August 8, 2026

To spend a little less than a week with your special someone, only to watch him return home 1,400 miles away, never gets easier. After nineteen years of loving you from across the distance, one would think saying goodbye would become routine— even easy. But routine does not lessen the heartache.

It is like tasting your favorite ice cream or savoring the last forkful of your favorite pie, only to have it whisked away before you are ready. It leaves my mind racing and my soul aching. Loving someone and having to say farewell never becomes easier. The emptiness does not disappear; it simply shape-shifts. Over time, you learn to fill the void with other things, or at least I have.

For me, those placeholders have become my art, my writing, my gardens, my volunteer work, global travel, house projects, and the sweet little nothings that pass for moments in the sun. Yet even these flirtatious distractions cannot quiet the longing. My heart still lingers in the days we shared and reaches out to the moments that will bring us together again… birthdays, Zoom calls, and the promise of another visit.

After your departure, I leave the bed sheets untouched on my full-sized mattress so that your scent can linger a little longer in the fading warmth of a Minnesota summer. I feel your spirit tucked into the quiet corners of Windhaven, my 1942 Cape Cod cottage. I busy myself with projects and chores, hoping my spirit will settle into calmness even as my mind wanders across the miles, imagining where you are, what you are doing, and whether you are thinking of me too.

As retirement waits patiently on the horizon, I wonder if life will finally give us the gift of time, the kind of time I have always wanted to share with you. The endless game of what if and when is an unforgiving temptress, forever whispering possibilities while feeding uncertainty. It leaves my soul wanting more.

I long for your embrace, for the warmth of your body beside mine, for the simple comfort of your presence. Every departure carries the quiet question I never dare speak aloud: What if this is the last time? It is the uncertainty that unsettles me. The not knowing is what makes every goodbye feel impossibly heavy. Perhaps that is why each farewell feels like the last bite of something extraordinary, something so delicious you wish you could savor it forever, knowing there is no certainty of when or if you will taste it again.

And so, yes, I adore you.

I love the touch of your hand resting in mine. I love the taste of your lips. I love the gentle scrape of your whiskers against my cheek, your big spoon to my little spoon. I love the quiet rhythm of our mornings, the laughter that fills ordinary moments, and the peace that settles over me simply because you are near.

If distance has taught me anything over these nineteen years, it is this: love is not measured by the miles between us but by the certainty that, despite them, my heart has never once stopped finding its way back to you.

Perhaps that is the paradox of loving someone from afar. Distance has never weakened what we share; if anything, it has revealed just how resilient love can be. Nineteen years have taught me that love is not measured by proximity but by persistence…by the willingness to keep choosing one another through airports and highways, birthdays and holidays, embraces and departures.

One day, perhaps retirement will grant us the luxury of ordinary days together. Until then, I will continue to find pieces of you in the familiar places: in the quiet corners of Windhaven, in the scent lingering on bed sheets, in the museum galleries we have walked, and in the memories that carry me through the spaces between our visits. Those moments are enough to remind me that what we have is real, even when you are 1,400 miles away.

Every goodbye still hurts because every hello matters. The ache is not a sign that love has failed; it is the unmistakable evidence that love has flourished. If my heart races each time you leave, it is only because it has learned what it means to be fully alive when you are here.

So until the next embrace, the next kiss, the next shared homemade meal, I will keep loving you from across the miles. I will keep believing that every farewell is simply another promise disguised as an ending and soon-to-be hello. And when we meet again, as we always do, I will discover once more that the distance between us was never strong enough to diminish what has always lived within us. I love you, Scott; you will always be my Bear.

July 27, 2026

There is something profoundly powerful about learning to trust your own body.

I have long believed that our bodies communicate with us long before medicine can explain what it is trying to say. When something feels “off,” it is rarely imaginary. It is the body’s quiet way of waving a flag, asking us to pay attention. The challenge is that the language of the body is often subtle, unfamiliar, and impossible to describe. We simply know.

That instinct has served me well.

Before doctors confirmed that I had thymic cancer, I knew something was wrong with my chest. I could feel an unusual sensation between my lungs—a strange, peculiar awareness that defied explanation. I couldn’t give it a name, but I knew it wasn’t normal.

Initially, the medical community believed I had lung cancer. I accepted their assessment because, after all, medical science is infinitely more knowledgeable than I will ever be. But something about that diagnosis never quite aligned with what I was feeling.

Additional testing eventually revealed the truth. It wasn’t lung cancer at all. It was thymic cancer, an extraordinarily rare cancer of the thymus gland. Only about 400 cases are diagnosed each year in the United States, making it about as uncommon as discovering a blue diamond. My instincts had been right. Something was wrong in my chest, just not what anyone initially expected.

That wasn’t the first time my body had spoken to me.

Several years earlier, I began losing sensation in my right hand. At first, it happened so gradually that I barely noticed. By the time I sought medical attention, I had lost 88 percent of the strength and sensation caused by severe carpal tunnel syndrome. The muscle between my thumb and index finger had noticeably withered away, although I no longer recognized the change because I had watched it disappear so slowly over time.

As an artist, that loss became impossible to ignore. Holding a paintbrush in my dominant hand became increasingly difficult. Stitching in my mixed-media fiber work required more effort than my hand could comfortably provide. My art, one of the deepest expressions of who I am, was quietly slipping away.

Thankfully, I listened.

The surgical team at Mayo Clinic later told me that had I waited much longer, I likely would have lost the use of my dominant hand permanently. Science, medicine, and remarkable surgical skill gave me back what I feared was gone forever. Within six to eight weeks after surgery, I had regained full use of my hand. It felt nothing short of miraculous.

Then history began to repeat itself.

This spring, similar sensations emerged in my left hand. The symptoms became impossible to ignore after purchasing Windhaven, my Cape Cod cottage. I had been fortunate to receive a Minnesota State Lawns to Legumes grant, allowing me to purchase native trees, flowers, and nearly one hundred bags of mulch to create new garden beds. Between ripping open bag after bag and spreading mulch throughout the property, my hand steadily worsened. Things went from full steam ahead to a hand I could barely use.

Sharp electrical pains shot through my fingers. Every morning I woke with a numb hand. At night, the tingling and aching interrupted otherwise peaceful sleep. Simple tasks became frustrating. My body was talking again, and this time I knew better than to ignore it.

I informed the Mayo Clinic team that I believed I had carpal tunnel syndrome. This time it was in my opposite hand.

An EMG was ordered to measure the severity. The results, however, didn’t seem to match what I was experiencing. The technology suggested something less significant than what my body insisted was happening. Yes, there was damage, but how severe was it? My ring finger and little finger remained profoundly numb. The numbness often spread into my thumb and, at times, my middle and index fingers. The symptoms simply didn’t fit neatly into the test results.

So I advocated for myself.

I respectfully told the medical team that while I appreciated the science, the test didn’t align with what I was living every day. I knew my body. I asked for additional testing.

Today, that decision was validated. An ultrasound confirmed nerve entrapment at the cubital tunnel, exactly what my physician assistant and I suspected all along. The diagnosis finally explained the symptoms that the EMG alone could not fully capture. Armed with that information, my medical team can now move forward with both a carpal tunnel release and a cubital tunnel release.

There is an important lesson in all of this. Science is extraordinary. Modern medicine has saved my life more than once. I owe an immeasurable debt to brilliant physicians, surgeons, nurses, technicians, and researchers whose expertise has carried me through cancer, renewed my left ear from hearing loss, saved my neck from internal bleeding when I was a boy, and will now restore the use of my left hand. It has given me hope for the future.

But patients possess something equally valuable. We live inside our bodies every single day. No scan, computer, or laboratory test can fully capture what it feels like to inhabit our own skin. Technology provides evidence. Physicians provide knowledge. Yet patients provide lived experience. The best medicine happens when those three voices work together.

I trust science. I also trust the quiet wisdom of my own body. Now, it’s time to bring this to resolution.

As I grow older, I have come to realize that healing is not simply about surgeries, medications, or physicians… although I owe my life and my quality of life to all of them. Healing is also about learning to trust the quiet whispers of the body that has carried me through every joy, every heartbreak, every diagnosis, and every triumph.

My body has never lied to me.

It whispered when cancer quietly occupied the space between my lungs. It pleaded when my hands began to lose the ability to create the art that gives my life meaning. It nudged me to ask one more question, to request one more test, to speak one more truth when the data did not match the reality I was living.

There is courage in trusting science. There is also courage in trusting yourself. The two are not adversaries. They are partners.

I have learned that advocating for yourself is not an act of defiance; it is an act of hope. It is believing that your voice matters, that your lived experience has value, and that your intuition deserves a seat at the table beside scans, blood work, and algorithms.

Perhaps that is the greatest gift these past few years have given me. Cancer taught me that life is astonishingly fragile. My hands have taught me that the things we often take for granted—the ability to hold a paintbrush, stitch a piece of fabric, plant a garden, shake a friend’s hand, or simply wake up without pain—are, in truth, extraordinary blessings.

I don’t know what challenges my body will ask me to face tomorrow. None of us do. But I do know this. I will continue listening. I will continue asking questions. I will continue believing that my body deserves to be heard.

Because this body has carried me across continents, through operating rooms, into art spaces, and back home again. It has survived cancer. It has endured pain. It has healed more than once. It has given me every memory, every embrace, every creation I have ever known. For all of its scars, imperfections, and betrayals, it remains the only home I will ever have. And that, perhaps, is the greatest lesson of all: listen carefully when your body speaks. It just might save your life.

July 26, 2026

There are moments in life when you expect to stand at a crossroads with strangers, colleagues, or even friends. I, however, never imagined one of those intersections would be with my own siblings.

Life happens. Joy happens. Heartbreak happens. People marry, children are born, birthdays are celebrated, careers are built, and before anyone notices, years quietly slip between shared conversations. Somewhere in the beautiful chaos of living, brothers and sisters drift apart…not always because of misunderstanding, but because the lives they choose begin to move and reflect different choices and core values.

My path was never the traditional one. While my siblings were raising families and building lives rooted close to home, I was collecting passport stamps, volunteering in communities around the world, creating art, teaching, advocating for social justice, and pursuing an endless curiosity about people and places. I chose a life defined by experiences, by learning rather than routine. Through it all, I never questioned my decisions. Each journey led naturally to the next, and every adventure expanded my understanding of the world and of myself.

Looking back, I realize I have become the person I always hoped I would be: compassionate, curious, generous with my time, and forever eager to learn. My life has exceeded every dream my younger self dared to imagine.

Yet success, fulfillment, and happiness can sometimes create distance where you least expect it. It is especially painful when that distance exists within your own family.

This week reminded me of that truth.

A cascade of text messages arrived, laced with profanity, accusations, and emotions that spilled across the screen faster than punctuation could contain them. The shorthand, emojis, fractured grammar, and raw vernacular often made the words difficult to decipher, but the emotions required no translation. Beneath every insult, I could hear something deeper. Anger. Loneliness. Hurt. Perhaps disappointment.

Pain has a language all its own.

I wanted to respond with compassion while also protecting my own peace. I drew a line in the proverbial sand—not to divide us, but to preserve what remained of my dignity. Sometimes love requires boundaries as much as forgiveness.

The miles between us suddenly felt much longer than geography. Distance became a wall built from years of missed conversations, misunderstood choices, and lives that no longer intersected in familiar ways.

So I extended an olive branch. It remains there still, swaying gently in the breeze.

There is an old saying that you can lead a horse to water but cannot make it drink. The same is true of reconciliation. You cannot heal someone else’s wounds simply because you are willing. Healing begins only when each person chooses it for themselves.

For now, I wait. Not with bitterness, but with hope. (As I share with my students, you can be better, or you can be bitter. It’s about choosing your vowel as a placeholder.)

I will remain nearby…not in the middle of the conflict, but not so far away that I cannot be found. If the day comes when they are ready to cross that bridge, they will discover I never burned it. I will inhale patience, exhale grace, and welcome them without keeping score.

This is one of life’s hardest lessons: love does not always guarantee understanding, and family does not always guarantee closeness. But they are still my family. And despite everything, I still care for them from across the miles.

July 15, 2026

Growing up in a family of seven children is no easy feat. The lines between younger and older siblings blur into a continuous stream of who, what, where, and when. When you are the pink sheep trying to find your place within a multicultural, multinational family that is already different from those of your peers, the challenge becomes even greater. You find yourself in the spotlight, not because you sought attention, but because you are trying to understand where you belong.

Fortunately, I knew who the Creator made me to be from a very young age. I knew I was a gay boy by the age of five. My mother later told me she had sensed I was different as early as three years old. Trying to discover yourself amid the chaos of a large family can be mind-numbing, especially when the world insists on casting you as peculiar or strange while all you long for is to occupy the same ordinary space as everyone else. (It’s hard to be ordinary when you are extraordinary!) Yet, deep within, you already know you will never live the status quo or “common” experience.

I was fortunate to realize early on that if I did not create my own destiny, the world would gladly create one for me—a life confined to a box that would slowly suffocate me. So I spread my wings and flew. At sixteen, I left home.

Many people will never understand that decision, but I knew with every fiber of my being that if I stayed, I would live a life defined by regret—or perhaps something even worse…death by suicide. Leaving was not an act of rebellion. It was an act of survival.

My family remained in Florida while my world expanded. I never truly looked back, not because I didn’t love them, but because my own sanity and well-being depended upon moving forward. I had to leave. I had to go. I had to discover a world beyond the narrow boundaries of the one I had already known. What I left behind was stifling and lonely, and I refused to spend my life wondering what might have been. I was not going to live a life of woulda, coulda, shoulda or I would be shoulda-ing of myself the rest of my life.

Leaving home in my adolescence gave me my first taste of freedom. As I matured and experienced life beyond Central Florida, I came to understand not only my own oppression but also the struggles of so many others. Back home, I had merely been surviving. Once I left, I finally began to thrive.

I found my voice. I developed my core values. I became the person I had always believed I could be.

Meanwhile, my brothers and sisters largely remained where they had always been. I could not look back because doing so risked falling into the same patterns of questioning who I was, what I was, and where I belonged. I have no regrets about the path I chose.

Yet adulthood has revealed something I never anticipated.

The family I thought I knew has become a family of strangers. Time, distance, and life experiences have carried us in profoundly different directions. The farther I have traveled through life, the more I have realized how far apart we have grown—not simply in geography, but in values, understanding, and the ways we navigate the world.

My one saving grace through it all has been my twin sister, Maria. We shared a womb before we shared a home. We shared childhood dreams before anyone else knew us. We share a history that no one else can ever fully understand. Throughout every season of life, she has remained my true north.

As our parents have aged and illness and death have reshaped our family, Maria has become the steady presence I know I can rely upon. She is honest. She is compassionate. She has been the quiet glue that has held so many of us together, even when others (and I) drifted away.

Sadly, many of my other siblings no longer communicate with us in meaningful ways. Watching those relationships fade has been deeply painful. Blood alone is no longer enough to define family. Trust, kindness, and presence matter far more to me — and those are ideals my siblings no longer share.

Maria has consistently shown me, through her actions and her words, what unconditional love looks like. She has always had my best interests at heart. That is a rare gift, and one I treasure more with each passing year.

Actions have consequences.

When relationships are neglected, they slowly disappear. When trust is broken, it is not easily restored. In the end, family is measured not by shared DNA but by the people who continue to show up, who continue to love, and who continue to stand beside you…and those who are truthful and not filled with deception.

For me, that person has always been my twin sister.

And for that, I will always be grateful.

Stuttgart, Germany - June 11-14, 2026
Depart the USA on June 10

COSTS
$ 70 USD - Land to Air ground transportation from Mankato, MN to MSP Airport
$1,590.83 - Delta Coach fare with one checked bag
$ 59 USD - A&O Hostel - 3 nights, shared 8-bed dorm

Euro to USD - 1.16 USD to 1 Euro (written in Euro when you see $)
$5.56 - grocery - Sandwich, 2 chocolate bars, box of cookies
$4.50 S Bahn - 2 zones
$7 all day - 1 zone
$9 all day - 2 zone
$3.50 single use 1 zone
$3.50 single use 1 zone
$3.19 - grocery - 2 croissants, cheese pack
$5.45 - grocery - 2 chocolate bars, 2 beers, sandwich
$59.99 - train ticket from Stuttgart to Strasbourg - 2nd class
$2.46 - grocery - 2 beers, 2 croissants
$2.10 - U-Bahn to Main terminal for trip to Strasbourg
$32.60 - train to Luxembourg

My flight from MSP to Stuttgart was going smoothly until an hour-long delay was announced. I had been notified by text the day before, so it wasn’t a complete surprise. I arrived via Land to Air and walked over from my cottage at Windhaven. It was the first time I had walked from my new house, and it was easy—about fifteen minutes.

