It might sound like a bad excuse, but it’s been hard to write about something worthwhile with so much happening every single day. We’re so used to rapid-fire updates and bad news that even the biggest stories are played out after about four days of resyndication. Trust me, I see it happen in real time doing my day job.

Recentism is slowly eating away at the process of evaluating what’s important. I could tell a friend that someone we know died on Monday, and by Thursday, that person’s death will have taken a seat in the back of my friend’s mind as they’re telling me about Tom Brady’s new coconut water, Good Nut.

To me, this is a large part of a gigantic, ongoing issue in civics. The United States of America is reaching a level of scandal laundering so high that each controversy evaporates almost immediately.

An apparent lie, a scandal, a questionable appointment, an attack on an institution, an abuse of power, a cover-up or contradiction, a disturbing public statement. The public reacts. Cable news debates it. Social media explodes. Then, three days later, another orange guy statement, another controversy, another crisis replaces it. Nothing is ever fully resolved. It simply becomes old; however, the illusion is that these situations have dissolved.

We have built a political culture in which the news cycle moves faster than consequences. By the time the public understands what happened, the country has already been asked to care about something else.

It’s been a morbid and endless content stream from “the administration.” We all know who I’m talking about. His political career has often functioned like reality television: conflict, spectacle, cliffhangers, villains, shocking reveals, new episodes tomorrow.

But the problem with living inside a reality show is that the plot never has time to develop consequences.

This guy pops up campaigning for the next election, for which he is still currently ineligible, about as many times as TikTok users slide to the next clip. Not even halfway through his second go-around, and we’ve already started to binge-watch his embarrassing antics at world leader gatherings, while he’s overreached to place active-duty servicemembers in a war where those we are defending, who possess the most advanced weapons capabilities on the planet, refuse to send boots on the ground to their enemies’ territories.

But what happens when the president’s actions are covered with the same cultural machinery we use to cover pop stars?

The saddest idea, which probably holds true as a fact, is that his antics have become content rather than political events. A controversial statement becomes a clip. A serious institutional threat becomes a meme. A scandal becomes a hashtag. A lie becomes a debate segment.

Then the next thing happens.

Maybe the media has slowly trained us to consume politics as entertainment—and he has been extraordinarily good at giving the entertainment industry more material than it can process.

Every single policy he’s signed may or may not last a lifetime, but every piece of news that’s come with the coverage of these policies now has a half-life.

A major story has maybe twenty-four hours of shock, forty-eight hours of outrage, seventy-two hours of commentary and ninety-six hours before the public is expected to care about something else. The problem is that politics doesn’t work on that timeline. Government decisions can affect people for years. But public attention is being forced to operate on a four-day schedule.

The Russia investigation consumed years of public attention, but before the country could fully settle what it had established, the Ukraine scandal became the next defining political crisis. The story did not necessarily disappear because it was resolved; it was replaced by something newer, louder and more immediately demanding of public attention.

His first impeachment trial concluded in February 2020, and within weeks, the coronavirus pandemic had completely transformed the country’s attention and priorities. A constitutional crisis was effectively overtaken by a public health emergency before the public had much time to consider what the impeachment had actually meant.

In 2020, the country moved from a pandemic to a national racial reckoning, then to a presidential election and the disputes that followed it, with each crisis competing for the public’s attention before the previous one had been fully processed. The crises were not solved so much as buried beneath the next event.

The attack on the Capitol was an extraordinary rupture in American political life, but even it was eventually absorbed into the familiar machinery of partisan debate, outrage, reaction and counter-reaction. One of the most consequential events in modern American history became, in part, another political story competing for attention with whatever came next.

MAGA Jesus’s second coming has produced such a steady stream of controversies that individual events can struggle to remain in the public consciousness long enough to receive sustained scrutiny. A new controversy does not necessarily resolve the old one; it simply competes with it until the public is asked to move on to something else.

The man was just found liable for sexual abuse and defamation, awarding E. Jean Carroll $5 million.

The federal jury in the civil case answered “no” to rape but “yes” to sexual abuse under battery claims, and “yes” to defamation. But what happened to the investigative journalists who went through school to keep the public informed and safe?

Well, if you haven’t been keeping up, he’s been using a tactic more familiar to his home state of New York than anywhere else in America in order to hush them: extortion. His Klan have also been staunch critics and silencers of television stations, streaming services and the one that means the most—universities.

