightfoot did something different. She leaned in.
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"We all need to find the humor, and from humor stems hope," Lightfoot told reporters at the time.
By the time Halloween rolled around, the mayor’s office decided to capitalize on the viral fame. They didn't just acknowledge the memes; they became the meme. The Lori Lightfoot Corona Destroyer wasn't a nickname given by critics—it was a character she inhabited to deliver public health orders that people were increasingly tired of hearing.
Why the Superhero Stunt Actually Happened
It wasn't just about being funny. It was about "Halloweek." The city wanted to avoid a total shutdown of the holiday because, as Lightfoot put it, telling people not to trick-or-treat isn't realistic. They were going to do it anyway.
The Lori Lightfoot Corona Destroyer persona was a vehicle for eight specific guidelines.
- No haunted houses (too much screaming, too many droplets).
- No house parties.
- Groups of 6 or less.
- Candy should be handed out in individual bags, not a big communal bowl.
It was basically a "tough love" mom approach. She even brought her wife, First Lady Amy Eshleman, into the mix for a follow-up video. They dressed up as a duo of "Rona Destroyers"—one as bleach wipes, the other as hand sanitizer.
Kinda cringe? Maybe. But it got people talking about social distancing at a time when pandemic fatigue was setting in hard.
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The Backlash: It Wasn't All Laughs
Here is where things get messy. While a lot of people loved the "Auntie Lori" vibe, others were fuming.
Chicago was seeing a massive spike in violent crime in 2020. While the mayor was posing in a red cape, critics were pointing to the 50% increase in homicides compared to the previous year. To them, the Lori Lightfoot Corona Destroyer felt like a tone-deaf distraction.
There was also the "Census Cowboy" debacle. Before the superhero costume, Lightfoot had recruited a local figure known as the Dreadhead Cowboy to help boost census participation. It ended in controversy when the cowboy rode his horse onto the Dan Ryan Expressway, leading to the horse's severe injury and legal trouble.
For some, the "Corona Destroyer" was just the latest in a string of "stunts" that felt increasingly disconnected from the grim reality on the ground in neighborhoods like Englewood or Austin.
The Science of Political Memeing
Why did she do it? Anne Libera, a comedy studies director at Second City, once noted that using humor is how government should work to bridge the gap with the public. It humanizes the authority figure.
But satire has a shelf life.
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When the George Floyd protests hit and the city felt like it was on edge, the jokes stopped being funny for a lot of residents. The "tough mom" who stared you down for being at the park started to look more like a "top cop" who was out of touch with the pain of the community.
What We Learned from the 'Rona Destroyer' Era
The legacy of the Lori Lightfoot Corona Destroyer is a case study in modern political communication. It showed that:
- Virality is a double-edged sword. You can't control the meme once it’s out there.
- Timing is everything. A joke in April is a PR disaster in October if the "vibe" of the city has shifted.
- The "Stay Home" message was effective, but at a cost. The memes created a "cultural norm" of social distancing, but they also cemented an image of Lightfoot as someone who governed through reprimands and "timeout" energy.
Ultimately, Lightfoot became the first Chicago mayor in 40 years to lose a re-election bid. While the memes aren't the reason she lost, they reflect the polarized way people viewed her leadership: either as a dedicated protector or a performative politician.
Actionable Insights for the Future
If you're looking back at this era to understand how public figures should handle a crisis, here is the takeaway.
Separate the Message from the Mascot
Humor works for awareness, but it fails for policy. Use the "Corona Destroyer" energy to get eyes on the screen, but make sure the actual data and resources are the primary focus.
Read the Room (Constantly)
The transition from "Funny Mayor" to "Tone-Deaf Leader" happens fast. If you're using a character like the Lori Lightfoot Corona Destroyer, you have to be ready to retire the cape the second the public's mood turns from "bored" to "angry."
Humanize, Don't Trivialized
The best memes of that era were the ones Lightfoot didn't make herself. The "Where's Lightfoot" photos were funny because they were organic. When a politician tries to "own" the meme, it often loses the very charm that made it viral in the first place.
Keep the capes in the closet unless you're absolutely sure the neighborhood is laughing with you, not at you.