A backpack and a roller bag were all I was taking. I packed six undershirts, six pairs of underwear, one swim trunk, one pair of boxer shorts to sleep in, two pairs of black pants, four pairs of knee-high wool socks, one black light wool turtleneck sweater, three long-sleeve wrinkle-free cotton shirts, and one short-sleeve wrinkle-free guayabera shirt. I decided to wear a black suit and packed the matching vest in my suitcase onto the plane. I also wore a black shirt. (NOTE: The one thing I would do differently is wear a black OppoSuit versus one that needs dry cleaning.) Dressing entirely in black makes traveling easy because everything matches, and it’s only one load of laundry. The other shirts I packed had subtle plaid patterns woven through them, allowing me to dress up or down depending on my itinerary for the day.

The flight went well until I landed at Schiphol Airport. I was unsure whether I would make my connection because I still had to go through passport control. The line was long, and I waited on bated breath. Fortunately, a passport control officer asked whether anyone had an 8:00 a.m. flight. Those of us who did were allowed to use a special passport control line. Yes! Even then, I had to hustle. My terminal was at the far end of the airport. No rest for the wicked, and I barely arrived in time.

I didn’t stop, and I made my flight. Yeah!

Once I arrived in Stuttgart, Germany, I was unsure which metro line I should take. The only one I saw was the S-Bahn. I bought a ticket—two zones, just to be safe—but something felt wrong. I struck up a conversation with a young woman who was getting off the train, and she walked me to the U-Bahn.

From there, everything was going well until MapQuest sent me on a wild goose chase. I got off at the stop it recommended and began walking in circles. It kept telling me I was in the right place, but there was no hostel to be found. Finally, I gave up on MapQuest and searched my phone for the address directly. I found another route, made my way back onto the U-Bahn, and backtracked through the city to the A&O Youth Hostel.

I made it, despite arriving two hours later than planned. Throw in the jet lag, and I was completely zonked.

Check-in was not until 3 p.m. I had several hours to wait. I decided to leave my suitcase in storage and walked to the central square, where all the action is — 30 minutes on foot. Doing so gave me my bearings. I popped into a couple of churches, got groceries at Aldi, ate a late lunch, and people-watched. I then made my way back home on foot, officially checked in, and decided to wind down for the day. I made my bed, prepped for the next day, and I was out for the night, even if it was only 5 p.m. I slept soundly and did not stir until my body thought it was time to wake up, and I had to fool myself that it was actually night. I turned over in bed and fell back to sleep. When I did get up at 6 a.m., the room was silent. While it was an 8-bed bunk room, only 4 beds were occupied. I showered and made my way downstairs. I ate my cookies from the day before and decided that today was going to be filled with royalty. From a pauper to a prince, I got directions on how to get to the royal residence in Ludwigsburg.

The magnificent Residenzschloss Ludwigsburg, located about 12 kilometers north of Stuttgart in the German state of Baden-Württemberg, is often referred to as the “Versailles of Swabia.” As the largest Baroque palace in Germany, the complex encompasses 18 buildings and 452 rooms spread across a 32-hectare estate. I purchased a 2-zone metro ticket that could be used on the U-Bahn or the S-Bahn plus busses. It took almost an hour to get there, made my way out of teh station, and I walked to the palace through the town.

Construction of the palace began in 1704 under Duke Eberhard Louis of Württemberg and continued until 1733. Over nearly three decades, a succession of architects shaped the palace’s appearance, resulting in a remarkable blend of Baroque, Rococo, Neoclassical, and Empire styles. The palace served as the principal residence of the House of Württemberg before being opened to the public in 1918.

The palace is organized around four wings. The northern wing, known as the Alter Hauptbau, is the oldest section and served as the Duke’s residence. The east and west wings housed court officials, guests, and administrative functions. The southern wing, the Neuer Hauptbau, was constructed to accommodate additional court activities and later became a royal residence.

Eberhard Louis initially appointed Philipp Joseph Jenisch to oversee construction. Work began in 1704, but Jenisch was replaced in 1707 by Johann Friedrich Nette, who completed much of the palace and its gardens. Following Nette’s death in 1714, Donato Giuseppe Frisoni assumed responsibility and completed many of the palace’s exterior façades. When Eberhard Louis died in 1733, portions of the Neuer Hauptbau remained unfinished.

Later, Duke Charles Eugene commissioned his court architect, Philippe de La Guêpière, to complete and refurbish sections of the palace in the Rococo style, including the elegant palace theatre. Although Charles Eugene eventually moved his court back to Stuttgart in 1775, Ludwigsburg remained an important royal residence.

During the reign of Duke Frederick II, later King Frederick I of Württemberg, the palace became a favored summer residence. Frederick and his wife, Charlotte, Princess Royal, employed architect Nikolaus Friedrich von Thouret to redesign many of the interiors in the fashionable Neoclassical style. These renovations further enriched the palace’s architectural diversity and account for the variety of styles visible today.

Ludwigsburg Palace also played a role in Württemberg’s constitutional history. The constitutions of both the Kingdom of Württemberg and the Free People’s State of Württemberg were ratified here in 1819 and 1919 respectively. The palace served as the residence of four Württemberg monarchs and numerous members of the royal family.

Unlike many historic European palaces, Ludwigsburg survived World War II without significant damage. Restoration projects were undertaken during the 1950s, 1960s, and 1990s, with additional work completed for the palace’s 300th anniversary in 2004. Today, the palace remains one of Germany’s most important historic attractions, welcoming hundreds of thousands of visitors each year and hosting the Ludwigsburg Festival annually since 1947.

Surrounding the palace are the beautiful Blühendes Barock (Blooming Baroque) gardens, which were laid out in 1954 to evoke their appearance around 1800. Nearby stands Schloss Favorite, an elegant hunting lodge completed by Frisoni in 1717. Within the palace itself, visitors can explore museums operated by the Landesmuseum Württemberg that feature collections devoted to fashion and porcelain, adding yet another dimension to the site’s rich cultural heritage.

The gardens required an additional admission fee, and I decided not to visit them. My legs were already exhausted, and I still had to make my way back to the train station. Though I do love a lovely garden, I don’t want to overdo it and regret it later.

The one drawback of touring the palace was that our guide did not allow photographs during her presentation. This proved frustrating for the eight of us in the group who wanted to document what we were seeing. I managed to sneak a few photos by using my camera’s screen while continuing to listen attentively to her commentary. Considering the challenge, most of the pictures turned out reasonably well.

While Ludwigsburg was not the most impressive palace I have visited, I was glad to see it all the same. One observation that struck me was how monotonous royal life may have been despite its outward glamour. Looking at the endless additions to the palace, each reflecting the latest architectural fashion, I could not help but wonder whether many members of the court were simply bored. The gardens became stages for gossip and intrigue. Kings and dukes, like so many rulers before them, often maintained multiple lovers, while courtiers devoted much of their energy to elaborate rituals of dress and appearance. So much effort seemed focused on impressing other royal families and maintaining status.

That pursuit of prestige often came at a considerable cost. The rulers of Württemberg periodically accumulated substantial debts through lavish spending, court expenses, construction projects, and military ventures. Duke Ulrich of Württemberg, for example, inherited significant obligations and added considerably to them during his reign. By 1514, his debts had reached roughly one million florins. Following his expulsion in 1519, the occupying Swabian League estimated the duchy’s debt at approximately 1.1 million gulden. In an effort to address the financial crisis, the League sold the Duchy to Emperor Charles V in 1520, requiring the purchaser to assume responsibility for Ulrich’s outstanding debts.

Walking through the palace, I was reminded that behind the gilded ceilings, ornate furnishings, and grand reception halls stood generations of rulers who struggled with the same human weaknesses that affect people today: vanity, ambition, jealousy, and the desire for recognition. The palace remains beautiful, but it also serves as a monument to the costs—both financial and personal—of maintaining power and prestige.
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June 13, 2026

I took the subway this morning to see Solitude Palace. It took roughly a hour to get there, and I must admit I was not impressed. While lovely and with a lovely view, the building itself has seen better days. I was going to see the interior, but I would have to wiat for a couple of hours for an English guide. I asked if the staff if they thought it was worth the wait and was advised that I might be disappointed. No sooner had I arrived than I decided to head back into the city.

Solitude Palace (German: Schloss Solitude) is a late Rococo hunting retreat located on a ridge between Stuttgart, Leonberg, and Gerlingen in Baden-Württemberg, Germany. Commissioned by Duke Charles Eugene of Württemberg in 1763 and constructed between 1764 and 1769, it was designed by architects Philippe de La Guêpière and Johann Friedrich Weyhing.

The palace served various historical functions, including housing the Hohe Karlsschule military academy from 1770 to 1775, where Friedrich Schiller studied. It later functioned as a military hospital during World War I and was restored by the state of Baden-Württemberg between 1972 and 1983. Since 1990, the complex has housed the Akademie Schloss Solitude, an international artist residency, which sounds like something I might be interested in learning more about.

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Strasbourg, France - June 14-17, 2026

Costs
$198USD - Hotel Patricia - 3 nights, single room with shared bath

Euro to USD - 1.16 USD to 1 Euro (written in Euro when you see $)
$2.30 - cookies from grocery
$7.48 - fresh bread, tabouli, and cheese
.79 - cookies from grocery
$1.95 - sandwich from grocery
$3.80 - sandwich, cookies from grocery
FREE Strasbourg Museum of Modern Art b/c I teach art ($10.00 usually)
$138 - Regent Petite France 8 course meal with sparkling water and tip

Strasbourg: Where Europe Meets Itself

Strasbourg is the capital of Alsace in northeastern France, a city whose identity has been shaped by centuries of shifting borders, competing cultures, and remarkable resilience. Situated along the Rhine River directly across from Germany, Strasbourg has changed nationality multiple times, moving between French and German control before finally remaining French after the Second World War. Today, it stands not as a symbol of division but of reconciliation, serving as the home of the European Parliament, the Council of Europe, and the European Court of Human Rights.

Arriving by train from Stuttgart was straightforward and remarkably easy. As the train rolled into the station, I found myself only steps away from the historic center - a 15 minute walk. Unlike many European cities where the old town feels tucked away, Strasbourg seems to radiate outward from its medieval core. Navigation was simple, and within a short walk I arrived at my accommodation, Hotel Patricia.

My lodging was a pleasant surprise. Housed within a sixteenth-century convent that remains affliated to the church, the hotel offered simple but comfortable accommodations. After several days of hostel bunks and shared sleeping quarters, having a room of my own felt like a luxury. The room contained little more than a single bed, sink, wardrobe, fan, and luggage rack, but it was impeccably clean and wonderfully quiet. The staff were welcoming, and the shared facilities—especially the modern shower room—were spotless. Sometimes comfort is found not in extravagance but in simplicity.

As I began exploring the city, I quickly realized that Strasbourg is unlike anywhere else in France. The timber-framed buildings, steep roofs, and architectural details feel distinctly Germanic, a reminder of the city’s complicated history. It is easy to forget that you are in France until the language, cafés, and unmistakably French culture remind you otherwise. Strasbourg embodies both worlds — French food with the occasional pretzel sold at bakeries.

The city flourished during the Middle Ages and Renaissance as a center of commerce, learning, and religious thought. It played a significant role in the early printing industry, with some of Europe’s first printing presses established here shortly after Johannes Gutenberg’s invention of movable type. Strasbourg later became an important center of the Protestant Reformation, attracting influential figures such as Martin Bucer and John Calvin. Walking through its narrow streets today, it is remarkable to consider how many transformative ideas once circulated through these same neighborhoods.

History has not always been kind to Strasbourg. The city endured wars, occupations, revolutions, and repeated transfers of sovereignty between France and Germany. Few places in Europe illustrate the continent’s turbulent past so vividly. Yet rather than being defined by conflict, modern Strasbourg has embraced a different role. Following the devastation of the twentieth century, it became a symbol of Franco-German reconciliation and European unity.

That transformation is perhaps what makes Strasbourg so fascinating. Every church, square, and canal seems to tell a story layered upon another story. Roman foundations lie beneath medieval streets. German architecture stands beside French institutions. Centuries of religious, political, and cultural change coexist within a remarkably walkable city.
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St. Thomas’ Church: The Protestant Cathedral of Strasbourg

Among Strasbourg’s many remarkable churches, none intrigued me more than St. Thomas’ Church. Often referred to as the “Protestant Cathedral of Alsace,” it has stood at the center of the region’s religious and cultural history for nearly fifteen centuries. A place of worship has occupied this site since the sixth century, while the present late Gothic church, completed in 1521, remains one of the finest examples of its kind in France.

Unlike most churches I had visited throughout Europe, St. Thomas immediately felt different. It is the only hall church in Alsace, with five naves of equal height that create an unusually open and spacious interior. Instead of drawing the eye upward toward a towering central nave, the architecture invites visitors to appreciate the harmony and balance of the entire space. The effect is both elegant and surprisingly intimate.

The church occupies a unique place in European religious history. It embraced the Protestant Reformation in 1524 and has remained Lutheran ever since, even after Strasbourg and the surrounding region came under French rule in the seventeenth century. The influential reformer Martin Bucer preached here during the formative years of the Reformation, making St. Thomas one of the most important Protestant churches in France.

As I wandered through the sanctuary, I found myself pausing before several remarkable works of art and history. The church preserves the twelfth-century Romanesque sarcophagus of Bishop Adeloch as well as the magnificent Baroque mausoleum of Marshal Maurice de Saxe, created by the celebrated sculptor Jean-Baptiste Pigalle. Together, these monuments span centuries of European history, reminding visitors that this sacred space has witnessed the rise and fall of kingdoms, religious upheavals, and profound cultural change.

Perhaps the church’s greatest treasure is its celebrated 1741 Silbermann organ, regarded as one of the finest surviving instruments of its era. Knowing that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart performed on this very organ during his visit to Strasbourg in 1778 added another layer of appreciation as I stood beneath its beautifully crafted pipes. It is easy to imagine the sanctuary filled with music that has echoed through these walls for nearly three centuries.

Although Strasbourg Cathedral understandably attracts most visitors, I found St. Thomas’ Church equally rewarding. It offers a quieter, more contemplative experience while telling an equally compelling story of faith, resilience, music, and history. In many ways, it embodies Strasbourg itself—a city shaped by the intersection of French and German cultures, Catholic and Protestant traditions, and centuries of remarkable European history.

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Notre-Dame Cathedral - Strasbourg, France

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Strasbourg is home to two distinct churches named Saint-Pierre-le-Jeune (”Young Saint Peter”), which are often confused due to their shared name and history.

Protestant Church: Located at Place Saint-Pierre-le-Jeune in the historic Grande Île, this Gothic and Romanesque building has been Lutheran since 1524. It is renowned for its choir screen (jubé), one of the few remaining in Alsace, and its historic Johann Andreas Silbermann organ (1780). The site dates back to a 7th-century chapel and was consecrated by Pope Leo IX in the 11th century.

The pictures here are the Catholic one --

Catholic Church: Situated at the corner of Rues Finkmatt and De Castelnau in the Neustadt district, near the Palais de Justice, this church was built between 1889 and 1893. Designed by architects Skjold Neckelmann and August Hartel, it features a neo-Romanesque and neo-Byzantine style with a massive dome (50 meters high). It was constructed after Catholics and Protestants previously shared the medieval Protestant church until the Catholic congregation required a dedicated space.

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St. Paul’s Church (not to be confused with the cathedral of the same name in Strasbourg).

St. Paul’s Church, Strasbourg (French: Église Saint-Paul) is a major Gothic Revival landmark located on Île Sainte-Hélène at the confluence of the Ill and Aar rivers. Built between 1892 and 1897 by architect Louis Müller, it was originally constructed as a garrison church for the Lutheran members of the Imperial German garrison.

Key facts include:

Architecture: The structure features twin spires rising to 76 meters and a central Greek cross layout, inspired by the Elisabeth Church of Marburg.

History: After World War I, the church was transferred to the Reformed Protestant community, becoming the second parish of the Protestant Reformed Church of Alsace and Lorraine.

Heritage: It is classified as a Monument Historique (1998) and is noted for its massive 1897 pipe organ by Eberhard Friedrich Walcker.

Current Status: It serves as a university parish. Visible from all around the city, the church became the link between the old city and the new one (the Neustadt, built by the Germans). It also established in the imperial quarter a richly symbolic connection between power (represented by the emperor’s palace) and knowledge (the university).

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The Église Saint-Pierre-le-Vieux de Strasbourg is a historic religious site in Strasbourg, France, notable for being a simultaneum (a single building used jointly by both Lutheran Protestant and Roman Catholic denominations). First mentioned in 1130, the Gothic structure was built between 1381 and 1428 and became Lutheran in 1529 before the Catholic right was restored in 1683 by decree of Louis XIV.

The complex consists of two distinct parts:

The Protestant section occupies the original nave and medieval tower, located on the Grand’Rue side. Since 2018, it has been repurposed as a multi-use community space called NooToos, featuring coworking areas and cultural events rather than regular worship services.

The Catholic section is a separate neo-Gothic church built perpendicular to the original structure in 1867 by architect Jean Geoffroy Conrath, located on the Rue du 22-Novembre side. It houses relics of Saint Brigit and classified artworks, including the Passion of Christ by Henri Lutzelmann.