Through all of the stunts, however, most may seem irrelevant because the problem is no longer simply that bad things happen—it’s that the culture has become structurally incapable of mentally retaining them long enough to demand accountability.

The media does not necessarily need to make people support him. It only needs to keep people watching.

MAGA coverage is like celebrity coverage, while celebrities and politicians are consumed through the same attention economy. There have been millions of stories about thousands of celebrities since the early days of yellow journalism in the 1890s. Great for ratings, revenue and recognition.

It becomes a dangerous game, though, when we start to invite in coverage of those who make decisions for humanity in the same way that we find entertainment in updates on famous people. Though this idea isn’t anything new, and we’re decades past a time when this wasn’t the case, I can’t imagine that it’s ever reached a spoiling point like today’s.

I’ve personally never been someone who gets starstruck. And if you know me well enough, then you know all about how I am when it comes to conformity, hive mind or traditionalism. They would be the three main suspects if I turned up facedown one day.

People all over the world fill spaces with like-minded others, which isn’t an issue in itself; but when every single person is constantly watching, talking about and interested in the 

same things, how could an individual make what hasn’t already been prioritized by the masses important to all?

I think that’s the reason we have specific publications receiving specific syndication, for the public to be made aware of dire information.

But the problem is that people aren’t always persuaded. Sometimes they are simply overwhelmed.

They stop talking. They stop arguing. They stop asking what happened last week.

As a journalist myself, I can’t put all of the blame on the media market, because it could be argued that greed, white nationalism and false nostalgia, or “rosy retrospection,” is what created this monster in the first place.

And it’s a very scary time to be a journalist with the amount of power that has been given to the rich and taken away from the people since “power to the people” was first granted. It’s been a long time coming, but we’re finally here.

A new red scare is underway, ushering in a new type of democracy—one that doesn’t exist.

It’s actually difficult to even think of a way for people to escape such molds of ignorance, especially with an unhealthy media diet, artificial intelligence and grifter culture at the center of it all.

I appreciate you for reading this piece. But I can only hope that you’ll better use your antenna and stay informed.

I’ve been in too many political debates and conversations in my lifetime with people of all ages who could care less about knowing what’s going on and more about sticking to their guns. Those situations usually pass once I press too hard and mine doesn’t stop shooting.

If you really care, there’s a long road ahead.

Let’s stay on topic.

“Either they don't know, don't show, or don't care…” — Doughboy

Previous political piece: hundreds of miles of wall

Slightly over a month ago, I left from visiting an objectively beautiful place filled with charismatic people, stunningly unique landmarks, and a dynamic groundscape. Out there couldn’t have been less similar in presence to California, and I’ll admit, I assumed it’d be. There were things around, above, and below me that I hadn’t experienced before, and if I had, they still looked and felt different.

My appreciation for nature grew renewed. I hadn’t done as much stopping in my tracks to tinker with twigs since I was twelve. And for every maple and fir I passed while driving in the mountains, I thought deeply about its fate, and less about mine. The heaps of inspiration (and weirdness) are unbound out there. Like every big city, parts of Portland were covered in graffiti, but never too far away sits some breathtaking bay.

Since returning from my four-day trip, though, I’ve taken an important test, worked unconsciously full-time, and re-implemented running into my exercises. But I haven’t written very much, which has been uneasy.

The word shortage began stressing me out to a point where I started to wonder if it was writer’s block or if I seriously lost a step while spending so much time studying for that test over the last several months.

I’d create a document, type a few words, think my sentences were unpleasant, and then just close the computer. I hadn’t been called upon to freelance for a while, and some projects I was working on for other people stopped receiving attention.

big blue clouds of creativity

An uncle whom I’ve always looked up to as a professional told me long ago, before I’d even finished high school, about the dangers of mixing business with friendship. The only problem is that he’s never worked in a creative industry, such as the BBC.

I’ve understood for many years now that writing is my most skillful contribution to creative endeavors. But writing finishes as a close first, beside a lane occupied by a more naturally coded strength — observing.

For as long as I can remember, whether I was upset or deadlocked on something interesting, I’ve been a master of sitting silently for hours to watch and listen. Ultimately, this led me to choose journalism as a college major and the first step into a profession. Fly on the wall.

