In front of a conservative talkshow host two weeks ago, Mark Robinson, North Carolina’s Republican candidate for governor, was grousing a bit about being snubbed by the state’s Democratic governor on a matter of race.

“He talks a lot about diversity, equity and inclusion, but apparently the line for diversity, equity and inclusion stops at the Republican party,” Robinson told Lockwood Phillips. “Roy Cooper has had several chances to congratulate me on the accomplishment of being the first Black lieutenant governor, and he has never taken it.”

Phillips, who is white, chuckled, then re-introduced Robinson to the audience, “who by the way is African American, Black, whatever. But, frankly, you don’t wear that. You really do not wear that in our entire conversation.”

For a conservative speaking to a Black candidate, this is a compliment. For others, it is a jarring illustration of Robinson’s comfort with accommodating the racial anxieties of white Republicans and with the problematic – and at times inflammatory – rhetoric of the far right.

But sitting for interviews and being perceived at all as a Black candidate is a different universe compared to the relative obscurity of Robinson’s life six years ago, before a viral video created his fateful star turn into the conservative cosmos. The former factory worker is now a national name, and drawing national attention, for his flame-throwing slurs against the LGBTQ+ community, antisemitic remarks and derision of other Black people.

“The same people who support Robinson are the people who support Trump,” said Shelly Willingham, a Black state legislator from Rocky Mount. “It’s a cult. It’s not necessarily citizens supporting a candidate but following a cult leader.”

Robinson’s political career began in an inspired four-minute flash in 2018 in front of the Greensboro city council, as he argued against the city’s effort to cancel a gun show in the wake of the Stoneman Douglas high school shooting in Parkland, Florida.

“I’ve heard a whole lot of people in here talking tonight about this group, that group, domestic violence, Blacks, these minorities, that minority. What I want to know is, when are you going to start standing up for the majority? Here’s who the majority is. I’m the majority. I’m a law-abiding citizen and I’ve never shot anybody,” he said.

Robinson, now 55, invoked images of gang members terrorizing people who have given up their weapons under gun-control laws. He said he was there to “raise hell just like these loonies on the left do”.

The speech became a social media hit after being shared by Mark Walker, the former North Carolina representative. Robinson drew the attention of the NRA, which was under fire for its callous response to the Parkland shooting and looking for champions.

Born into poverty and working in a furniture factory while attending college, Robinson quit his job and dropped out of school to begin speaking at conservative events. (Robinson, if he wins, would be the first North Carolina governor without a college degree elected since 1937.)

Robinson beat a host of competitors for the Republican nomination for lieutenant governor in 2020, winning about a third of the primary vote. He faced the state representative Yvonne Holley, an African American Democrat from Raleigh. Holley’s campaign focused on North Carolina’s urban territory while largely ignoring rural areas of the state, while Robinson barnstormed through each of the state’s 100 counties. He won narrowly but outperformed Trump’s margin over Biden by about 100,000 votes.

At a rally in Greensboro in March before the state’s primary election this year, Trump endorsed Robinson, referring to Robinson as “Martin Luther King on steroids”. But try to imagine King saying something like: “Racism is a tool used by the evil, to build up the ignorant, to try and tear down the strong,” as Robinson wrote in 2017.

That sentiment helps explain his initial appeal to white conservatives in a political moment in which rolling back racial justice initiatives has become central to the Republican brand. The right had found the face of a man who could not be easily accused of bigotry, at least not until people began to pay attention to what he said.

“He should not be governor of North Carolina or any other place,” said Shirl Mason, who was attending a Black fraternity invocation and scholarship ceremony by Omega Psi Phi for her grandson in Rocky Mount. Her nose wrinkled and her posture shifted at the thought, as she fought for composure in a way people conversant in the manners of church folks would recognize.

“He really should not be a politician. Anybody who can say that race did not play a part in the political arena, they should not be in politics at all,” Mason said.

Like Trump, Robinson has a litany of provocative outrages in speeches and on social media that have been resurfacing, from referring to school shooting survivors advocating for gun control reforms as “prosti-tots” and “spoiled little bastards”, to describing gay and transgender people as “filth”.

Robinson has shared conspiracist comments about the moon landing and 9/11. He has attacked the idea of women in positions of leadership. His swipes at Black culture and public figures are talk-radio fodder, describing Barack Obama as a “worthless anti-American atheist” and suggesting Michelle Obama is a man.

“Half of black Democrats don’t realize they are slaves and don’t know who their masters are. The other half don’t care,” he wrote in one Facebook post. He described the movie Black Panther in another as the product of “an agnostic Jew and put to film by satanic marxist”, and wrote: “How can this trash, that was only created to pull the shekels out of your schvartze pockets, invoke any pride?”, using a derogatory Yiddish word to refer to Black people.

The antisemitism of that comment is not singular. He has repeated common antisemitic tropes about Jewish banking, posted Hitler quotes on Facebook and suggested the Holocaust was a hoax. “There is a REASON the liberal media fills the airwaves with programs about the NAZI and the ‘6 million Jews’ they murdered,” wrote Robinson, with scare quotes around the figure.

Robinson’s campaign has pushed back on accusations of antisemitism, citing his support for Israel and criticism of protests against the war in Gaza. But his past comments are likely to be revisited throughout the campaign in no small part because his opponent, Josh Stein, could be the first Jewish governor of North Carolina.

The two present a sharp contrast in policy, temperament and experience. After graduating from both Harvard Law and the Harvard Kennedy school of government, Stein managed John Edwards’ successful Senate campaign. Stein then served in the statehouse before winning the attorney general’s race in 2016, becoming the first Jewish person elected to statewide office in North Carolina.