The entire site is inscribed as a monument historique since 1981 and is located at 6 Place Saint-Pierre-le-Vieux.

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As I wandered through Strasbourg’s historic center, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, I found myself reflecting on how rare it is to encounter a place that so perfectly captures the complexity of European history. Strasbourg is not simply French or German. It is something larger—a city that embodies the idea of Europe itself.

One of my fondest memories of the city beyond its historical architecture, canals, and cobbled streets was the meal I ate at Regent Petite France. It is located in the heart os Strasbourg and proudly one of the most photographed crossroads in the historic area. Nicolas Stamm-Corby and Serge Schaal of La Fourchette des Ducs, 2 stars in the Michelin Guide, are the culinary creators of Restaurant RÉGENT PETITE FRANCE. Together with Executive Chef Cédric Koch, they invite you to discover gastronomic cuisine. And if you go, you will taken to heaven and back over the course of 3 hours. I had the gustation tasting, and it exceeded expectations.
Follow this link — Regent Petite France

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Luxembourg, Luxembourg - June 17-20, 2026

Costs
$147USD - Youth Hostel Luxembourg - 3 nights, 4 bed dorm with breakfast

Euro to USD - 1.16 USD to 1 Euro (written in Euro when you see $)
$14.90 - train ticket to Bruges, Belgium
FREE museum ticket to MUDAM b/c I teach art ($7.50 usually)
$2.34 - baguette and tomatoes from grocery
$3.90 - beer and cheese from grocery
$9.24 - 6 pack of beer, 6 pastel de Nata from the grocery
$6.23 large cider, cookies, tabouli from grocery

Luxembourg: Small Country, Big Impressions

Luxembourg is one of Europe’s smallest countries, yet it manages to leave an outsized impression. Nestled between Belgium, Germany, and France, the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg is the world’s last sovereign grand duchy and one of the founding members of the European Union. Its capital, Luxembourg City, serves as one of the EU’s principal institutional centers, but despite its international significance, the country retains an intimate and approachable character.

Before arriving, I knew Luxembourg primarily as a wealthy financial center. What I did not expect was how effortlessly livable it felt — though costing more than the basic US costs for food.

One of the first surprises was discovering that all public transportation is free—not only for residents but also for visitors. Boarding a bus, tram, or train requires no ticket, no pass, and no planning. You simply step aboard, find a seat, and enjoy the ride. Introduced nationwide in 2020, the system remains one of the most ambitious public transportation experiments in the world. As a traveler accustomed to navigating ticket machines, fare zones, and transportation passes, the simplicity felt almost revolutionary.

Another surprise was the city’s remarkable cleanliness. Walking through the streets of Luxembourg, I found myself repeatedly struck by how immaculate everything appeared. Sidewalks were spotless, public spaces were meticulously maintained, and litter seemed virtually nonexistent. At times it felt less like a functioning capital city and more like a carefully designed theme park. The comparison that came to mind was Disney—not because it felt artificial, but because everything seemed so intentionally cared for.

The country consistently ranks among the world’s leaders in wealth, environmental stewardship, and quality of life. It also supports equity and inclusion and is proud to be an advocate for “other”. Those statistics are impressive on paper, but what interested me more was how those rankings translated into everyday experience. Efficient transportation, well-maintained public spaces, and a strong sense of civic pride were all visible without needing to consult a report or economic index.

Yet Luxembourg is far more than a prosperous modern state. Its history stretches back more than a thousand years to the founding of a fortress in 963. Over the centuries it passed between powerful European dynasties, was contested by neighboring empires, and endured repeated invasions and territorial partitions. Because of its strategic location, Luxembourg often found itself caught between larger powers. French kings, Spanish rulers, Austrian Habsburgs, Prussians, and Germans all left their mark upon the country.

The massive fortifications that once protected Luxembourg City earned it the nickname “Gibraltar of the North.” Although much of the fortress system was dismantled in the nineteenth century, remnants still dominate the landscape. Walking through the city today, it is impossible to ignore how geography shaped its destiny. Deep valleys, dramatic cliffs, bridges, and defensive walls reveal why this small territory held such strategic importance for so many centuries. And if you are on foot, get ready for a workout!

The twentieth century brought further challenges. Luxembourg endured occupation during both World Wars but emerged afterward as one of the strongest advocates for European cooperation. Alongside France, Germany, Belgium, Italy, and the Netherlands, it became a founding member of the institutions that would eventually evolve into the European Union. For a nation that had spent centuries navigating conflicts among larger neighbors, helping build a more unified Europe seems a fitting legacy.

What I remember most, however, is not a statistic, a treaty, or a historical date. It is the feeling of being in a place where things simply work. The buses arrive. The streets are clean. The public spaces are inviting. The city feels safe, orderly, and welcoming. Luxembourg may be small on the map, but it demonstrates how thoughtful planning, civic responsibility, and a strong sense of identity can create an exceptionally high quality of life. Though I must admit, it’s a place I don’t think I would want to live.

Sometimes the smallest countries offer the biggest surprises.

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One of the highlights of my time in Luxembourg was a visit to MUDAM, the Musée d’Art Moderne Grand-Duc Jean. Luxembourg’s premier museum of modern and contemporary art is housed in a striking V-shaped building designed by renowned architect I. M. Pei, whose work seamlessly blends modern design with the historic fortifications that surround the site. Even before stepping inside, the building itself felt like a work of art.

The museum’s permanent collection includes works by internationally acclaimed artists such as Marina Abramović, Andy Warhol, and Bruce Nauman. Yet it was the temporary exhibitions that left the strongest impression on me. The featured exhibitions by Igshaan Adams and Simon Fujiwara were thoughtful, engaging, and far exceeded my expectations.

Igshaan Adams, a South African artist from Cape Town, explores themes of memory, identity, spirituality, and belonging through textiles, sculpture, and movement. Raised during the apartheid era in a racially segregated community, Adams draws upon personal experience to create works that speak to division, healing, and transformation. What struck me most was the tactile quality of the exhibition. Before entering the galleries, he invites visitors to touch the work in the corridor to help inform the viewer his process. (It is something I plan to do in my future exhibitions.) Visitors were invited to touch textile samples and immerse themselves in materials that carried traces of both personal and collective histories. His intricate tapestries and suspended sculptural forms seemed to float between worlds, transforming everyday materials into something deeply reflective and almost spiritual.

Equally compelling was the work of British-Japanese artist Simon Fujiwara. His exhibition examined how modern society constructs identity through images, entertainment, tourism, and popular culture. Moving through the galleries felt like stepping into a world that was at once playful and unsettling. Fujiwara’s work challenged visitors to consider how much of contemporary life is shaped by carefully curated appearances and manufactured experiences. Beneath the humor and vibrant imagery lay questions about authenticity, self-image, and our desire to find something genuine in an increasingly artificial world.

What I appreciated most about both exhibitions was their accessibility. Contemporary art can sometimes feel intimidating or deliberately obscure, but these works invited curiosity rather than demanded expertise. Adams explored deeply personal themes through texture, movement, and memory, while Fujiwara used humor and familiar cultural references to examine larger social questions. I also appreciated that he openly exhibits his sexually up front and personal as well as his own syphilis diagnosis. Together, they demonstrated how contemporary art can help us better understand not only the world around us but also ourselves.

I left MUDAM feeling energized, thoughtful, and grateful for the experience. It was one of those museum visits that lingers long after you leave the building—not because you remember every piece on display, but because the ideas continue to follow you long afterward. Of all the attractions I visited in Luxembourg, MUDAM was among the most memorable.

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Église Saint-Michel (Saint Michael’s Church) is the oldest holy building in Luxembourg City, located at Rue Sigefroi in the Ville-Haute district.

History and Architecture

Origins: The site originally held a castle chapel built by Count Sigefroi in 987, which was replaced by the current church structure over centuries.

Construction: The current building dates to 1688, having been destroyed and rebuilt multiple times during sieges of the fortress.

Style: It features a unique blend of Romanesque, Gothic, and Baroque elements due to its turbulent history and restorations in the 1960s and 1980s.

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Luxembourg Notre-Dame Cathedral

Notre-Dame Cathedral is the Roman Catholic cathedral of the Archdiocese of Luxembourg and the only cathedral in the country, located in Luxembourg City. Originally built as a Jesuit church with the cornerstone laid in 1613 and completed in 1621, it is a notable example of late Gothic architecture mixed with Renaissance elements.

Key Historical and Structural Facts

Elevation: It was elevated to a cathedral in 1870 by Pope Pius IX when Luxembourg was established as a diocese.

Expansion: The cathedral was significantly enlarged between 1935 and 1938 by architect Hubert Schumacher, adding a transept, new choir, and two additional towers (east and central) to the original west tower.

Royal Crypt: The crypt houses the remains of several Grand Dukes and Grand Duchesses of Luxembourg, including Charlotte, Jean, and Marie-Adélaïde, as well as John of Bohemia (reinterred in 1945).

Patronage: It houses the statue of Our Lady of Consolation (Consolatrix Afflictorum), the patron saint of the city and nation, which has been venerated there since 1794.

Fire Damage: The west tower and bells were destroyed in a fire on Good Friday, 1985, during renovation work, and the tower was reconstructed by October of that year.

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Echternach, Luxembourg - June 19, 2026

A Morning Adventure to Echternach

One of the unexpected pleasures of visiting Luxembourg is that public transportation is completely free. With buses and trains available at no charge, it becomes easy to embrace spontaneity. So when I woke early at 5 a.m., I decided to take advantage of the opportunity and set off on an adventure to Echternach, the oldest town in Luxembourg.

The journey was supposed to take about an hour by bus, though that estimate depended largely on whether the bus decided to run on schedule. As we made our way eastward through the countryside, the landscape gradually gave way to rolling hills and small villages before arriving in the historic town near the German border (30 minutes away by car).

Echternach is home to roughly 6,000 residents and possesses the kind of charm that can only be found in a small European town that has grown organically over centuries. The historic center serves as the heart of the community, where shops, cafés, churches, and the central bus station all converge within a remarkably walkable area. Life here moves at a slower pace, and the town feels refreshingly authentic. You can tell its center is focused on tourism because of the amount of restaurants and cafes in the area.

The history of Echternach stretches back to 698 when Saint Willibrord, an English monk from North Umbria, established an abbey on the site. His missionary work helped spread Christianity throughout the region, and his influence remains deeply woven into the town’s identity more than thirteen centuries later. The Basilica of Saint Willibrord, which houses his tomb, remains one of Luxembourg’s most important religious sites and holds the distinction of being the resting place of the country’s only saint.

What fascinated me most was how thoroughly the town’s history remains visible. The streets, buildings, and churches all seem connected to the abbey that gave birth to the community. During the Middle Ages, Echternach became an important center of learning and scholarship, with its abbey library and scriptorium gaining a reputation throughout Europe. Over the centuries the town endured fires, wars, revolutions, and occupations, yet it continually rebuilt itself while preserving its historic character.

Echternach is perhaps best known internationally for its famous Dancing Procession, held annually on Whit Tuesday in honor of Saint Willibrord. Pilgrims and participants move through the streets in a unique rhythmic procession that has become one of Luxembourg’s most distinctive religious traditions and is recognized by UNESCO as part of the world’s intangible cultural heritage.

The River Sauer flows quietly along the edge of town, forming the modern border between Luxembourg and Germany. Standing beside the river, it is easy to appreciate how borders can feel both significant and almost invisible. Today the crossing between the two countries is effortless, a reminder of how much Europe has changed over the centuries.

Like many places in Luxembourg, Echternach bears the scars of history. The town suffered damage during both World Wars, particularly during the Battle of the Bulge in the winter of 1944. Yet careful restoration has preserved much of its historical appearance, allowing visitors to experience a town that feels remarkably connected to its past.

My visit to Echternach ended up consuming the entire day, though not entirely by design. One of the reasons I lingered was to attend the free noon organ recital in the Basilica of Saint Willibrord. The performance was well worth the extra time. Sitting in the cool sanctuary while the organ’s powerful notes filled the ancient church was one of the highlights of my visit., especially the opening piece by J. S. Bach.

The real adventure began when it was time to return to Luxembourg City.

Buses from Echternach run only once an hour, so missing one is not a minor inconvenience. When my bus finally arrived, I climbed aboard without a second thought. What I failed to realize was that the bus changed its original number to another number and a totally different destination. Rather than heading toward Luxembourg City, it was now bound for a small town in the opposite direction.

Fortunately, I noticed the mistake after only one stop. Unfortunately, that still meant getting off, hiking back into town, and waiting another hour for the next bus.

Determined not to lose more time, I consulted my phone and discovered an alternative route on Mapquest. According to the map, another bus could get me back to Luxembourg if I made a transfer along the way. It seemed like a clever solution. I boarded the bus, feeling rather pleased with myself for outsmarting the transportation system; however, the bus gods had other ideas.

As I approached the transfer point, I watched in disbelief as the connecting bus failed to enter the designated bus loading area. Instead, it sailed right past on the adjacent road and disappeared into the distance before I could even wave. My carefully planned rescue operation evaporated in seconds. Another hour lost.

By this point, the afternoon heat had become oppressive, and I had learned an important lesson: never assume a bus will go where the schedule says it will go. When the next departure time approached, I stationed myself directly beside the roadway rather than in the shaded waiting area. If that bus intended to bypass the stop again, it was going to see me. An hour later, the bus appeared. And sure enough, it looked ready to repeat the exact same maneuver.

This time I was prepared. I stepped forward and waved my arms with enough enthusiasm to flag down a passing aircraft. The driver stopped, I climbed aboard, and after another hour-long ride I eventually made it back to Luxembourg City.

Looking back, the entire ordeal was more amusing than frustrating. Travel rarely goes exactly according to plan, and those are often the stories that become the most memorable. I may have spent several extra hours navigating Luxembourg’s bus network, but I also gained an unexpected adventure, a few miles of walking, lovely country scenery, and a story far more interesting than simply catching the correct bus home on the first try.

Overall, Echternach left a lasting impression. It lacked the grandeur of Europe’s great capitals, yet offered something equally valuable: a sense of continuity. In a world that often feels hurried and constantly changing, Echternach seemed content to be itself—a small town shaped by faith, history, and tradition, quietly carrying more than thirteen centuries of stories within its streets.

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Bruges, Brussels - June 20-23, 2026

Costs
$110 - Snuffel Youth Hostel - 3 nights, 4 bed dorm

Euro to USD - 1.16 USD to 1 Euro (written in Euro when you see $)
$9.11 - sandwich, 2 tarts, chocolate bar from grocery
$5.50 - thrift store long sleeve shirt
20.00 - 2 porcelain small bowls with butterflies
7.50 - laundry (wash and dry)
1.35 - chocolate croissant
10.05 - thrifting!… 6 white glass shell dishes, cravat, brown leather bracelet, small bone carved knife for cheese, one mother of pearl spoon with wooden handle
3.99 - grocery - pesto wrap

Bruges: A Medieval City Frozen in Time

Bruges feels the most like stepping into a storybook. A short 15-minute walk from the train station, the town opens up onto cobbled stone streets. While the historic center is not car free, pedestrians and bicyclists reign supreme. It does feel a bit like Amsterdam.

Often called the “Venice of the North,” the city is famous for its network of canals, cobblestone streets, and remarkably preserved medieval architecture. While I understand the comparison, I couldn’t help but think that Strasbourg may actually have more canals. Still, there is no denying that water shapes the character of Bruges, winding through the city and reflecting centuries-old buildings that seem untouched by time.

One of my first surprises was linguistic rather than architectural. For some reason, I had assumed that French would be the dominant language. Instead, I quickly discovered that Bruges is firmly within the Flemish region of Belgium, where Dutch—and more specifically the West Flemish dialect—is the language most commonly spoken. It was a reminder that Belgium is far more culturally complex than many visitors realize.

The historic center of Bruges is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and among the best-preserved medieval cities in Europe. Walking through its streets, it was easy to understand why. Gothic churches, market squares, canals, and narrow lanes create an atmosphere that feels remarkably authentic rather than staged for tourists. Although millions of visitors arrive each year, Bruges somehow retains a sense of dignity and permanence. It is also squeaky clean.

The city’s prosperity began during the Middle Ages when it emerged as one of Europe’s great commercial centers. Strategically positioned between the markets of northern and southern Europe, Bruges became a hub for merchants, bankers, and traders. Goods from England, Scandinavia, Italy, and beyond passed through its markets. The city pioneered financial innovations, hosted what is often considered the world’s first stock exchange, and accumulated extraordinary wealth through international trade.

That prosperity attracted artists as well as merchants. During the fifteenth century, Bruges became a center of culture under the Dukes of Burgundy. Masters such as Jan van Eyck and Hans Memling helped establish the city as one of Europe’s artistic capitals. Their legacy remains visible throughout the city today.

Like many prosperous cities, Bruges eventually faced decline. The silting of the Zwin waterway gradually cut off its direct access to the sea, reducing its importance as a trading center. Commercial activity shifted elsewhere, particularly to Antwerp, and Bruges entered a long period of economic stagnation. Ironically, that decline helped preserve the city. Because relatively little modernization occurred, much of its medieval fabric survived intact.