If I gather enough information about anything, I can probably think of multiple different ways to write about it. But the other aspect of what makes writing so instinctive for me is Wonder— which is the name of my favorite childhood book. It’s also what’s kept me on my toes about trusting in those I create with.

While making things with others, we perform best if there’s an absolute degree of patience and compassion for each of the involved roles. It’s important to maintain that understanding especially if the work requires sternness and honesty. I withdraw all of my trust in a group if those aren’t constants.

Once those values are lost, the project becomes something I’d never want my work to be, made solely to impress an audience — having no consideration for the creators’ devotion. Of course we all want to go further, but I can’t call something art if it’s born to become a sale.

tend to the fire

Somewhere during those drives through the mountains, I realized how easy it is to keep moving when there’s a visible path in front of you. Even when the roads twisted or disappeared behind fog for a moment, there was still somewhere to go next. Creating doesn’t always feel like that. Sometimes there’s no clear trail, no signs, no reassuring voice reminding you that you’re headed somewhere worthwhile. You just keep moving anyway, hoping the instincts that carried you this far still know the way.

Over the years, I’ve met a lot of friends the same way everyone else does: growing up in the same place, having common interests, or doing activities in the same space. More recently, though, I’ve connected with quite a few people from a heavily creative position. Unfortunately in some instances, it’s helped build somewhat transactional relationships. Of course, with them comes the “low maintenance” friendship, which I personally think is just a perch for those who don’t want to acknowledge they’re bad at being a true friend to sit on. Maybe I’m overly observant in thinking that, but I’ve also formed some great friendships through those same creative values, ones that will last for a very long time.

If you stop reading this and close it with nothing else, please pull some armor from what I’ve tried to stockpile. I hope this makes you more extensively consider how serious your work is to yourself, so you’ll better protect it.

Whether it’s something big or small, you should be the one who values it the most. Take great caution in how many times you allow your work to be shrunken by someone else.

It’s never fun when you have to force yourself to stop doing something you were eager to finish, or to exclude yourself from whatever gave you anticipation. Particularly when it relates to art, I’m genuinely unsure that there’s anything close to its effect on your conscience.

But to quote a favored show and favored song of mine, “chaos is a ladder,” and “we only grow from anguish.” Once those kinds of relationships or projects reach a stopping point, it’s never the end of what you’re capable of doing on your own, or with new people.

The sun comes out, and its singing light usually yells at you that there’s still time and you’re still good at what you do. Pick up the pieces and build something new.

Over the past few years, I’ve had to grow more appreciative of all of my bylines because my work has become more than just a hobby. I’ve been paid consistently to do the things I’m best at, and whether or not I’ll be doing them forever is still in the air.

But what I damn sure won’t ever do is stop feeding my fire if I’m lost in the woods.

I guess my trip to Oregon reminded me of that.

The weather keeps changing where I live. It’s sunny and seventy one day, cold as hell the next, and hailing after that. Even as my allergies eat at my patience, there’s something interesting in all of these rapid changes. Maybe I sometimes look too deep into things, or even all the time. You could say I’m a man who thinks in comparatives. But hot to cold, seemingly in an instant, reminds me so much of how it feels to create things.

It could specifically relate to my relationship with writing. I don’t find it too difficult to keep bouncing from project to project, across different mediums. With writing, though, it’s like some days I can easily pour onto pages, while others I can only make it through a paragraph or two before I just say, “damn, not right now.”

There are practical, weather-attached reasons for why a cold front sticks, but my writing process is not so simple. I can only crack a smile at something I wrote once I read it back and genuinely feel like it’s the most flammable thing I could have cooked up at the time—super hot, spitfire-level only. If it’s not a “heat rock,” like Wayne once said, I can hardly think it’s decent. If I had to guess, it’s probably because so much of my investment in writing is tied to how I gained interest in word-painting to begin with. For much of my life, I’ve listened for lyrics that make me go, “how did they even think of this,” during playback after playback.

That fire is like sunshine for my mind; it wakes up those muscles and keeps the ions and neurotransmitters moving in rhythm. But even when the sun rises, not everyone can stay moving every day. In fact, no matter what overachievers say, there’s no one I know who’s never had a day off. Most people strive to create their own days off after they’ve worked hard enough to earn one.

DIFFERENT REASONS FOR DIFFERENT SEASONS

In writing, I would call those days off “cool down periods.” They raise a different question: what does it mean to stay committed without constant output?