Stein, 57, is running as a conventional center-left Democrat. At a stump speech in pastoral Scotland county near the South Carolina line, Stein focused on fighting the opioid-addiction epidemic, the state’s backlog of untested rape kits, clean drinking water and early childhood education. But he had some words about Robinson’s rhetoric.

“The voters of North Carolina have an unbelievably stark choice before them this November, between two competing visions,” Stein said in an interview. “Mine is forward and it’s inclusive. It’s about tapping the potential of every person so that they have a chance to succeed where we have a thriving economy, safe neighborhoods, strong schools.

“My opponent’s vision is divisive and hateful, and would be job-killing. I mean, he mocks school-shooting survivors. He questions the Holocaust. He wants to defund public education. He wants to completely ban abortion. And he speaks in a way that, frankly, is unfitting of any person, let alone a statewide elected leader.”

Is Robinson an antisemite? “There are certainly people who are Jewish who feel that he does not like them,” Stein replied.

“He says vile things. He agreed that Jews were one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. It’s unfathomable to me that someone would hold those beliefs and then feel comfortable saying them out loud.”

North Carolina has a relationship with bilious conservatives; this is the state that produced Jesse Helms and Madison Cawthorn. But voters here have a temperamentally moderate streak and a long history of split-ticket voting that also produces the occasional John Edwards or Roy Cooper.

In six of the last eight general elections, voters here chose a Democratic governor and a Republican president. Though every lieutenant governor in the last 60 years has run for governor, only three of 11 have won, each a Democrat. The last two attorneys general of North Carolina also have subsequently been elected governor, also both Democrats.

But the margins are always maddeningly close. Stein won his first race for attorney general in 2016 – a Trump year – by about 25,000 votes. He won re-election four years later by about half that margin.

Cooper, a Democratic moderate, has been a political fixture in North Carolina politics for a generation, and has been able to fend off some of the more radical impulses of Republicans over the years with a combination of veto power and moral suasion.

But while Democrats hold the North Carolina governor’s mansion today, Republicans achieved a veto-proof majority in both legislative chambers in 2022 after Tricia Cotham, the newly elected state representative, switched parties shortly after winning an otherwise safely Democratic seat. Since that political shock, Cooper’s vetoes have been routinely overcome by a Republican supermajority.

North Carolina’s political maps are also notoriously gerrymandered – manipulated in favor of Republicans – but winning two-thirds of house seats in the legislature is an open question in a year where abortion rights are emerging as a driving political issue. As of 1 May, North Carolina will be the only southern state remaining where an abortion can be obtained after six weeks of pregnancy.

Given the stakes, Stein’s campaign hopes to avoid the pratfall of tradecraft that led to Robinson’s victory in the lieutenant governor’s race four years ago. For the moment, the tables have turned on the campaign trail in their favor.

In one of Robinson’s three bankruptcy filings, reporters discovered that he had failed to file income taxes between 1998 and 2002. Questions have been raised about personal expenses charged to campaign funds from the 2020 race.

His wife shuttered a nutrition non-profit after a conservative blogger began to raise questions about the Robinson family’s financial dependence on government contracts. Reporters later learned that the North Carolina department of health and human services is investigating the firm for questionable accounting.

In the hothouse of abortion politics this year, video also surfaced of Robinson at a rally in February calling for an eventual ban on abortion. “We got to do it the same way they rolled it forward,” Robinson said. “We got to do it the same way with rolling it back. We’ve got it down to 12 weeks. The next goal is to get it down to six, and then just keep moving from there.”

His campaign spokesperson later re-characterized those remarks as support for a ban beyond the six-week “heartbeat” stage of a pregnancy.

Robinson acknowledged in 2022 paying for an abortion for his wife 33 years earlier.

The question is whether Robinson’s full-throated anti-abortion stance hinders not just his own candidacy but that of Trump. Planned Parenthood plans to double its spending in North Carolina, to $10m, with an eye on defending the governorship and ending a veto-proof Republican legislative majority. Trump, meanwhile, has backed away from publicly endorsing the most extreme abortion bans.

Down in the polls, Robinson has until this week apparently kept a light campaign schedule and stayed away from places where a reporter might pick up yet another unscripted comment. With the exception of an appearance at the Carteret County Speedway on 3 April and the radio interview on 9 April, there is scant evidence that Robinson has been campaigning at all since the March primary. A request to his campaign for a list of his recent campaign stops went unanswered, as did requests for an interview or comment for this story.

Stein, meanwhile, has been averaging a campaign stop every two days – 22 events since the March primary – showing up in small towns and rural counties across the state. Stein’s father founded North Carolina’s first integrated law firm, and he spent many years in consumer protection and racial equity roles as a lawyer, a point he raises in rural Black communities.

“I think his coming here alone says that he understands that he needs rural communities in order to be successful,” said Darrel “BJ” Gibson, vice-chair of the board of commissioners in Scotland county. “And I say it because so many times we get left out of these gatherings, and state candidates don’t understand that.”

The question for both Stein and Robinson is whether the bombast of Robinson’s life as a self-described social media influencer will overshadow substantive policy discussions.

When Phillips, the conservative talkshow host, asked Robinson in April about how his approach has changed over time, he described Robinson as more Trumpian than Trump.

“My message has not changed,” Robinson replied. “Now, I can tell you clearly that my methods have, because I’ve switched buckets. I’ve gone from social media influencer to advocate, to now elected official. But my heart is still in the same place.”