By the nineteenth century, visitors began arriving not for commerce but to admire the city’s historic beauty. What had once been viewed as a relic of the past became one of Europe’s most treasured destinations. Today, visitors come from around the world to experience the same streets, canals, churches, and market squares that have defined Bruges for centuries. Come on a Saturday, or when the cruise ships bring throngs on tourists, you feel like you are walking the packed streets of Venice. Every breathes a sigh of relief for Sunday and Monday, when things return to normal and a lot less hectic. Staying here for several days, I too could witness the pulse change, and I was delighted for the slower pace and quiet.

As I wandered through the city, I found myself repeatedly looking upward. The soaring Belfry dominates the skyline, while the Church of Our Lady rises above the rooftops with one of the tallest brick towers in the world. Around every corner seemed to be another view worthy of a postcard.

What impressed me most, however, was not any single monument. It was the remarkable sense of continuity. Bruges does not feel like a city that merely preserves history; it feels like a city still living within it. The canals still flow, the bells still ring, and daily life continues amid buildings that have witnessed hundreds of years of European history.

In a continent filled with beautiful cities, Bruges stands apart because it feels timeless. It is not difficult to imagine merchants, pilgrims, artists, and travelers from centuries past walking the same streets. It is a treasure.
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St. James’s Church is a Catholic church in Bruges, Belgium. Originally built around 1240, the church was considerably expanded in 1459 to match the rising affluence of Bruges, and was patronized by the Duke of Burgundy. In the late 17th and early 18th centuries, the church’s interior was remodeled in its present Baroque style.

Because it’s hot and many houses do not have AC, the church has opened a study area in the sanctuary for university students to review their courses before exams next week. The church inside is refreshingly cooler than outside.

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Church of the Bruges Camelites

In the seventeenth century, Bruges was home to at least twenty abbeys and convents, and even today more than a quarter of the historic city center remains connected to religious life. Only two monastic communities continue their presence in the city: the English Convent and the Discalced Carmelites Convent. Both welcome visitors who wish to experience authentic monastic life and explore their spiritual heritage.

The story of the Discalced Carmelites in Bruges began in the seventeenth century, although the origins of the Carmelite Order reach much further back. In the twelfth century, a group of hermits settled on Mount Carmel in present-day northern Israel and gradually formed a religious community. Around 1210, they received an official rule of life from the Patriarch of Jerusalem. As Islamic rule expanded throughout the region, the Carmelites dispersed across Europe, arriving in Bruges by the middle of the thirteenth century.

A major reform of the order emerged in sixteenth-century Spain through the efforts of Teresa of Ávila and John of the Cross. Their stricter observance became known as the Discalced Carmelites, a name derived from their practice of going barefoot or wearing simple sandals as a sign of poverty and humility. The Discalced Carmelites established themselves in Bruges in 1630, first on Schaarstraat and later in the noble residence known as the Hof van Uytkerke on Ezelstraat.

Originally constructed in the fifteenth century, the Hof van Uytkerke was transformed into a monastic complex containing a church, refectory, dormitory, and extensive garden. Between 1688 and 1691, the community rebuilt the church according to plans drawn by Brother Patricius of Antwerp. Its façade bears a striking resemblance to that of St. Augustine’s Church. During this same period, the monastery library was constructed. Throughout the eighteenth century the community flourished, reaching more than forty members by 1773. Additional buildings, including a simple refectory overlooking the garden, further altered the appearance of the complex.

The upheavals of the French Revolution brought an end to many religious communities throughout Europe. While the nearby Shoed Carmelites of Carmersstraat disappeared, the Discalced Carmelites survived. Although the property was confiscated and sold, the Prior of Ghent eventually succeeded in repurchasing it and restoring monastic life.

The convent’s architecture is notably restrained and austere, reflecting Carmelite ideals. In contrast, the church interior is richly decorated in the Baroque style. Religious art served not only as decoration but also as a means of teaching the faith. Much of the interior ornamentation was created by Brother Victor, born Jacob de Coster, whose craftsmanship can be seen throughout the church. His work includes the high altar, pulpit, communion rail, interior doors, and elegant wooden paneling.

Among the church’s treasures, the high altar stands out as a masterpiece. Although carved from wood, it is painted to imitate marble with remarkable realism. The altar painting was presented by the city of Bruges in gratitude for the Carmelites’ service during a devastating plague epidemic. The monks had earned the affection and respect of the city’s residents by caring for the sick when many others would not. Their dedication came at a tremendous cost, as nine brothers and priests lost their lives while ministering to plague victims.

Today, the Church and Convent of the Discalced Carmelites remains one of Bruges’ most significant religious complexes, encompassing the church, convent buildings, and a secluded walled garden. The seventeenth-century adaptations of the Hof van Uytkerke remain visible throughout the site, illustrating centuries of monastic life and architectural evolution. Recognition of its cultural importance led to partial protected status in 1974, with additional protection granted in 1984 to the church interior, its vaults, and the historic plague house. Together, these preserved spaces offer a remarkable glimpse into the spiritual, artistic, and charitable legacy of the Carmelites in Bruges.
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Brussels, Belgium
June 23 - 29, 2026

Costs: Euro to USD - 1.16 USD to 1 Euro (written in Euro when you see $)
$18 - train from Bruges to Brussels
$3.70 - grocery - 2 packs of cookies
$10 - handmade calfskin square bag from thrift store
$11.60 - subway to airport
$1,500 - Pillows City Hotel

Brussels: More Than a Capital

Brussels is Belgium’s largest city and its political heart, serving not only as the nation’s capital but also as the de facto capital of the European Union and the headquarters of NATO. Home to more than 1.2 million residents, the city sits at the crossroads of Germanic and Romance Europe, creating a vibrant blend of cultures unlike anywhere else on the continent.

Despite its international importance, I have to admit that I preferred Bruges. Brussels certainly has its own charm, but where Bruges feels intimate and timeless, Brussels is larger, busier, and unmistakably cosmopolitan.

One of the first things I noticed was the city’s bilingual nature. Every street sign appears in both French and Dutch, often with names so different that they seem unrelated. Although Brussels is officially bilingual, French clearly dominates daily life. English is also widely understood, thanks to the thousands of diplomats, civil servants, and international workers who call the city home. Walking through the streets, I frequently heard conversations shifting effortlessly between multiple languages, reflecting Brussels’ role as one of Europe’s most international cities.

Historically, Brussels began as a small settlement founded in the late tenth century before growing into an important commercial center. When Belgium became an independent nation in the nineteenth century, the city underwent dramatic transformation. Large sections of the medieval town gave way to ministries, government buildings, schools, and grand boulevards as Brussels evolved into the nation’s political capital. While remnants of the old city remain—most notably the magnificent Grand Place—other Flemish cities such as Bruges, Ghent, and Antwerp retain a more complete medieval character.
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The Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula (Dutch: Sint-Michiels- en Sint-Goedelekathedraal) is the primary Gothic cathedral in Brussels, Belgium, serving as the co-cathedral of the Archdiocese of Mechelen–Brussels. Although historically known as the Collegiate Church of St. Michael and St. Gudula, it was officially designated a cathedral in 1962.

The church stands on the Treurenberg hill, a historic crossroads, with origins dating back to a 9th-century chapel dedicated to Saint Michael the Archangel. In 1047, the relics of Saint Gudula were transferred to the site, adding her as a co-patron saint. The current structure, built primarily in the Brabantine Gothic style, was constructed between the 13th and 15th centuries and is renowned for its imposing towers and royal ceremonies, including the 1999 wedding of Crown Prince Philippe.

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The Église du couvent des Pères Carmes de Bruxelles (Church of the Convent of the Discalced Carmelite Fathers) is a Roman Catholic church located at 44-45 Avenue de la Toison d’Or, 1050 Ixelles, Belgium.

It is built in the Lombard Neo-Gothic style, characterized by a tripartite facade with small arcades and brickwork. The current structure was built between 1861 and 1875 by architects Menge, Appelmans, and Cuypens, replacing an earlier 17th-century church destroyed in 1796. The church is dedicated to Saint Joseph and Saint Thérèse of Ávila, whose sculptures adorn the facade. It houses a historic organ originally designed by Merklin-Schütze (1869) and renovated by Roethinger and Patrick Collon.

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Église Notre-Dame du Sablon (Church of Our Lady of Victories) is the most prominent, located in the upscale Sablon district. Built in the 15th century in the late Brabantine Gothic style, it originated as a chapel for the Crossbowmen’s Guild. The church is renowned for its flamboyant Gothic exterior, tall stained-glass windows, and two Baroque chapels.

It is a prime example of Late Brabantine Gothic architecture, with construction beginning around 1400 and completing in 1549. The church features rich Baroque interior elements, including two chapels built by the Thurn und Taxis family in the 17th century. Originally built for the Guild of the Crossbowmen, the church gained fame due to a miraculous statue of the Virgin Mary transported from Antwerp in 1348. This event initiated the Ommegang, a major historical procession in Brussels. The church was designated a historic monument in 1936. Its current ornate exterior, including turrets and pinnacles, results from major 19th-century restorations led by architects Jules-Jacques Van Ysendyck and his son, who restored the structure to a unified Gothic style.

Notable Features: The interior houses a 1697 Baroque pulpit by Marc de Vos, polychrome murals from the 15th century, and over 300 stained-glass windows. The church is situated near the Place du Grand Sablon and serves as the burial site for figures such as Marie of Hungary.
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The Chapel of Marie-la-Misérable (also known as Lenneke Marekapel) is a 14th-century Brabantine Gothic religious site located at 37 Avenue de la Chapelle in Woluwe-Saint-Lambert, a commune of Brussels, Belgium.

The chapel commemorates Marie, a 14th-century recluse who was falsely accused of theft by a spurned nobleman. She was sentenced to be buried alive, and miracles at her execution site led to the chapel’s construction as a pilgrimage shrine. Built in the Gothic Brabantine style, the interior features a 17th-century Baroque ensemble (sanctuary, balustrade, and pulpit) and a notable 1609 triptyque attributed to David Teniers the Elder, depicting scenes from Marie’s life. Since 1922, the chapel has been managed by the Assumptionist Fathers and is classified as a heritage site.

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My reason for coming to Brussels, however, had little to do with politics or architecture. I was here to attend Various Voices, Europe’s largest LGBTQIA+ choral festival. Held every four years under the auspices of LEGATO, the European association of LGBTQIA+ choirs, the festival brings together singers from across Europe and beyond in a week-long celebration of music, community, and inclusion. This was my third Various Voices festival, having previously attended the gatherings in Bologna and Munich.

Choirs arrived from nearly every corner of Europe, joined by ensembles from North America and even Iceland. Throughout the city, singers filled concert halls, churches, theaters, and public squares. Music spilled into the streets, transforming Brussels into more than just a political capital; it became a place where thousands of LGBTQIA+ people gathered to celebrate identity, friendship, and the universal language of song.

For me, Brussels was not simply another destination on my itinerary. It was a reunion with friends, an opportunity to meet new people from around the world, and a reminder of how music has the power to build community across languages, cultures, and national borders. The city’s diversity made it the perfect host for a festival dedicated to bringing so many different voices together.

One of the highlights of my time in Brussels was visiting the House of European History. Housed in the beautifully restored Eastman Building within leafy Parc Léopold, the museum explores the story of Europe—not through the history of individual nations, but by examining the shared experiences that have shaped the continent. Every exhibit is available in all twenty-four official languages of the European Union, making the museum itself a fitting symbol of European cooperation.

I arrived when the doors opened at 9:00 a.m., convinced I would have ample time to see everything before lunch. I was wrong. By noon, I had not even finished the permanent exhibition, let alone begun the temporary exhibition. The museum was so thoughtfully organized and intellectually engaging that I found myself lingering at nearly every display. Rather than rushing from one artifact to the next, I wanted to read the explanations, watch the multimedia presentations, and reflect on how each era connected to the next.

The exhibition begins with the ancient myth of Europa before guiding visitors through the rise and fall of empires, the Enlightenment, industrialization, nationalism, colonialism, the devastation of two world wars, the Holocaust, the Cold War, and ultimately the creation of the European Union. Rather than presenting history as a series of isolated national stories, the museum weaves them together into a single narrative, demonstrating how the fortunes of one country have always been intertwined with those of its neighbors.

What impressed me most was the museum’s willingness to confront difficult subjects. It does not shy away from Europe’s colonial past, the horrors of fascism and communism, genocide, or the divisions that have repeatedly fractured the continent. At the same time, it celebrates the remarkable achievements that emerged from those tragedies, particularly the determination to pursue cooperation instead of conflict after the Second World War.

The final galleries are especially thought-provoking. Rather than ending with a triumphant celebration of European integration, they ask visitors to consider the future of Europe. Questions about democracy, migration, climate change, identity, and the role of the European Union are presented without easy answers, encouraging visitors to think critically about where the continent is headed.

Perhaps the greatest compliment I can give the House of European History is that I never once looked at my watch. Hours passed without my noticing. Admission is free, yet the museum rivals many of the world’s finest history museums in both scholarship and presentation. I eventually left knowing I had not seen everything, but I also left with a far deeper appreciation for the complex, often turbulent, history that has shaped modern Europe.

If I ever return to Brussels, this will be one of my stops. There is simply too much to absorb in a single visit.
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No visit to Brussels would be complete without spending time in the Grand-Place, or Grote Markt, the city’s magnificent central square. Often described as one of the most beautiful public squares in the world, it more than lives up to its reputation.

Originally established as a marketplace in the eleventh century, the square has witnessed nearly a thousand years of commerce, celebrations, political upheaval, and everyday life. Much of what visitors see today dates from the remarkable rebuilding that followed the devastating French bombardment of 1695. Within just a few years, the city’s guilds transformed the ruins into the spectacular ensemble of Baroque architecture that surrounds the square today.

The ornate guildhalls compete for attention with the soaring Gothic Town Hall, whose elegant spire dominates the skyline. Across the square stands the King’s House (Maison du Roi), a striking neo-Gothic building that now houses the Brussels City Museum. Although each façade is unique, together they create an architectural harmony that is breathtaking from every angle.

I found myself slowing my pace as I entered the square. The surrounding streets suddenly opened into an expansive space paved with centuries-old cobblestones, and I instinctively stopped to take it all in. Every building seemed covered with intricate carvings, gilded details, statues, and ornamentation that rewarded a closer look. No matter where I turned, there was another façade demanding my attention.

Unlike many historic squares that function primarily as tourist attractions, the Grand-Place still feels like the living heart of Brussels. Residents and visitors alike gather at cafés, linger on the steps, admire the architecture, or simply pause to absorb the atmosphere. It is easy to understand why UNESCO designated the square a World Heritage Site and why it continues to be regarded as one of Europe’s greatest public spaces.

Some places impress because of a single iconic monument. The Grand-Place is different. Its beauty comes from the harmony of the whole. Standing there, surrounded by centuries of history and extraordinary craftsmanship, I understood why so many people consider it the crown jewel of Brussels.
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Brussels is a city in constant transition. Once a modest settlement along the River Senne, it has grown into Belgium’s largest metropolitan region and the de facto capital of the European Union. The transformation has been dramatic over the past two centuries, driven first by industrialization and more recently by globalization and immigration. Today, more than 1.2 million people call the Brussels-Capital Region home, while the metropolitan area exceeds 2.5 million residents.

What fascinated me most was not the statistics but the city’s remarkable diversity. As I wandered from one neighborhood to another, I could sense Brussels continually reinventing itself. Different districts reflected the cultures of more recent arrivals, each adding another layer to the city’s identity. Conversations shifted effortlessly between languages. Bakeries, cafés, restaurants, grocery stores, and markets showcased cuisines from every corner of the globe. Traditional European architecture stood alongside mosques, African hair salons, Asian supermarkets, Middle Eastern bakeries, and businesses serving communities from around the world.

Brussels has often been described as a multicultural city, but that term almost seems too limited. The city feels more like a crossroads where cultures do not simply coexist but interact, influence one another, and continually reshape the urban landscape. Walking its streets, I was reminded that European history is still being written, not only through treaties and politics but through the everyday lives of the people who now call Brussels home.

That evolution is visible beyond the people themselves. Murals and street art brighten neighborhood walls, often addressing themes of identity, migration, equality, and social justice. Even the graffiti seemed less like random vandalism and more like an ongoing conversation about the city’s changing character. Brussels wears its transformation openly, allowing visitors to witness a city that is continually negotiating its past while embracing an increasingly diverse future.

Some visitors come to Brussels for its politics, others for its architecture or museums. I left remembering something different. I remembered a city alive with many languages, many traditions, and many stories—a place that reflects not only Belgium, but the increasingly interconnected world of the twenty-first century.

Brussels challenged many of my expectations. I arrived anticipating a city defined primarily by politics—a place of bureaucrats, diplomats, and the institutions of the European Union. Those elements are certainly present, but they are only one part of a much richer story.