It’s not all about production, but I still want to stay productive. It’s difficult to feel focused if I let days go by without creating something I could eventually share. Still, I realize that when I write, it’s primarily for myself.

It’s good for me to move my thoughts from one place to another. I can confidently say I have hundreds of written thoughts—pieces, articles, whatever you want to call them—that will probably never be read by anyone, unless I died tomorrow and they were taken as evidence to find who’d done it.

There’s a book of poetry that I’ve been working on for about two-and-a-half years now. Every time someone asks when it’s coming out, I say whatever comes to mind. I don’t feel it’s within my priorities to name a date, month, or even a year, but I know one day it will be out. I’d call it a heatwave, because I’m confident it’ll raise body temperatures.

Most of its contents were written during times of severe heat patterns. Some thoughts are frozen to the page and stay there. Not all of it is evergreen, but it’s whatever. If I need to add or subtract timely and untimely work when the time comes, so be it.

BURN AND TURN

If you’ve made it this far, hopefully I haven’t lost you in a ramble when you thought you were en route to some desirable words of wisdom. What I’m really explaining is that my creative process isn’t about how much time I spend working. And yours shouldn’t be about how “good” you think what you’ve made will do under other people’s judgment, despite my own struggles with that.

That’s something I deal with—mostly only finding satisfaction in near-perfection or better. Don’t be like me.

It’s never a bad thing to want your work to be great. Just make sure it’s actually great to you, and not just eye candy for other people to fall in love with. If you’re off to a cold start, remind yourself it’s good to need a warm-up. Afterward, you’ll be better prepared to run on and not run out of thoughts too early. It’s not a race.

We lose our sense of reasoning once we become too malleable, even if it’s because we want to stay “hot.” Bending our work into someone else’s idea of what it should be steals its value. What’s left is an item with no origin or space of its own.

If I’m working on something meant to show who I am, or to form a community based on my concepts, I turn away from conformity. I might seek opinions, but the only person who can create art I’m proud to put my name on is me.

WHATEVER THE WEATHER

R

So what does it mean to accept the inconsistency? While my creative ideas are rapid and unpredictable, I can definitely get streaky. It could be cold outside as I’m writing trailblazers. When it rains, I’m usually right on the money.

I still haven’t found a reason why I can write fluently yet inconsistently, but I find it to be a beautiful thing. Whether it’s my state of mind, body, or spirit, I never have full control over what I’m going to think or say next. It’s not magic—my process is for no one else to know, but for me to find out. Still, eventually, flowers might appear.

So no matter how it seems, my advice for anyone in a creative space, if it feels tough to keep up with the pace, is to give yourself some grace.

Doing what you love comes with the understanding that you’re supposed to be the one in love with it, and you can’t control how often you’ll get love from it. When we walk outside each day, we don’t know if the way it started will be the same way it ends.

It can be hard to plan for the weather where I live, but it makes for a better story.

Three minutes until I’m off work for the day. Even though there’s more work to get done on other fronts, I’ve been waiting to be active. Long sitting since seven o’clock this morning will have that effect. My brain is pushing against my White Sox brim, filled with unfulfilled errands and tasks. The quiet hum of the laptop fan and the dull glow of the screen have been my only company.

I stretch out of my WFH position, and as my first foot hits the floor, I feel like I’m already out the door. I’ll try to return the texts and calls I felt too busy to answer before.

My real day is starting around 3 p.m. I’m standing face-to-face with a Hendrix poster, and in it, he’s telling me the day is far from over. I want to make a few stops, see some faces, grab some things. I deserve a quick shower first, after sweating those 104 keys. The room smells faintly of determination and dust, the kind of quiet that only exists in an apartment that’s been worked in all day.

Out of the shower and dressed, I’m ready to be a part of the world. After I run these few errands, I’ll be on the road to visit home, away from the city for a few days. While I’m there, I’m going to see my grandma and catch up for a few hours. My best friend wants to see me too, so I told him we could hang at a dive for a couple.

The drive down wasn’t too bad. I was in the mood for some Big L, Mac Miller, and a little bit of the O’Jays. Except there was one car that swerved in my lane, with less than two cars’ worth of space. Big, red, lifted Ford. Inside was a driver with road rage. Usually I’d say forget you too, but I kept it to myself and continued at my own pace. The late-afternoon light stretched long across the highway, its face making everything seem calm—the opposite of fray.