Over the course of my visit, I discovered a city where history and modernity exist side by side. Medieval guildhalls stand only blocks away from sleek government buildings. World-class museums encourage visitors to examine Europe’s triumphs and tragedies with honesty and humility. Neighborhoods echo with dozens of languages, while cafés and markets celebrate cultures from every continent. It is impossible to walk through Brussels without recognizing that Europe continues to evolve.

Attending Various Voices added another dimension to my experience. Thousands of LGBTQIA+ singers from across Europe and beyond gathered not only to perform, but to celebrate community, diversity, and belonging. In many ways, the festival mirrored the city itself: people from different backgrounds, languages, and traditions coming together to create something more beautiful than any one group could achieve alone.

Brussels may never become my favorite Belgian city—that honor still belongs to Bruges—but it is undoubtedly one of the most fascinating. It is a city of contrasts, where old and new, local and international, tradition and change constantly intersect. More than any other place I visited, Brussels reminded me that Europe is not a finished story. It is a living project, continually shaped by its history, its people, and its willingness to imagine a shared future.

As my subway car pulled away from the station and into the airport in the early hours of June 29, I realized that I was leaving with more than photographs and souvenirs. I carried with me a deeper appreciation for the complexity of Europe and the extraordinary diversity that gives the continent its enduring strength. Brussels had shown me that the true heart of Europe is found not only in its institutions, but in the countless voices, cultures, and histories that continue to shape it every day.

The phrase “No Kings” emerged as a rallying cry amid the turbulent political climate surrounding Donald Trump’s second term. The Pedophile in Chief has harmed us, and it must end. Rooted in a long American tradition of resisting concentrated power, the slogan drew on both historical memory and present-day anxieties about executive authority.

The earliest confirmed “No Kings” demonstrations began as loosely organized protests in 2025, coinciding with heightened political tensions and large public gatherings in Washington, D.C. While not unprecedented in scale, these protests reflected a familiar pattern in American civic life, moments when citizens take to the streets to assert that leadership remains accountable to the people.

By the fall of that year, participation had grown. Demonstrations appeared in major cities and college towns alike, echoing past waves of activism such as the Women’s March and the nationwide protests of 2020. Crowds varied widely in size, but the message remained consistent: an insistence that democratic norms, however strained, must endure. All 50 states were represented, and at least 15 countries also gathered in unison.

The movement reached a symbolic peak in early 2026. In St. Paul, one of the largest gatherings drew an estimated 100,000 people to the state capitol grounds. The protest blended the expected and the unexpected: seasoned political figures like Bernie Sanders and Ilhan Omar addressed the crowd, while artists and musicians lent their voices to the moment. Bruce Springsteen paid tribute to the city with a performance honoring lives lost amid escalating tensions surrounding immigration enforcement when he sang “Streets of Minneapolis” to honor Alex Pretti and Rene Nicole Good, who were murdered in the street by ICE during Operation Metro Surge.

Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1EppPc2c4A

The “No Kings” protests became as much about narrative as numbers. Estimates of participation ranged from modest to monumental. What is clear is less the exact scale than the enduring impulse behind it: a recurring American instinct to challenge authority when it feels overreaching. Whether remembered as a defining movement or a patchwork of localized dissent, the “No Kings” protests occupy a space where civic action, politics, and personal conviction intersect.

As I prepared to move into a new home, I was unable to join No Kings in person. Still, I was there in spirit…in solidarity, in conviction, and in hope. If millions are indeed finding their voice in this moment, the responsibility extends beyond protest. It carries forward into civic participation, into elections, and into the ongoing work of shaping what comes next.

In the end, movements are measured not only by the crowds they gather, but by the change they inspire. If “No Kings” is to endure, it will not be because of a single day or a single voice, but because ordinary people continue to show up—in the streets, at the ballot box, and in the acts of civic responsibility that keep a democracy alive.

There is a particular kind of breath you hold when you’ve already been told, once, that your life might be shorter than you imagined. While water is life, breath leads you forward.

This past Friday, I went to Mayo Clinic for my six-month chest scan, a quiet checkpoint in a journey I never expected to take approximately a year ago. Just a couple of weeks earlier, my PSA results had come back clear. By every measure, I had reason to believe this scan would be the same. And yet, experience has taught me that certainty in medicine is always provisional. A test leads to another test. A question leads to another question.

Not even a year ago, my life moved from week to week, month to month, under the weight of a cancer diagnosis that shifted beneath my feet. What was first believed to be lung cancer—and came with a five-year horizon—was later identified as thymic cancer, resting silently between my lungs. In that correction, there was both fear and grace. It had not spread. It could be removed, and it was without complications.

Still, even now, with good news behind me, I find myself holding my breath—just in case.

The scan itself was simple. I climbed onto the white-sheeted table, my head resting back, my legs supported to ease the lingering ache in my bruised ribs from an earlier escapade this week. The diagnostic machine, a wide circular opening, waited without ceremony. I was told it would be quick.

A soft whirring began. Lights flickered gently. The voice instructed me to inhale and hold. Then exhale. Again, in reverse. Again, forward. A small, mounted digital clock counted down five seconds at a time, marking each pause between breaths. It was mechanical and precise.

And then it was over.

Just like that, I was told I could sit up. The nurses steadied me as I swung my legs over the side, returning to myself, to gravity, to the quiet waiting that would follow. They told me I would hear results later that day or perhaps the next. But before the sun had fully set, the message arrived on my medical portal. All was well.

Six more months of waiting now lie ahead, but also six more months of living—of breathing without instruction, of moving forward with the fragile, stubborn hope that has carried me this far.

As I close this chapter of waiting, I carry with me the weight of what could have been and the lightness of what is. Each breath, once measured by a machine, now returns to me freely. Each step, each moment, is a small victory, a reminder that life can still surprise us with grace. The horizon remains uncertain, yes, but for today, I am here, and all is well. Six months from now, I will return for another chest scan, to the familiar routine of holding my breath, of trusting the medical hands, of trusting my spirit. And until then, I will live fully in the space between, cherishing each unhurried, unmeasured breath.

The war in Iran grinds on with no clear objective, no defined endpoint, and no honest justification—driven by the decisions of the Pedophile in Chief, Donald J. Trump. While he delivers shifting explanations and half-truths, the consequences are measured in lives lost and futures erased. Thirteen Americans are dead. More than 200 are wounded. And an estimated 1,700 Iranians—overwhelmingly civilians, many of them women and children—have been killed. This marks three weeks, and there is no end in sight.

This is not a strategy. This is recklessness masquerading as strength. Empires that ignore their own excesses do not endure—they unravel, and ours will be no exception.

The current conflict between the United States, Israel, and Iran began in late February 2026 with large-scale strikes on Iranian military and nuclear-related targets. Since then, it has rapidly escalated into a multi-front regional war involving missile attacks, naval conflict, and economic disruption:

• Air and missile warfare: The U.S. and Israel have conducted thousands of strikes on Iranian infrastructure, while Iran has retaliated with missiles and drones targeting Israel, U.S. bases, and Gulf states.

• Strait of Hormuz crisis: Iran has restricted or threatened to close the Strait of Hormuz, a passage for roughly 20% of the world’s oil supply, causing a global energy shock.

• Global economic fallout: Oil prices have surged above $100 per barrel, and supply chains—especially food and energy in the Gulf—have been severely disrupted.

• Risk of wider war: The conflict now threatens to pull in additional countries across the Middle East and beyond, raising fears of a broader regional or even global confrontation.

In short, what began as a targeted military campaign has become a volatile and unpredictable war with global consequences.

The rationale offered—a vague, unsubstantiated fear of a potential Iranian nuclear threat—collapses under even minimal scrutiny. U.S. intelligence assessments have cast doubt on the immediacy of that danger, yet the administration presses forward as though conjecture were certainty. If suspicion alone justifies war, then by that standard the United States would be in perpetual conflict with every nuclear-armed nation on Earth.

Meanwhile, the cost—both moral and financial—spirals out of control. At $500 million per day, billions have already been burned in less than two weeks. Now, the White House is asking Congress for another $200 billion to sustain a war it cannot clearly explain and refuses to reconsider. This is not fiscal responsibility; it is an open-ended drain on American resources in service of an undefined goal.

Even America’s closest allies are stepping back. NATO partners, once treated with open contempt by Trump—dismissed as irrelevant, targeted with punitive tariffs, and publicly insulted—are now being asked to lend support. Their refusal should surprise no one. Alliances require trust, not bullying; cooperation cannot be summoned on demand after years of disregard.

And still, the messaging from the Pedophile in Chief shifts by the day: first insisting he needs allied support, then claiming he does not; first invoking global cooperation, then retreating into unilateral bravado. It is not leadership; it is contradiction.

What remains is a war built on shaky premises, sustained by escalating costs, and justified by rhetoric that changes with the political wind. History has little patience for conflicts born of impulse and ego. And when it renders its judgment, it will not measure the strength of the language used to defend this war but the human cost left behind.

The war in Iran is no longer a contained conflict—it is a regional crisis with global ripple effects. The question facing the United States is not just how to fight it, but whether continuing the fight serves a clear, achievable national interest—or risks repeating the costly lessons of past wars.

What remains is a sobering truth: the United States is once again entangled in a conflict where the path forward is far less clear than the path that led us here. The costs are no longer theoretical—they are measured in lives lost, families shattered, alliances strained, and resources drained with no defined end in sight. History has shown, time and again, that wars begun without clarity of purpose rarely end in victory. More often, they linger, expand, and leave behind consequences that far outlast the decisions that started them.

The United States does not demonstrate strength by prolonging a war it cannot clearly justify. Strength is found in restraint, in reassessment, and in the willingness to change course when the facts demand it. Ending involvement in Iran would not signal weakness; it would signal wisdom. It would acknowledge that American leadership is not measured solely by military might, but by judgment, accountability, and the courage to choose a different path before the cost becomes even more irreversible.

“America First” was the promise, yet it has spiraled into deception. Trump proudly stands behind claims that leave Americans scratching their heads, particularly his own party. This is the same man who pledged there would be “no endless wars,” yet seems eager for the prestige of a Nobel Peace Prize simply for occupying the office while commanding American service men and women into harm’s way. The Bone Spurs Commander-in-Chief is hurting the American people and needs to be held accountable.

There was no clear exit plan for Venezuela and no clear exit plan for Iran. His administration has offered explanation after explanation for why the United States entered these conflicts, but the narrative changes constantly. When asked when it will end, he says he will know it “in his bones.” One cannot help but wonder if bone spurs count.

According to public statements from Trump and members of his administration, several different reasons were given for U.S. military action against Iran. Analysts and journalists have noted that the rationale has shifted over time, with different explanations emphasized at different moments.

Here are the main reasons the administration publicly cited:

1. Preventing Iran from getting nuclear weapons: One of the most consistent arguments was that Iran’s nuclear program posed a threat. Trump said strikes were necessary to stop Iran from eventually developing nuclear weapons and to destroy nuclear facilities.

2. Eliminating missile threats: Officials argued Iran was building ballistic missiles that could threaten U.S. forces and allies in the region—and eventually possibly the United States itself.

3. Responding to an “imminent threat”: Trump also claimed intelligence showed Iran might soon attack American forces or interests, so the U.S. needed to strike first.

4. Protecting U.S. allies (especially Israel): Another justification was that Iran’s military capabilities and proxy forces threatened U.S. allies in the Middle East. Joining or supporting Israeli operations against Iran was framed as protecting those allies.

5. Stopping attacks on shipping and the Strait of Hormuz: U.S. military actions were also linked to Iran’s activities affecting shipping and energy routes, particularly around the Strait of Hormuz, a key route for global oil trade.

6. Pressure on the Iranian government: At times, Trump suggested weakening or even encouraging change in Iran’s ruling regime, though officials later downplayed this as the main goal.

American sons and daughters have already died—and more may die—because of decisions that appear driven more by impulse than by strategy. As the old adage reminds us, if you fail to plan, you plan to fail. Costs continue to rise, yet a clear path forward remains elusive. No matter how the administration attempts to frame it, the situation smells like bullshit to many Americans.

Meanwhile, the Strait of Hormuz sits effectively blocked, with threats that any freighter attempting passage could be destroyed. This lack of what many would call military “intelligence” is painful to witness. At the same time, the president now calls upon allies for assistance, the very allies he previously pushed aside when it suited him and threatened them with tariffs. Europe has often been dismissed, the United Nations sidelined, and support for Ukraine’s defense against Russia reduced.

As petroleum prices surge, the irony deepens: appeals are made to Vladimir Putin for relief, even as Russia continues its assault on Ukraine. The contradictions are staggering. The presidency demands clarity, strategy, and leadership. Yet watching these events unfold, it often feels as though the occupant of the Oval Office cannot act his way out of a paper bag.

History will ultimately judge these decisions far more harshly than today’s headlines ever could. Wars entered without clarity of purpose, strategy, or exit seldom end the way their architects imagine. They leave behind grieving families, staggering costs, and questions that echo long after the final shots are fired. Leadership demands foresight, honesty, and accountability…qualities that become most visible not in moments of triumph, but in moments of crisis. For the sake of the nation and the generations who will inherit its consequences, Americans can only hope that wisdom, restraint, and truth will prevail before the toll grows any higher. Yet knowing who is leading us often makes it feel as though the country is taking two leaps backward every time it attempts to move ahead by one step. It’s time for him to go.

My first big break in the theatre came in 1976 when I saw an audition notice in the advertisements of the local newspaper. The State Theatre on Bay Street was going to stage The Music Man. I had never seen the show and didn’t know the score, but they were looking for kids, and something in my heart told me there would be a place for me.

That night at dinner, as we sat around the table, I told my parents about the audition notice and that I wanted to try out. My father looked up mid-fork and said, “You don’t know anything about singing, dancing, or acting.”

I replied that he was correct, but wouldn’t it be fun to try?

To my surprise, my father agreed to drive me down.

Kids were lined up around the block, and the theatre auditorium was packed. You would think I might have been intimidated, but I wasn’t. I didn’t know enough to be nervous.

I was handed an application asking for all kinds of particulars: How many years had I been acting? What roles had I played? Please attach a résumé. Do you have a photograph? How tall are you? What is your full name?

Being the new kid on the block with absolutely no experience, the application was easy. I was squeaky clean and new to town. I was just going to give it my best shot.

The director brought all of us onto the stage as a woman at an upright piano began teaching us the music. Some of the kids already knew the words and notes by heart. I was clueless, but eager to learn.

One by one, we were called to the center of the stage and asked to sing the part we had just learned. With the musical training I had received from Ravenswood Presbyterian Church in Chicago, I gave it my best shot and projected my voice across the void so the director could hear me way in the back.

I knew he took notice. He peered up from behind his dark-rimmed glasses, folded his hands across his large belly, and leaned back in his chair.

Two minutes later, I was back in my seat, listening to the other kids’ auditions. Well, that wasn’t so bad. It was easy…and fun.

The day flew by, and I finally left the theatre late in the afternoon. We were told we would receive a telephone call around 7 p.m. if we were invited back.

That night I excitedly shared everything with my mother and sisters over dinner—the large metal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the ornate theatre seats, the massive proscenium arch, and wrap around balcony. As 7 p.m. approached, I wondered if the phone would ring. I sat patiently in the living room watching the seconds tick by on my Timex watch. It was shortly after 7:30 when the phone finally rang.

All eyes turned toward me. My father gave a quiet nod as I rushed to the rotary telephone and picked up the receiver. It was Dale Carpenter, the director, inviting me back to the theatre for a second round of auditions.

This time, he informed me, I would read from a script, be paired with adult actors to see how we interacted together, and learn a dance routine. For someone who didn’t know a lick about theatre, I must have done something that sparked the director’s interest.

A few days later, my father drove me back again. I was excited to learn more about the opportunity, meet more of the callbacks, and try something new.

My name was called. I read lines from the script. I was paired with adult actors, and we took turns reading our parts. I learned a quick dance routine and was asked to perform it alone and with others. Then we learned another song from the show.

As evening approached, Mr. Carpenter asked me to join him on stage…and to bring my father with me. I made my way up the rickety wooden stairs. I listened carefully as he explained the expectations, the rehearsal schedule, and the commitment required. He asked questions about my interests and about school and asked if I had any questions.

Then he offered me the lead boy role: Winthrop Paroo.

The part of Winthrop Paroo is ten years old. He lives with his mother, Mrs. Paroo, and his sister, Marian Paroo, the town librarian. He has a lisp that makes him shy and self-conscious, but Harold Hill’s boys’ band helps him find his confidence.

I was honored to play the role.

Mary Rose Gray Tally played Marian, and my mother on stage was played by Betty Carr Burke, one of the brides who performed in the film Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Like me, she had also been born in Chicago. She was married to Edward Burke, a tennis professional and businessman who ranked among the nation’s top amateur players.

Through Betty, I came to know her son, Eddy.

Eddy was older than I was. During rehearsals, he would sit quietly in the theatre, usually in the first few seats on stage left, where his mother could see him from the stage. He rocked gently back and forth to soothe himself, and he would tap his thumb and middle finger together.

Eddy was special. He was born with Down syndrome, and he made my first theatre experience even more meaningful. We became friends. He was not much for speaking, but I could tell we connected because his face would light up whenever I approached him.

Betty’s husband died before she did. Eddy Jr died in 2008, before his mother. Later that same year, she passed as well.

But in that theatre, during those rehearsals so many years earlier, the three of us shared something simple and beautiful—friendship, kindness, and the magic that happens when a stage light turns on and a story begins.

Years later, I would come to understand that my first theatre experience was about far more than landing a leading role. It was about discovery…of courage, of friendship, and of the quiet ways people change one another’s lives.

I had walked into that theatre as a boy who knew nothing about acting, singing, or dancing. I walked out carrying something much more valuable than applause. I had learned that sometimes the greatest opportunities come when you simply raise your hand and say, “Why not try?”

And in the glow of those stage lights, I also learned something about humanity. Eddy, sitting faithfully in those front rows, taught me that connection does not always need words. A smile, a glance, a moment of shared recognition can be enough. The theatre gave me my first role, but it also gave me my first understanding of how stories—and people—can open our hearts.

Even now, whenever the curtain rises, I still think of that boy who filled out an empty audition form, the director who saw something in him, and a quiet friend in the front row whose smile made the whole stage feel brighter.

Looking back now, I often think about that moment at the dinner table when my father looked up from his plate and said, “You don’t know anything about singing, dancing, or acting.” He was right. But sometimes not knowing is exactly what gives us the courage to begin.

That day, my father drove me to the theatre anyway, regardless of my experience. Because of that small act of encouragement, a door opened that neither of us could have imagined. I stepped onto a stage for the first time, found my voice under the lights, met people who would shape my memories forever, and discovered a world that would stay with me the rest of my life.

And somewhere in those early rehearsals, between learning lines, singing songs, and sharing quiet smiles with Eddy in the front row, the theatre quietly began rehearsing something inside of me too. All because one evening I asked a simple question at the dinner table: Wouldn’t it be fun to try?

I do not have many clear memories of my grandmother and grandfather Wilkins. What I remember most is the journey to them. We would pack the car in Chicago and drive south to Frankfurt and Lafayette, Indiana, where their farm waited at the end of a gravel road that seemed to stretch forever. To a child, it felt like another world – city mouse versus country mouse.

The farm was big in my memory…acres of land, a white barn rising like a cathedral of wood and tin, chickens wandering freely in the side yard, a hayloft that smelled of dust and summer heat, and a sprawling vegetable garden where rows of beans and tomatoes seemed to grow toward the horizon with fruit trees even further back.

The house itself was a sturdy stone farmhouse. Inside was a large farm kitchen with a 1950s aluminum table where my grandmother would sit patiently shucking peas into a metal bowl, the soft tapping sound of pods breaking open marking the quiet rhythm of the afternoon.

We children rarely stayed still for long. Sometimes we gathered in front of their enormous Panasonic television with its rabbit-ear antenna reaching toward the ceiling like curious fingers. Other times, we escaped outside to get into harmless mischief among the barn and outer buildings. Most often, though, we raced through the house in wild loops—through the front living room, down the narrow bedroom hallway next to the black telephone on the phone stand, into the kitchen, through the dining room, and back again into the living room and by the sitting parlor—our footsteps echoing through the rooms as if the house itself were part of the game.

The green carpet in the living room felt thick and luxurious beneath my bare feet. I remember digging my toes into its deep pile and stretching out on my stomach, staring at the ceiling as headlights from passing cars along the highway cast slow, sweeping beams across the room. The light would glide across the plaster like silent stage lighting before fading away again into darkness. Then I would roll over and face the television.

Saturday nights belonged to Hee Haw. Roy Clark and Buck Owens presided over the show like cheerful ringmasters. Grandpa Jones delivered jokes that made the grown-ups roar with laughter. Minnie Pearl appeared in her flamboyant hat with the famous price tag dangling proudly from its brim. The humor was corny, the music joyful, and the laughter contagious.

Right afterward came The Lawrence Welk Show. Where Hee Haw was rowdy and playful, Lawrence Welk was elegance. The stage glowed beneath bright lights. Flowing curtains framed smiling singers and dancers moving across the floor while the orchestra played music that seemed to float through the room like bubbles in champagne. Welk’s “Musical Family” performed with a kind of polished optimism that made the world feel orderly and harmonious. Even the audience got into the act with a polka or slow dance.

Those evenings became part of the rhythm of visiting my grandparents. Music and laughter filling the living room are memories I will never forget. The glow of the television washed over the green carpet, and the quiet comfort of knowing that somewhere down the hallway, my grandparents were listening too in the distance as the grown-ups talked.

I watched those shows throughout my childhood, at least until my grandfather died. After that, I do not remember watching Lawrence Welk or Hee Haw again.

Perhaps it was because our family moved to Florida in 1976. Perhaps it was simply that we children were growing older, drifting away from the kind of television we began calling “old fashioned.” Or perhaps it had something to do with the day we quite literally blew up the television while fighting over what to watch—smoke pouring from the back of the set and sparks crackling like a tiny Fourth of July in the living room.

Whatever the reason, something had already taken root in me. It was Hee Haw and Lawrence Welk that first cast the spell. From there my imagination moved to another television stage—The Donny and Marie Show.

Donny and Marie Osmond were barely older than teenagers themselves, yet there they were hosting their own variety show, skating onto the stage, singing, joking, performing. Marie declaring, “I’m a little bit country,” while Donny answered, “I’m a little bit rock ’n’ roll.”

Something about that world of music, lights, and applause stirred something deep inside me. And once the television was gone, the stage itself began calling.

What began with small performances grew into something larger. The stage at the State Theatre on Bay Street and Young People’s Theatre were my foundation. Later the St. Louis Muny Opera and the Children’s Theatre in Missouri, followed by the Fox Theatre, gave me confidence and presence. Eventually, I found myself creating my own productions at Warren Wilson College with grants from the State of North Carolina taking my creative work to primary and secondary schools. My path later carried me to the Shakespeare Theatre in Washington, D.C., under the direction of Michael Kahn, where I went from performing to raising $100,000 every fourteen weeks to bring classical theatre with a twist to inner city youth.

Even when I thought my time in the theatre had ended—after playing Pippin in Pippin as my last production in 1988—the theatre had other ideas. I returned again, working as the personal assistant to Joel Grey for his South Florida tour, collaborating with Bernadette Peters, and singing backup for Dionne Warwick at the 25th Annual Kennedy Center Honors, while Burt Bacharach sat at the piano and Elizabeth Taylor was honored before the nation. Music and theatre have always found their way back to me.

Though I have not stood on stage as a performer in decades, those memories remain alive, as bright and immediate as the sweep of headlights across the ceiling of my grandparents’ living room.

Looking back now, I realize that the stage first entered my life not in a theatre, but in that farmhouse in Indiana. It flickered to life inside a large television with rabbit ears. It sang through the voices of country comedians and ballroom singers and dancers. It glowed across a green carpet while a small boy lay on his stomach, watching light dance across the ceiling.

Long before I ever stepped onto a stage myself, the theatre had already begun rehearsing inside my heart, and the lessons it taught me have never left.

• There are no small parts.

• Why be ordinary when you can be extraordinary?

• Find yourself a gimmick, and you too can be a star.

And you know you have a hit when the audience taps their toes, hums the melody, laughs out loud, cries when they recognize themselves in a character, and finally rises in a chorus of bravos.

Then you know the curtain has truly risen.

Because, as Billy Shakespeare once reminded us, “All the world’s a stage.”

Today, March 5, 2026, Kristi Noem was removed as Secretary of the United States Department of Homeland Security by Donald Trump, becoming the first cabinet official fired during his second term. The moment landed less like a shock and more like the inevitable collapse of a political project that had been wobbling for months under the weight of controversy, defiance, and mounting accusations of incompetence.

For years, Noem fashioned herself as a symbol of uncompromising toughness, an avatar of culture-war politics where bravado replaced governance. But the mythology of “strength” she tried to cultivate increasingly looked like something else entirely: recklessness paired with an almost theatrical disregard for consequences. Dressed in camouflage with an AK-47 as a prop, the whole Rambo routine looked less like serious governance and more like political theater…an audition for a cable-news action hero rather than the behavior of a cabinet official responsible for the nation’s immigration system.

The image that haunted her most came not from her tenure in Washington but from her own telling. In her 2024 memoir No Going Back, Noem described leading her 14-month-old wirehaired pointer, Cricket, to a gravel pit and shooting the dog after it killed a neighbor’s chickens. The story was meant to illustrate decisive leadership. Instead, it crystallized a political persona that mistook cruelty for resolve and spectacle for authority.

That same ethos appeared to follow her to DHS.

Under Noem’s leadership, the department became a magnet for scandal: a staggering $220 million taxpayer-funded advertising campaign prominently featuring her as the lead actor of falsehoods and mistruths, controversial contract decisions, and escalating scrutiny over deaths in ICE detention facilities. Civil-rights advocates warned that aggressive enforcement actions and questionable raids were pushing the limits of U.S. constitutional protections. Those concerns intensified after the deaths of Minneapolis residents Renée Nicole Good and Alex Pretti during federal immigration operations in early 2026. Good, a U.S. citizen and mother of three, was fatally shot by an ICE agent during an enforcement operation, while Pretti, an ICU nurse, was publicly executed by federal agents. Federal officials initially portrayed the incidents as acts of self-defense and labeled Good’s actions as domestic terrorism, claims that eyewitness accounts and video evidence have strongly disputed.

Then came the Congressional hearings.

During a blistering Senate confrontation, Cory Booker dismantled Noem’s testimony piece by piece. He cited cases in which federal agents allegedly detained U.S. citizens, conducted questionable operations on school property, and ignored court orders. When Noem repeatedly claimed ignorance, Booker delivered the line that would echo through the chamber: “You are not speaking truthfully under oath.” His conclusion was stark: either the secretary was catastrophically unaware of what her own department was doing, or she was presiding over systemic violations of Americans’ rights.

Even members of her own Republican party began to break ranks. Senator Thom Tillis and Representative Kevin Kiley publicly condemned her performance during the hearings, an extraordinary moment in a political climate where party loyalty often smothers dissent. Reports soon surfaced that Trump himself was furious after watching the testimony.

In a post on Truth Social, Trump announced that Senator Markwayne Mullin would replace Noem as Secretary of Homeland Security effective March 31. Noem, meanwhile, was reassigned to a newly created diplomatic position, Special Envoy for the “Shield of the Americas,” a title that sounded less like a promotion and more like a political operative holding a cheap, ballpoint pen.

Her close adviser, former Trump operative Corey Lewandowski, is also expected to depart the department. This is the same man that Noem has allegedly been sleeping with for several months, which she continues to spin as political theatre, though the majority of Washington believes to be true.

But the controversies surrounding Noem extended well beyond Washington. Three Native American tribes—the Standing Rock Sioux, the Cheyenne River Sioux, and the Oglala Sioux—took the extraordinary step of banning her from their lands after she accused tribal leaders of collaborating with Mexican drug cartels and blamed Native parents for educational struggles in their communities. The backlash was swift and severe, reinforcing a pattern that critics said defined her career: provocation first, accountability never.

Until now.

For her critics, Noem’s fall was not merely the dismissal of a cabinet secretary. It was the implosion of a political persona built on grievance, confrontation, and spectacle. The governing theory behind that persona, that aggression itself is proof of leadership, finally collided with the messy reality of running one of the most powerful and complex departments in the federal government, and her incompetence caught up with her.

March 5 will not solve the deeper problems critics see inside the United States Department of Homeland Security, but it did accomplish something that often feels impossible in modern Washington: accountability, however brief. For a moment, the machinery of power blinked, and one of its most combative operators was forced to step aside. Many fair-minded Americans now believe that removal from office should not be the final chapter. They argue that the allegations surrounding her tenure deserve full scrutiny in the courts, where evidence—not political theater—can determine whether any laws were broken and whether those in power must finally answer for their actions.

To begin my fifty-ninth birth year in Seattle with Scott Clyde is an annual ritual filled with promise and experience. The journey takes a full day, and I relish the time to decompress, to begin anew as I move beyond February 24, my birthday.

There was a chill in the air as I traveled from Minnesota to Washington. Just the week before, we had our first taste of spring, temperatures rising into the mid-50s…a cherished thaw that reminds Minnesotans that winter does not own us forever. But we know better than trust the tease. True spring arrives slowly. As snow once again blanketed the state, I was off to the Pacific Northwest to spend precious time with my special someone from across the miles.

It pains me to be away from him for so long, yet I cherish the blink-of-an-eye time we are granted together. I am torn between work, creative making, and a relationship that for nineteen years has existed more in distance than in the flesh. When I sit with that truth, my soul yearns for more. I can only trust that as we move toward retirement, he will choose presence over miles. For now, the small carrot I carry is our weekend ritual, an hour reconnecting on screen. At times, I feel physically closer to the moon than to him, and I am unsure whether he truly understands my ache. And so, a week together becomes sacred.

We immersed ourselves in art and performance: special exhibitions at the Seattle Asian Art Museum featuring Anila Quayyum Agha, and at the Seattle Art Museum showcasing Samantha Yun Wall. We attended Fellow Travelers at Seattle Opera, a poignant meditation on love and secrecy. There was an extraordinary meal at MariPili Tapas Bar with Justin and Brian; happy-hour pasta at Donna’s; vibrant plates at Tyger Tyger; and cocktails at Rhein Haus and McMenamins. I tasted the newest apple variety developed by Washington State University — the Cosmic Crisp — and explored the campus of Seattle University, while wandering into a photography exhibition across the street.

And yet, despite all that is luminous in life, I am pulled back to earth by the corrosive governance of Donald Trump.

The week was defined not by diplomacy, but by spectacle and force. In coordination with Israel, the United States launched large-scale airstrikes on Iranian military and governmental targets, an extraordinary escalation that reportedly included the killing of Iran’s Supreme Leader. It is difficult to overstate the gravity of such an act. This was not a contained tactical maneuver; it was a strike that risks redrawing geopolitical fault lines and invites consequences measured not in days, but in decades.

The constitutional question lingers heavily. Under what explicit authority was this action taken? Where was congressional deliberation before the bombs fell? The framers of the Constitution intentionally divided war powers because they feared the volatility of concentrated executive control. Yet once again, force appears to have preceded debate. In a democracy, war should be the last instrument of policy and not the opening gesture of political dominance.

Polling reflected what many Americans felt instinctively: unease. A significant portion of the public opposed or questioned the strikes, signaling fatigue with perpetual conflict and skepticism toward military escalation framed as strength. “Decisiveness” is often a rhetorical cloak for impulsivity.

Earlier in the week, in one of the longest addresses to Congress in modern history, Trump foreshadowed this turn. His speech leaned heavily on grievance and theatrical bravado, casting Iran’s nuclear ambitions as an existential threat requiring a muscular response. It read less as a calibrated strategic case and more as a performance of command. Leaders such as Kim Jong Un similarly conflate spectacle with stability, projecting dominance as proof of legitimacy.

Protests erupted across the United States. Critics from both parties questioned both the legality and prudence of the strikes. Even some traditionally hawkish voices signaled concern that the administration had crossed a threshold without preparing the American public for the inevitable retaliation and global repercussions.

This is the deeper fracture: governance by escalation rather than coalition-building, by provocation rather than prudence. War becomes not the reluctant instrument of a stable democracy but a stage upon which executive authority performs itself.

I find myself wrestling with dissonance. In Seattle, I am tasting new apples, holding the hand of the man I love, and standing beneath intricate patterns of light in a museum gallery. And thousands of miles away, decisions made in a matter of hours place entire regions at risk.

The personal and the political are not separate spheres. They are threads in the same fabric. When leadership leans toward aggression and grievance, it alters the emotional climate of the nation. Even in moments of joy, there is a low hum of dread. And that hum is not accidental. It is cultivated.

I return home altered, as I always do… carrying the warmth of Scott’s touch alongside the chill of a nation drifting toward normalized aggression. Love remains my quiet act of resistance, my insistence that tenderness is not weakness but moral clarity. If power can be performed through spectacle and force, then I will answer it with presence, with witness, with the deliberate cultivation of beauty and connection. The world may tilt toward escalation, but I refuse to surrender the intimate spaces where humanity is still chosen, daily, and on purpose.

Rev. Jesse Jackson, the renowned civil rights leader and founder of the Rainbow PUSH Coalition, died at the age of 84. His family announced that he passed away peacefully at home in Chicago, surrounded by loved ones.

Jackson had been hospitalized in November 2025 due to a rare neurodegenerative condition, progressive supranuclear palsy (PSP), which significantly affected his mobility and speech in his final years. Despite declining health, he remained engaged in public life, appearing at the 2024 Democratic National Convention and speaking at a Chicago City Council meeting.