Sometimes you just need some horsepower and pavement. A couple of hours removed from a computer screen, I’m finally breathing real air and feeling like I can be present—there.

I knock out some work on a couple of projects by eight o’clock, but still I have no time to spare. One thing, and then on to the next.

Now I’m three stools away from the sixty-year-old gym rat at the bar who keeps flirting with the bartender closer to my age. I’m just happy to see my friend and hear about what everyone here hasn’t been up to. We had a couple of beers and laughed about work, wonderful women, and life, as usual.

Back in the basement for the night. Mom’s hung up a few more paintings since the last time I was down here. I’m dozing off while standing up. It was a good night, so we went to the same place with some more friends the next day. The kind of night that doesn’t ask much from you besides showing up.

After I woke up on Sunday, I was pissed because I had to drive back north to be in the office on Monday. But before I go, I have to go have breakfast with Grandma.

She doesn’t drink coffee, and she barely even eats, but she loves to ask me about me. I love every bit of it, except it’s hard to get her to tell me about how she’s doing. But if it makes her happy, how could I not tell her how everything is going?

After about two hours of talking about the past, present, and future with Grandma, life seems all right—even if there’s work the next day. It’s a brief contentment that fixes the world as she shows it. I miss a lot of people I don’t see on the regular, regardless of whether they’ll ever know it. Breakfast is over, and now there’s time for other things.

As I drop Grandma off before driving away, she says, “I love you. Have a good day.”

When it comes to making the most of those days, I believe the best form of joy comes in inviting some type of intimate company during them. Whether that company is a loved one, friend or family, or just a refreshing peace of mind, the finest of high times don’t feel as good without it. But we all know the saying—what goes up must come down.

Valentine’s online isn’t inherently harmful or hollow—it is amplifying. The systems that intensify comparison also strive to intensify connection. Compression of images can just as easily coordinate affection across distance as it does distort reality. Public posts may be performance to some and genuine connection to others. The difference lies less in what appears on screen and more in how the mind assigns meaning to it.

The downside of Valentine’s Day in 2026 isn’t some terrible side effect that tarnishes the elements of it that make it a special day. For one, it’s all up to who is doing what to spend the 24-hour sequence in a positive way, for themselves and hopefully for someone else. Secondly, I do not play God. So please read this with as little seriousness as possible. My only goal in this address is to forewarn about two words: social media.

Have you ever noticed what most algorithms turn into every year as February 14 comes to pass? I’ll try to be as sensitive as possible when I say this, but I’ve personally witnessed them become FOMO factories that specialize in enhancing the dopamine triggers that regularly act as catalysts for hooking users every day. It’s like adding extra sugar to a water bottle after you’ve already shaken it up with a Crystal Light packet.

A post here and a post there is one thing. But I find it very dangerous for many platforms to seem entirely devoted to showing users which celebrities are hooking up for the weekend, how to buy the “perfect” gift for a partner, hypersexualization, or explaining why someone can’t seem to lock love down for three-plus days.

In the case of married couples and long-standing romantic relationships, this may not be so much of a problem. For people who find themselves in between or consistently getting by on their own, analyzing so much fallacy in a short period of time isn’t worth the “entertainment.” And for all people, it simply can’t be comfortable with someone’s love for another becoming a curated proof of worth.

Algorithms quietly rank intimacy—posts with roses and candlelight travel further than quiet evenings, making solitude look like failure rather than a normal phase of life. Brands often intensify it by inserting urgency: “last-minute gifts,” “don’t mess this up,” love framed as a deadline you can miss. The danger isn’t envy alone, but a sort of comparison replacing reflection; people begin to evaluate their relationships by visibility instead of feeling. Even happy couples may stage moments they didn’t actually enjoy, stooping down to trade presence for documentation.

If the first stage is emotional comparison, then the second is neurological interpretation. The brain doesn’t read a timeline as fiction. It reads repetition as truth. As similar romantic images appear dozens of times in a short window, the mind’s availability heuristic treats them as common, not considered.

Valentine’s weekend finds a way to compress exposure, so the brain overestimates how many people are experiencing peak intimacy. This shapes perception before emotion has a chance to reason.

Dopamine also complicates the moment. Anticipation—not fulfillment—drives reward pathways, which means watching others celebrate can stimulate a reward response while simultaneously withholding closure. The viewer feels activated but unsatisfied, a loop similar to near-miss psychology in games of chance. Social media unintentionally manufactures emotional suspense.