A protégé of Martin Luther King Jr., Jackson was with King in Memphis on April 4, 1968, the day King was assassinated. Within the civil rights movement, some contemporaries viewed him as an ambitious figure who sought media attention. Disputes arose over his account of being at King’s side in the immediate aftermath of the shooting, including claims that he cradled King’s head, details not confirmed by other witnesses. Nevertheless, he emerged as one of the most prominent figures of the modern civil rights era. As a leader within the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, he spearheaded Operation Breadbasket, advancing economic justice initiatives for Black communities.

Jackson twice sought the Democratic presidential nomination, in 1984 and 1988, becoming one of the first African American candidates to achieve significant success in a major-party presidential primary. He championed the “Rainbow Coalition,” a multiracial alliance of marginalized communities, and popularized the rallying cry “Keep hope alive.” His campaigns helped reshape the Democratic Party’s delegate allocation process, promoting proportional representation over winner-take-all systems, changes that later benefited candidates, including Barack Obama during the 2008 primary season.

The Rainbow Coalition opposed Reagan-era domestic spending cuts that disproportionately harmed marginalized communities. In 1996, it merged with Jackson’s earlier organization, Operation PUSH, to form the Rainbow PUSH Coalition. Headquartered in Chicago, the organization remains active, continuing Jackson’s legacy through programs in education, housing, job assistance, voter engagement, and civil rights advocacy, with offices across the United States. Jackson stepped down as president in 2023, and the organization has continued under new leadership committed to social and economic justice.

Beyond electoral politics, Jackson engaged in international diplomacy, helping secure the release of American hostages in Syria, Cuba, and Yugoslavia. He advocated for voting rights, labor protections, and funding for historically Black colleges and universities. From 1991 to 1997, he served as a shadow delegate for the District of Columbia in the U.S. House of Representatives.

Jackson’s long career was not without controversy. In 1984, he made antisemitic remarks in an off-the-record conversation, referring to New York City as “Hymietown.” After initially denying the comments, he publicly apologized at a synagogue before the New Hampshire primary. Support from Louis Farrakhan further complicated the episode when Farrakhan defended Jackson and made threatening remarks toward a reporter. Jackson criticized Farrakhan’s statements but stopped short of fully disavowing him, drawing additional scrutiny.

He was also criticized for embracing Yasser Arafat and supporting Palestinian statehood, positions that strained relationships with many in the Jewish community. Other controversies included allegations regarding the operations of PUSH and, in 2001, Jackson’s public acknowledgment that he had fathered a child outside his marriage. In 2008, he apologized after a hot-mic incident in which he expressed anger toward Barack Obama for what he perceived as “talking down to Black people.” He was found to have stated he wanted to “cut off” Barack Obama’s “manhood”. He later described the comment as an emotional, private reaction, and Obama accepted his apology.

In his later years, Jackson was widely regarded as an elder statesman of the civil rights movement, mentoring younger leaders and continuing to advocate for justice and equality.

Jackson’s leadership emphasized hope as a disciplined, active practice rather than a passive feeling. He taught that hope is essential for transformation, particularly in the face of adversity, and that sustaining it requires courage and persistence. He modeled inclusive diplomacy, engaging even world leaders with troubling human rights records in the belief that dialogue could create openings for advocacy. For Jackson, this was not sentimentality but a strategic and moral imperative rooted in Christian conviction and social change.

He empowered others by seeing potential where others did not—elevating young activists, challenging corporate America to diversify leadership, and insisting that equity is not charity but sound public policy. His affirmation “I am Somebody” reinforced dignity and self-worth within marginalized communities. Through coalition-building and expanded democratic participation, Jackson demonstrated that systemic change is possible when hope is organized, disciplined, and sustained.

In the final measure of his life, Jesse Jackson leaves behind more than speeches, campaigns, or controversies. He leaves a vocabulary of hope woven into the fabric of American political and moral life. He insisted that democracy expands when the excluded organize, that dignity is not granted but claimed, and that coalitions—imperfect, fragile, and diverse—are the instruments of lasting change. Whether praised or criticized, he forced the nation to confront who belongs at the table of power. His life stands as a testament to the enduring struggle to bend public policy toward justice and to the disciplined belief that hope, when practiced collectively, can move history forward.

Pamela Bondi’s career, particularly her service as U.S. Attorney General, has been deeply controversial, raising substantive questions about whether her actions and leadership reflect the interests and values of all Americans versus being the lapdog of Donald Trump. Her tenure as U.S. Attorney General has been a disaster for the rule of law and for the American people she claims to serve. While every political figure will generate both support and opposition, multiple independent assessments from civil rights organizations, legal experts, lawmakers from both parties, and journalists underscore patterns indicating that Bondi often aligns with partisan imperatives rather than broad democratic norms. Her record is defined not by justice, fairness, or impartiality, but by partisan loyalty, political theater, and personal vindictiveness. She does not represent the American people as a whole: independence of the Justice Department, civil rights enforcement, political loyalty and partisanship, transparency and accountability, and public accountability.

A core principle of American governance is the independence of the Department of Justice (DOJ) from political influence, ensuring that law enforcement serves the public impartially rather than a political faction. Critics, including high-ranking lawmakers, have expressed serious concerns that Bondi’s tenure has undermined that independence. Her leadership style is reckless and authoritarian: she treats oversight as an insult, career prosecutors as adversaries, and citizens as inconveniences when their rights or grievances conflict with her political agenda.

During her confirmation process and subsequent oversight hearings, senators such as Dick Durbin and Alex Padilla highlighted that Bondi has repeatedly shown loyalty to former President Trump’s political agenda, raising doubts about her commitment to impartial justice. Durbin pointed to her refusal to clearly disavow threats to prosecute political opponents and her echoing of unfounded election fraud claims from 2020 as evidence that she may prioritize political loyalty over constitutional duty.

This alignment with a specific political agenda is at odds with the idea that the attorney general serves all Americans regardless of party affiliation. Time and time again, her actions and words have cast those in her political spectrum in the affirmative and all others as eroding American democracy.

Leading civil rights coalitions strongly opposed Bondi’s confirmation, urging senators to reject her based on her record and positions. These groups argued that her background demonstrated a lack of commitment to robustly enforcing federal civil rights laws, including the Voting Rights Act, the Civil Rights Act, and protections against discrimination.

For communities historically marginalized in American politics, such as Black voters, immigrants, people with disabilities, and LGBTQ+ Americans effective enforcement of civil rights laws is not an abstract ideal but a lived necessity. The skepticism of civil rights advocates suggests that many Americans do not see their interests reflected in Bondi’s approach to these core democratic protections. She has continuously failed all Americans.

Some of Epstein’s Victims

Today, Bondi faced bipartisan criticism over her handling of the release of documents related to the Jeffrey Epstein case. Lawmakers across the aisle expressed frustration with heavy redactions that unnecessarily obscured important details while at times revealing sensitive information about victims, a result that many view as a failure of transparency and accountability in a matter of significant public interest. As someone who is trained in the field, her gross negligence put victims’ lives at risk as she shrugged and smirked in front of the media. This action alone is reprehensible.

Moreover, Bondi’s publicly combative responses under questioning, including personal attacks on lawmakers, have fueled perceptions that her office is less focused on open public accountability and more on political defense. For example, during a House Judiciary Committee oversight hearing today, Attorney General Pam Bondi faced intense questioning from lawmakers about the Justice Department’s handling of the release of files related to Jeffrey Epstein. Rather than respond directly to many substantive questions, Bondi repeatedly labeled lawmakers’ inquiries as “theatrics” and a “circus”, and in at least one exchange, launched personal insults at a committee member instead of answering the question. When Rep. Jamie Raskin pressed her on the department’s work and slowed pace of document disclosure, she retorted, “You don’t tell me anything…you washed-up loser lawyer—you’re not even a lawyer.”

This is actually a false statement. Raskin is an attorney. He earned a Juris Doctor magna cum laude from Harvard Law School in 1987, where he was an editor of the Harvard Law Review. Prior to his election to Congress, Raskin served as a constitutional law professor at American University Washington College of Law for over 25 years and held roles such as general counsel for Jesse Jackson’s National Rainbow Coalition and assistant attorney general in Massachusetts.

Bondi’s comment shifted the focus from the underlying issues to a personal attack on the lawmaker, underscoring a confrontational rather than transparent posture. At other points, she declined repeated requests to directly apologize to Epstein survivors present in the hearing room, dismissing the call for direct engagement as political posturing.

Observers, including lawmakers from both parties and journalists covering the hearing, widely described the session as heated and marked by tensions that detracted from straightforward accountability. Bondi’s use of adversarial language, focus on attacking critics rather than offering clear responses, and refusal to engage directly with victims in the audience contributed to perceptions that her office prioritized defending political narratives over open answer-giving and accountability to the public.

Effective representation of the American people demands transparency in how justice is administered, especially in cases of national concern. Critics argue that Bondi has not upheld that standard.

Beyond specific controversies, critics also argue that Bondi’s leadership style and priorities signal a broader shift in DOJ culture toward partisanship and away from impartial service. Reports from former career DOJ staff and outside observers describe a department where policy and prosecutorial decisions are increasingly shaped by political considerations, rather than uniform justice.

After an ICE agent in Minneapolis fatally shot 37-year-old mother Renee Nicole Good during the federal government’s “Operation Metro Surge,” controversy erupted not just over the killing but over how the Department of Justice (DOJ) handled the subsequent investigation. Rather than pursuing a straightforward civil rights or force-of-law investigation into the fatal shooting, DOJ leadership — under Bondi’s direction — shifted focus away from reviewing the officer’s conduct and instead moved toward a different investigative approach, including exploring possible charges against Good’s widow for alleged interference. This decision was so contentious that at least six federal prosecutors in the Minnesota U.S. Attorney’s Office resigned in protest rather than participate in the case under those terms.

Pam Bondi’s public response to this shake-up sharply illustrates the political dimension that critics highlight:

• On national television, Bondi visibly expressed anger toward the prosecutors who resigned, framing their decision not to pursue the controversial prosecution of Good’s widow as a lack of support for federal law enforcement.

• She said phrases like “we had six prosecutors who suddenly decided they didn’t want to support the men and women of ICE!” and — with her voice rising — implied their refusal was tantamount to disloyalty. She also stated they were “fired” as a result, even though they had already resigned.

This public rebuke — including the decision to portray resigned career prosecutors as adversarial “against law enforcement” — was widely interpreted as prioritizing defense of immigration enforcement narratives and political loyalty over impartial justice. Critics argued that instead of addressing serious concerns about how a U.S. citizen was killed by a federal officer, Bondi focused her rhetoric on disciplining dissent within her department and justifying DOJ’s chosen investigative path.

For many Americans, especially those who expect the DOJ to protect civil liberties and enforce the law impartially, this points to structural problems in how the department is led and who it appears to serve first.

Pam Bondi’s tenure as Attorney General has been marked by significant friction with lawmakers, civil rights advocates, and legal professionals over core questions of justice, fairness, transparency, and independence. While her supporters frame her actions as restoring order or refocusing priorities, the critical consensus among a broad array of observers is that her leadership has often aligned with a narrowly defined political agenda rather than the broader public interest.

Representing the American people, a diverse and pluralistic population, implies upholding the rule of law impartially, defending civil liberties for all communities, and maintaining institutional integrity free from undue political influence. Based on the substantial concerns raised by civil rights organizations, bipartisan oversight criticism, and controversies over transparency and accountability, there is strong evidence that many Americans do not feel represented by Pam Bondi’s approach to national justice administration. She is unfit to fill this role and should be fired. Fair-minded Americans look forward to the day when the tables are turned and she is held accountable for her poor judgment.

Pam Bondi does not represent the American people. She represents a narrow, partisan faction, and she has weaponized the Department of Justice to protect power, not justice. Her tenure is a cautionary tale of how political ambition, ego, and loyalty to one faction can corrupt the highest levels of law enforcement. For any fair-minded American who believes in equality, transparency, and the rule of law, her leadership is not only unacceptable, it is dangerous. She should be removed, and her record remembered as a betrayal of the office she was sworn to uphold.

In reviewing the record discussed above from combative congressional testimony, to clashes over transparency in the Epstein files, to civil-rights concerns, to the handling of the Minneapolis shooting and the resignation of six federal prosecutors a consistent theme emerges: a perception that the Department of Justice under Pam Bondi has too often operated in a defensive, partisan posture rather than as a visibly independent guardian of the rule of law.

Her heated exchanges with lawmakers, including personal attacks and dismissals of oversight as “theatrics,” shifted attention away from substantive accountability and toward political confrontation. Civil rights advocates and voting rights organizations have questioned whether enforcement priorities reflect equal protection for all communities. Controversies surrounding document transparency and redactions have raised additional concerns about openness in matters of national importance. And in the Minneapolis case, where internal disagreement led to multiple prosecutor resignations, Bondi’s public framing emphasized loyalty to federal enforcement efforts over addressing the deeper legal and ethical questions at stake.

Taken together, these episodes do not simply represent routine political disagreement. They speak to a broader question about representation in a pluralistic democracy. The Attorney General is entrusted with serving the entire nation, across party lines, communities, and ideologies, and with maintaining public confidence that justice is administered impartially. When leadership appears consistently aligned with a particular political narrative, responds to oversight with confrontation, and prioritizes institutional defense over transparent engagement, it can erode trust among large segments of the public.

Bad Bunny’s Apple Music Super Bowl LX Halftime Show on February 8, 2026, was not merely a performance; it was a cultural reckoning broadcast to one of the largest television audiences in human history. From Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, California, Bad Bunny delivered a Spanish-language celebration of Puerto Rican and Latin American life that shattered the narrow, brittle myths of who gets to define “America.”

The show opened with imagery rooted in Puerto Rico’s lived reality—sugarcane fields, working neighborhoods, street life, and historical memory—placing colonized, exploited, and often erased people squarely at the center of the nation’s most watched ritual. This was not decorative multiculturalism. It was a declaration. Bad Bunny’s message was unmistakable: America is not owned by whiteness, English, or grievance politics. It is continental, plural, and alive.

Near the end of the performance, he reclaimed one of the most weaponized phrases in American nationalism. Saying “God Bless America,” he proceeded to name countries across North, Central, and South America, exploding the phrase’s exclusionary use and restoring it to its geographic and human truth. When he lifted a football reading “TOGETHER, WE ARE AMERICA,” as the stadium flashed “THE ONLY THING MORE POWERFUL THAN HATE IS LOVE,” the message could not have been clearer: unity is not conformity, and belonging does not require erasure.

Flags from across the Americas filled the stadium, a direct rebuke to the idea that patriotism must be monolingual, monocultural, or mean-spirited. Millions watched. Millions understood. The performance instantly became one of the most-viewed halftime shows in history, with audiences describing it as emotional, affirming, and deeply personal… particularly for communities long told that their language, music, and bodies are somehow “un-American.”

Bad Bunny—born Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio in Vega Baja, Puerto Rico—has spent his career refusing the traditional terms of acceptance. He did not translate himself into English to be palatable. He did not sand down his accent, his politics, or his gender expression to fit a corporate mold. Instead, he dragged global pop culture toward him. Through reggaeton and Latin trap, he forced the industry to confront a reality it had long profited from, while marginalizing Spanish-language culture is not a niche. It is the present and future. In fact, it is the second-largest language spoken in the USA, 13% of the population.

That reality triggered a predictable reaction from the usual custodians of cultural resentment.

Donald J. Trump, never one to miss an opportunity to humiliate himself publicly, responded on Truth Social with a tantrum masquerading as critique. He called the performance “absolutely terrible” and “one of the worst, EVER,” complaining that it made “no sense” and failed to meet his warped notion of American excellence. He whined like a three-year-old brat that “nobody understands a word this guy is saying,” revealing, yet again, that his vision of America ends where English does. He disparaged the dancing as “disgusting,” clutching his pearls while having spent years debasing public discourse with cruelty, vulgarity, and lies.

Trump labeled the show “a slap in the face to our country,” which is revealing. To him, America is not 330 million people across countless cultures; it is a shrinking fantasy of dominance where diversity feels like loss and visibility feels like a threat. This is the same man who dismissed Meryl Streep as “overrated,” who bankrupted casinos, continuously fails at governance, and still mistakes grievance for strength. His response was not cultural criticism; it was panic that he is the biggest loser.

Meanwhile, the conservative right attempted to stage a parallel universe. Turning Point USA streamed an “All-American Halftime Show,” a defensive pageant of country music, electric-guitar patriotism, and sanctimonious slogans about “faith, family, and freedom.” Featuring Kid Rock and other conservative-aligned performers, the event doubled as a political rally and a canonization of grievance, complete with tributes to Charlie Kirk and chants that felt more cultic than communal.

Despite heavy promotion across right-wing platforms, the alternative event drew a fraction of the audience. Roughly 135 million people chose Bad Bunny’s live performance. That fact alone is devastating, when approximately 5 million watched Turning Points lackluster act live and 20 million people, including all social media platforms.

The contrast could not be starker. One vision of America was expansive, multilingual, embodied, and forward-looking. The other was reactive, exclusionary, and obsessed with preserving a past that never truly existed. Bad Bunny did not divide the nation; he exposed where the fractures already were, and who benefits from pretending they aren’t.