Then comes social proof. Humans calibrate norms collectively; seeing public affection repeatedly signals what is expected behavior. Participation becomes less about desire and more about conformity to perceived baseline reality. The holiday turns into a feedback system where observation alters behavior, and behavior reinforces observation.

In all fairness, not everyone absorbs the events of Valentine’s weekend as pressure. Some people move through the same feeds without interpreting them as commentary on their own lives. They may treat posts as information about others, not evaluation of self. Their self-concept isn’t negotiated on a moment-to-moment basis against external signals. In other words, please don’t consider my words law. Exposure does not automatically lead to comparisons—a healthy flaw in the machine’s power.

Instead of reading a photo as evidence of constant happiness, some recognize context collapse: a selected second from a much longer day. Whether the brain labels an image as performance or measurement, once categorized as presentation, it loses any authority. Posts are therefore more like greeting cards, not status reports.

Different from other common engagement with reward loops, scrolling passively can instead be intentional interaction—sending messages, reacting to specific people, or logging off. In this mindset, Valentine’s content functions almost anthropologically. It’s a seasonal ritual people broadcast, not a hierarchy they rank within.

Presence remains internal, so observation carries no verdict.

I know what I’ve implied so far can easily be perceived as a hate piece, or coming from a place of bitterness. Let me reassure you. Don’t be fooled, life is sweet. I’ve played this internet game and I’ve already subbed out, vowing never to check back in.

I’m just saying, the weekend seems to have become less about affection and more about public confirmation. The piece is about reclaiming private meaning: what emotions exist when nobody is watching, and whether intimacy survives without an audience.

The question isn’t whether social media cheapens love, but whether love survives translation into visibility. This one red holiday now functions like a mirror that sometimes exaggerates and other times clarifies.

I hope we can all agree, though, that there is a very revealing modern tension that exists as technology turns private emotion into a shared signal, and that’s what I think is worth analyzing.

I think a healthy position may be recognizing the mirror: participating when it adds expression, stepping away when it replaces experience, and remembering that affection still exists even when it leaves no evidence.

But I digress—as I don’t have any answers to any of what I’ve written about. I’m not a therapist, spiritual leader, or relationship enthusiast. Hell, I’m not even Carrie Bradshaw.

I try my best not to end personal essays with some altruistic sentence that says, “I love everyone,” or “life is worth living.” So I’ll leave you with this:

“You can’t always get what you want

But if you try, sometimes

Well, you might find

You get what you need”

Mick Jagger

I’ll start this address by specifying that this is a heavily opinionated piece that was influenced by my take on the current political landscape of the United States of America. If you don’t “have time” or find no interest in politics, and willingly leave behind all absorbable knowledge and information relating to them, please do yourself a favor and stop reading now. You may even find that this Substack post is not for you, or that my whole profile, or my whole personality, is not for you. I’m also writing this in Chicago style, not AP. So, yes, I am allowed to be subjective here. Build your wall.

With that said, the years 2015–2026 should be studied for several generations moving forward—which is even an understatement. The beginning year was my freshman year of high school. Around that same time, I personally began to look deeper into politics and government than I ever had at any point in my adolescence.

Whether I just haven’t researched enough, or choose to ignore milder examples of historically toxic presidential characters, I can’t help but seem to arrive at the same conclusion whenever I try to compare the sitting commander in chief to other figures throughout such a timeline. Aside from those who endorsed slavery, owned slaves, stole land, accomplished genocides, and thought of minorities—and specifically Black Americans—as the gum that touched their shoes, I consistently rest on the idea that Donald John Trump may be the worst measure of social integrity and moral righteousness to ever slither about Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Build the wall” started as merely a governmentally sound, yet still cynically charged, campaign slogan advertised by Trump that garnered the attention of millions of Americans. It pulled those people into crowds to centralize hundreds and thousands of miles from their homes. The three inimical words went on to be mimicked to no one’s benefit and created nightmares shared by its targeted demographic.

In the aftermath of the 2016 United States presidential election, many “Make America Great Again” fanatics consistently defended their lust for mass deportation and encampment of Latinos under their Great White Hope by deflecting and reflecting on instances of deportation under previous administrations. For reasons obvious to the intellectually curious eye, I will refrain from copying and pasting exact figures from every deportation effort recorded throughout the history of American policy. I will, however, make the claim that the advertisement of undocumented immigrants as a fearmongering tactic had never before been pushed at a higher rate.

Furthermore, if anyone has ever seen a cartel member with their own two eyes who crossed the United States–Mexico border and inflicted harm on a loved one, or a person loved by another, please share that information with me now. And, so that I don’t miss a spot, illegal drug trafficking involves more parties—ethnically and financially—than a group of Mexican men with bankrolls, tattoos and guns.

Though I feel that subscription to legal immigration to any country of choice is the wiser option of the two, I am 100 percent against the mass dehumanization of those who find themselves living in this country for whatever reason, or however they made it here. And on the throne of the kingdom of dehumanization sits the man who profits and recharges from exiling anyone different from himself the most.

I say this with full intent to displease all who disagree; and as a person of African descent, with a lineage of disenfranchised individuals historically overlooked in every one of its contributions to the construction of this state territory forever known as America; and further, as a descendant of Holocaust and Iaşi pogrom survivors:

There has never been a supplement purer to this land than immigration.

As of 2024, roughly 123 million people worldwide were forcibly displaced due to persecution, conflict, violence, or human rights violations—the highest figure on record, according to the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR). In the year 2026, most living Americans have never experienced any of those reasons causing them to flee a place of residency in their lifetimes.

During both elections in which Trump was made a competitive candidate, he chose to target the uninformed but legally educated minds as a main support group. These people choose not to perform research. Unfortunately, I share the same generation as many of them, sponging up most of their political and world news from the likes of social media personalities on TikTok, Instagram, and X, formerly known as Twitter. But oh, so forgotten has become the original motto to “build the wall.”

These platforms have become spaces where incels, and anti-everything that isn’t white or “right,” from a political-stance, thrive. Growing up in an era where derogatory terms used online were at the forefront of male youth lexicon, it’s astonishing how little we’ve learned since the early days of Odd Future and C.O.D. lobbies. Nevertheless, all of that video game spillage has stained the once productive, creative, and lighthearted communal spaces that we now share with our parents and grandparents.

While it would be irresponsible of me to trace the entire trail that led us here back to this one despicable man, I would have to be naïve to dismiss the power that he has used to destroy complexes of protection while scaling a divisive blueprint purposed for assembling hatred.

Some of the socially unaware and downright offensive writs and bills this man has passed include Executive Order 14151—Ending Federal DEIA Programs; Executive Order 14190—Ending “Radical Indoctrination” in Schools, banning K–12 instruction of material deemed “anti-American,” raising free expression and academic freedom concerns; Executive Order 14149—“Ending Federal Censorship,” which bars federal cooperation with platforms on content moderation; experts warn it could empower misinformation; the second Trump travel ban (2025 proclamation), which restricted entry from multiple foreign majority-Muslim or majority-Black countries and was criticized as discriminatory; Schedule F, allowing easier firing of federal workers by removing civil service protections from about 50,000 federal workers and potentially politicizing the civil service; broad use of executive orders, as Trump issued more executive orders in his second term’s first year than in his first term, bypassing Congress and raising separation-of-powers concerns; Executive Order 14182—Enforcing the Hyde Amendment, ending federal funding for elective abortions and reversing Democrat-initiated health care access expansions, rolling back reproductive rights access; withdrawal from the Paris Agreement, re-withdrawing the United States from global climate commitments and hindering international climate cooperation; cuts and freezes on foreign aid, including a temporary ninety-day freeze and USAID contractions that disrupted climate finance and development assistance globally; AI “Free of Ideological Bias” standards, with executive directives on AI procurement aimed at preventing “ideological bias” and raising debate over politicizing technology and free speech versus content moderation; and so on.

A “big, beautiful wall” was once promised along the entire U.S.–Mexico border (1,954 miles). Repeatedly, Mr. T said Mexico would pay for it. It was framed as a core, signature achievement of his presidency. Off topic, but before we continue, please shut up about the HBCU “gift.” It’s a microaggression for MAGA at this point. Ice Cube was being weird, and there needs to be more funding for HBCUs across the board, like clockwork.

Back to the bad guy. About 458 miles of border barriers were constructed or replaced during his first term. Only about 80 miles were new barriers where none previously existed. The rest were replacements or upgrades of older fencing from earlier administrations. Who paid for it? The U.S. Congress and the U.S. military, with funds redirected after Trump declared a national emergency. Who paid for that? U.S. taxpayers, not Mexico.

So even after he promised millions a darkly promoted, false “dream,” and failed, most of those same millions of people chose to forget about it and vote for him again anyway. There is a striking forgetfulness threaded in the curtains of shame that MAGA so proudly uses to shutter all who differ in opinion. It’s almost as if that moment in time falls in the same family of “lost” moments that the entire history of white nationalism once embraced and tries so hard to make the rest of the world forget. Picking and choosing what’s worth remembering should be an indicator that someone is not fit for leadership—especially not in the free world.

Even as I want to laugh at the fools that actually believe more than 40 percent of any thoughts to ever exit from his mouth and befoul the air, I can’t get a giggle out.

He has publicly bullied people with disabilities of all kinds, innocent women, children, religions, and all nonwhite races. He has lied about his own comments, his own sexual misconduct, his own influence on the American economy, his own understanding of the Bible, and so much more.

I am not Christian, and I am choosing not to comment in this piece about Israel other than my disappointment in the State of Israel’s chosen methods and levels of retaliation. So, if you came here looking for my opinion on that, you’ll unfortunately have to hold out for now. But I can’t help but admit that I think of Trump no differently than I grew up learning to characterize Ronald Reagan as: the devil.

Chaos is his goal, and an algebraic equation couldn’t hold a candle to the type of division he has caused that has troubled us for so long. One of the saddest parts about such a difficult problem, as the heat turns up, is that I don’t think any of us anticipate it ever freezing over. Instead, we now have new ICE.

It all began with a wall. The wall does not span the entire border. Large portions of the border remained unwalled, naturally blocked by rivers and mountains, and covered only by surveillance or fencing. As this unfinished symbol of xenophobia was perceivably placed on the backburner, Trump has since shifted his language from “the wall is finished” to “we built hundreds of miles of wall”—which is true in a limited, technical sense, but not in the way the original promise was understood—by the easily manipulated.

We have lies all around us, and the mainstream media is too shy. So many young people have eaten up the hatred. Their bellies are full with fire, only focused on a party that could not care less about their futures. Augmented realities are taking over and confusing elders so badly that they can’t even decipher what is real and what is not. A woman whose husband was killed less than a year ago is celebrating political conquests with fireworks behind her. One of the 2010s’ most popular musical entertainers, who is not a U.S. citizen and built her fan base on LGBTQ rights, is parading her sudden hatred for MAGA critics alongside neo-Nazi enthusiasts. It has all been the foundation for one thing that continues to trend upward.

He has built a different wall. It’s infinite in length, lifespan, and liability. Naturally, I’ve never been the most optimistic human being, even though I wish I could be. But I feel that I am only being realistic in my thoughts about this wall.

It’s a wall that is no longer invisible, as those who stand on opposite sides have become too difficult for the other side to see. While this country will always find itself stuck in its inherited evil traits, there is no longer room for consensus or rationale. It is only a matter of time before the cement comes crashing down.

Though most international migrants are not fleeing war or political violence anymore, history and humility should be playing more of a role in analyzing the reasoning entrusted to the chosen “leader of the free world.” The word freedom fundamentally lives on principles that include absence of subjection to foreign domination or despotic government. Roughly 4.1 percent of the total U.S. population is represented by illegal immigrants. Form your own opinions based on those numbers, but please think beyond the wall.

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“Revolutions are never peaceful.

– Malcolm X

terrible roots

How much of your mind has lined pockets with green?

The amount must be obscene.

How many times can you rewatch this movie,

but still rush to catch “the best” scene?



Without a blink,

nostalgia’s the first thing we think.


A runaround game—

yet the players don’t move;

they just foam at every frame.



Pondering and lounging,

but acting insane,

expecting differently

while repeating the same.



And your skin?

Akin to black-and-white static,

crawling without some “Love on the Brain.”



So many emotions battle against the eyes—

of a witness from a distance

and the front row of first-to-buy.



Eyes on schedule to behold an “aesthetic,”

unlimited ticketing from TV to app,

riding a train of thought to destination: pathetic.



Miss out on a rerun.

I mean, God forbid any real fun.

It’s holier in a dead zone,

where devices dare not speak or pun.

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