In a moment of profound political and social strain, Bad Bunny reminded millions that America’s strength has never come from uniformity. It has come from survival, creativity, resistance, and the stubborn insistence of marginalized people to be seen and heard anyway. That is why the performance mattered. That is why it enraged the conservative right, and that is why it will be remembered long after the noise fades.

This is the dawning of a new America, and I am proud to be among its multicultural fans!

Bad Bunny did not ask permission to belong, and that is precisely why the performance mattered. In fifteen minutes, he told a deeper truth than decades of flag-waving theater ever could: America is not diminished by difference; it is revealed by it. The outrage that followed was not about music or taste; it was about power losing its monopoly on the story. History will not remember the tantrums, the counter-programming, or the small men and women shouting at a continent they cannot control. It will remember the moment millions saw themselves reflected on the world’s biggest stage and understood, unmistakably, that they were already home.

The portrayal and depiction of Black people as apes is neither accidental, humorous, nor antiquated. It is among the oldest and foundational racist tropes in Western history, designed to strip Black bodies of humanity and to justify exclusion, domination, and violence. It emerged from the Enlightenment-era pseudoscience of colonial anthropology and the slavery trade. This imagery functioned to place Black people outside the boundaries of full humanity, thereby legitimizing enslavement, segregation, and state violence. When such tropes are invoked against Barack and Michelle Obama, they do not merely offend; they activate a historical apparatus of racial domination that has always been political in purpose and consequence.

During Donald Trump’s ascent and presidency, racist imagery proliferated within his political ecosystem. While Trump did not invent these depictions, he consistently benefited from, tolerated, and amplified the culture that produced them. Whether through social-media engagement, dog-whistle rhetoric, or conspicuous silence in the face of explicit racism from supporters, his posture signaled permission. Power operates as much through permission as through command.

Racist image of the Chinese.

Racist image of Jews.

Caricature of a gay man.

Racist image of Barack and Michelle Obama.

Racist image of the Indigenous.

Scholars of genocide, colonialism, and mass violence have long identified dehumanization as a necessary precondition for cruelty. Once a population is rendered animalistic or subhuman, moral restraint erodes, and brutality becomes administratively and psychologically manageable. This historical and pictorial evidence in our past treatment of the Chinese, Indigenous, Japanese, LGBTQ+, Jews, etc., rings true even today under the current White House. This dynamic explains why animalistic caricature has historically accompanied policies of segregation, forced removal, mass incarceration, and extrajudicial violence. The ape trope does not operate in isolation; it is embedded within a broader narrative matrix that frames Black people (or any population considered “other”) as criminal, illegitimate, intellectually inferior, and socially dangerous.

The Obamas, embodying Black achievement, global respect, and intellectual authority, were particularly targeted on Friday, February 6, 2026. Reducing them to caricature was an attempt to negate what their presence represented: the possibility of Black leadership that could not be dismissed as inferior. Racist mockery, in this sense, functioned as political resistance, an effort to reassert hierarchy at the moment it felt most destabilized.

Donald Trump’s public record demonstrates a consistent pattern of racial provocation and normalization. Retweeting or signal-boosting images and memes rooted in dehumanization is not accidental or neutral behavior. He has defended extremist supporters in moments of national crises, and he has deployed language that draws upon racist notions of contamination, invasion, and inferiority. These acts are not rhetorical accidents. When a political leader circulates or excuses dehumanizing imagery, he confers legitimacy upon it, transforming private prejudice into public permission.

Claims that such conduct is “just humor” or that responsibility lies with unnamed third parties collapse under scrutiny. Intent does not erase impact. Ignorance does not absolve power. The continued tolerance of this behavior within the Republican Party represents a profound moral failure. Silence in the face of dehumanization is not neutrality; it is complicity. Decent Americans have a responsibility to confront attempts to humiliate, degrade, and destabilize American icons, former presidents, or good tax-paying Americans through racist caricature.

This pattern did not begin with the Obamas, nor did it end with them. Trump’s public record includes defending white nationalists following a violent rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, called “The Unite the Right Rally” in August 2017, when Trump stated there were "very fine people on both sides", which was organized by white nationalists and neo-Nazis. His racism extends back even further, to the decades-old findings that his family business discriminated against people of color in housing in 1973, when Black and Brown tenants were consistently discriminated against. Or even when he had disparaging remarks about African nations in 2018 when he called them “shit hole countries”, and recent repeated attacks on immigrant and Muslim communities, including Somalis in Minnesota. These are not isolated incidents; they form a continuous through-line of racial hostility.

What once would have ended a political career has instead been rewarded with attention and power. Trump does not apologize; he relishes the spectacle. Trump does not retreat from controversy; he weaponizes it. That fact alone should alarm anyone committed to democratic norms and shared humanity. It is past time for the GOP, and for all Americans who claim decency, to reject this politics of dehumanization and to end the normalization of hate masquerading as leadership.

To confront this history requires more than condemning isolated images or statements. It requires recognizing dehumanization as a deliberate and recurring political practice, one that resurfaces whenever power feels destabilized. Naming it is not an act of performative outrage; it is an act of civic defense. The refusal to normalize racial dehumanization is not partisan; it is a moral imperative essential to the preservation of democratic society and shared humanity.

Dehumanization does not emerge spontaneously; it is cultivated, circulated, and rewarded. The Trump era illustrates how racial caricature can be reactivated to stabilize threatened power structures under the guise of populism. Refusing to confront this practice allows it to metastasize across institutions and public discourse. Accountability, therefore, is not optional. To defend democratic society requires rejecting both the imagery and the political permissions that sustain it.

On January 7, a federal ICE agent shot and killed Renee Nicole Good, a U.S. citizen, in Minneapolis, an act that sparked immediate outrage and protests. Less than two and a half weeks later, on January 24, another federal agent shot and killed Alex Pretti, a local ICU nurse. This second killing intensified national debate and ignited demonstrations across the country.

The Department of Justice opened a civil-rights probe into Pretti’s death, yet the response has felt hollow. Under the current White House administration, justice increasingly resembles a house of puppets rather than a system committed to accountability and equal protection under the law.

With Minnesota under siege by a heavy federal hand, the State of Minnesota formally requested that Operation Metro Surge be halted. A federal judge denied that request. Plaintiffs argued the surge violated state sovereignty and constitutional rights, but the court ruled they failed to demonstrate sufficient constitutional overreach. As a result, the controversial enforcement operation will continue.

That decision will not silence fair-minded Minnesotans. We will continue to exercise our First Amendment rights, loudly and visibly, even if it makes the federal occupation uncomfortable. Federal authorities, including DHS spokespeople, have defended their actions as lawful enforcement, yet reports of internal divisions within the Department of Justice suggest even federal officials are questioning how these incidents have been handled.

Local services in Minneapolis are now under severe strain. Emergency response systems, healthcare access, school operations, and policing resources are all buckling under the combined pressure of sustained protests and an expanded federal presence. City officials have warned that these conditions are unsustainable. It feels as though the machinery of the federal government is being used to break the will of the people, to exhaust communities into submission, leaving them begging for scraps in the hope that resistance will fade. But Minnesotans are a strong and mighty people. We will endure. We will hold out for the long haul.

Across the United States, tens of thousands of people protested federal immigration enforcement tactics in response to the two fatal shootings in Minneapolis. Demonstrations included walkouts, marches, and coordinated shutdowns under slogans such as “No work. No school. No shopping. Stop funding ICE.” Protesters condemned the federal operation as excessive, militarized, and deeply harmful to civil liberties and community trust.

On Friday, January 30, major cities nationwide joined a coordinated day of action against aggressive federal immigration enforcement, particularly ICE operations in Minnesota. Demonstrators expressed outrage not only over the killings of Renee Good and Alex Pretti, but also over how the federal government has responded to the deaths of its own citizens.

In Minnesota, Bruce Springsteen arrived in solidarity, performing his song “Streets of Minneapolis” alongside Tom Morello of Rage Against the Machine at First Avenue. The performance ended with a clear refrain: “ICE out of Minnesota.”

Listen here: Streets of Minneapolis

Solidarity marches echoed across the country. In New York City, thousands marched through bitter cold, chanting anti-ICE and anti-policy slogans. In Los Angeles, demonstrators gathered near federal facilities, with some clashes reported. Students and teachers walked out in multiple states, and several school districts preemptively canceled classes in anticipation of mass participation. Protests took place at state capitals, city halls, and public plazas from coast to coast—including Phoenix, Boston, and Miami.

This week also brought a major leadership shift. Gregory Bovino was removed from his role as Border Patrol commander in Minneapolis and reassigned, ending his tenure as the public face of the federal enforcement surge. Bovino had been widely criticized for aggressive tactics and controversial statements following the killings of Pretti and Good. Tom Homan, a senior border enforcement official, was brought in by the White House to take over leadership of the operation and will report directly to the White House.

Bovino’s public defense of federal agents, and his characterization of Pretti as a threat who intended to “massacre law enforcement”, drew widespread backlash, including from within Republican circles. Independent reporting and video evidence failed to support those claims, prompting further scrutiny and contributing to the reshuffling of leadership within the administration’s immigration strategy.

Calls for Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem’s resignation have continued to grow. Following the Minneapolis shootings, high-profile Democrats—including Sen. Bernie Sanders, Sen. Chuck Schumer, and Gov. J.B. Pritzker—publicly called for Noem’s removal, arguing that senior officials must be held accountable for abuses by federal agents and systemic failures within ICE and Border Patrol.

Internal conflict within the White House over messaging and responsibility has reportedly intensified. Top aide Stephen Miller has acknowledged that some enforcement protocols “may not have been followed” and that the administration is reviewing the incidents, a notable shift from earlier, more aggressive statements. Americans see the propaganda machine at work and shake their head in disgust. Independent fact-checking organizations and media outlets have also questioned the accuracy of claims made by Noem and Bovino, noting that available evidence does not support assertions that Pretti assaulted federal officers.

Meanwhile, the federal government has remained largely tone-deaf to public outcry. Though Noem remains in her position, she was reportedly summoned to the White House for a closed-door reprimand and two-hour tongue lashing, as pressure continues to mount from national and state leaders demanding accountability and reform.

As Minnesotans continue to peacefully march in the streets, they are also gathering in community spaces and faith-based settings to find strength through solidarity and song. I attended one such gathering in Mankato at Bethlehem Lutheran Church, where more than 150 people came together through music—not in fear, but in unity. It was a joyful, defiant expression of community, a collective refusal to be bullied by the presence of federal power. Together, in voice, we said: enough.

Listen here: https://www.facebook.com/reel/857138943987180

Listen here: https://www.facebook.com/reel/896359956321908

January 20, 2025, marked the beginning of Trump’s second term, and in just over a year, he has further fractured the nation, undermined constitutional norms, and breached the public trust. His approval rating has fallen to 37 percent, lower than during his first term, and continues to fall. The cost of living continues to rise amid failed tariff policies. Healthcare costs climb as the Affordable Care Act is weakened. Serious allegations, including the continued suppression of Epstein-related files, remain unanswered.

This is not governance.
It is a federal occupation.
The people are responding.

We will not be silenced. We will not bow to intimidation. As Minnesotans and Americans across this great nation, we will continue to speak, to march, and to stand together against injustice. Our communities, our voices, and our music are stronger than any federal force sent to suppress them. This is our home. These are our streets. We will endure, we will resist, and we will be heard.

Anger is supposed to be a sin; that is what I was taught. Anger leads to hatred, hatred to violence, violence to damnation. Keep your voice down. Keep your hands folded. Trust authority. Pray harder. Wait your turn. God will sort it out. But there are moments when anger is not a failure of faith; it is faith refusing to be anesthetized. Today was one of those moments.

I watched a nation dress cruelty up as righteousness and call it order. I watched men in uniform speak the language of law while acting in the spirit of domination. I watched Scripture twisted into a backdrop for brutality, as if God were a mascot rather than a judge. And I felt something rupture in me, not a loss of belief, but the shattering of patience.

I remind myself, Jesus did not flip tables because he was calm. He was angry!

The book of Proverbs names what God hates, and it does not mince words. There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are an abomination to him. These are not suggestions. They are not misunderstandings. They are abominations!

Proverbs 6:16–19 states, “There are six things that the Lord hates, seven that are an abomination to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that make haste to run to evil, a false witness who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers.”

Wolves (or thugs) wearing whatever costume keeps the flock in check is a warning to the community. We have seen their outlandishness. We will not be moved.

Listen here: We Shall Not Be Moved

The last month in Minnesota made scripture feel less like ancient poetry and more like a checklist.

“Haughty eyes” is a phrase we’ve softened over time, as if it merely means arrogance or vanity, but the Hebrew image is sharper: eyes lifted high, looking down. A posture of superiority so complete that it cannot imagine being wrong. It is the gaze of someone who believes power proves virtue, who mistakes authority for moral clarity. It is the look I see from behind the White House podium, in the eyes of Steven Miller, Pam Bondi, Greg Bovino, Donald Trump, et. al.

A lying tongue does not always shout. Sometimes it smiles for the cameras. Sometimes it wears a presidential seal and speaks in a passive-aggressive voice. Sometimes it says officer-involved shooting instead of a man or woman murdered. Sometimes it says the individual resisted instead of we escalated. Lies are not always falsehoods; often, they are spoken and arranged to deceive a twisted narrative.

Hands that shed innocent blood need not pull a trigger personally. They can sign orders. They can deny warrants. They can delay investigations. They can insist that the system must investigate itself while barricading the door to common sense.

Minnesota was called dangerous, lawless, and out of control. This narrative was repeated with such confidence that it was meant to replace evidence. Never mind that national data placed the North Star State among the safest in the country. Never mind that communities were showing restraint even as armed federal agents flooded neighborhoods like an occupying force. Facts were inconvenient. Fear was a tool to tell a lie.

Feet that rush to evil always claim urgency. We had no choice. It happened so fast. We feared for our lives. Evil loves the language of haste because it short-circuits reflection. It depends on panic to excuse excess.

And then there is the one who sows discord, who tells neighbor to fear neighbor, citizen to suspect citizen, and state to distrust state. Discord is not chaos; it is strategy. Divide the people, and the violence becomes administratively efficient.

By the time Alex Pretti was publicly executed by the hands of ICE, I was already carrying weeks of grief like a second spine. I told myself to stand tall and proud, to not show signs of weakness, and to have faith in the process. But each time the federal government opened its mouth, I grew to distrust it more and more.

Alex was thirty-seven, an ICU nurse, and a U.S. citizen. He was someone who ran toward suffering for a living and did not clock out of that instinct when his shift ended. On January 24, 2026, in south Minneapolis, during yet another federal immigration operation, Alex did what caregivers do, he stepped in when someone else was being assaulted by an ICE agent.

A woman was pushed to the ground. Cameras were rolling. Voices were raised. Alex moved toward the disturbance, not with a raised weapon, not with threats, but with concern and his cell phone in hand to document the abuse. He was legally armed, as many Minnesotans are. His firearm was holstered. He had no criminal record. He was known in his neighborhood as steady, kind, and unassuming.

He would be dead within minutes, as ICE fired multiple times into his lifeless body. The local community was horrified, and the nation was in visual shock. The ICE agent walked away without recourse, another day done living as a thug.

The official story by the White House arrived almost instantly, fully formed, as if prepared in advance: Alex approached agents with a handgun. Alex violently resisted. Alex caused his own death. The language was neat, bloodless, and familiar. It required no imagination, only obedience.

WARNING: VIOLENT CONTENT - Alex Pretti murdered by ICE

But cellphone video from bystanders does not pray. It does not swear allegiance. It does not respect rank. It shows what it shows. The viewer can see for themselves that once again the White House told lies to cover their abuse of power.

Experts who later analyzed the video footage described agents wrestling Alex to the ground before shots were fired. This was not a lone, split-second decision, but a sequence. A choice layered upon a choice. A failure stacked on top of force. Multiple agents piling on top of him, beating him, punching him until one of them chose to use their gun to end his life. This was murder! This was a public execution caught on camera.

What stunned me was not only the killing, but the reflexive certainty with which federal authorities absolved themselves before any independent investigation could begin. The Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension was denied access to the scene, even after a judge issued a warrant. Evidence was controlled by the same agency whose actions were under scrutiny. They were judge, jury, and criminal-at-large.

Days earlier, authorities had been caught lying about the killing of Renee Nicole Good. That lie was not a mistake; it was a rehearsal. How, then, are fair-minded Americans expected to trust this account? The question was not rhetorical. It was civic. It was moral. It was theological.

Mayor Jacob Frey and Governor Tim Walz called it what it felt like on the ground, a federal occupation. Their words were careful, but the implication was explosive. States are not supposed to beg for access to crime scenes within their own borders. Investigations are not supposed to require permission from the accused.

The Hennepin County Attorney opened a public portal for evidence submissions because the people had more footage than the government would release. That alone should have set off alarms nationwide. Protests then erupted, not riots, not mobs, but grief made public. The people are demanding that federal agents leave the state. The people are demanding accountability. The people are demanding the basic dignity of truth. Meanwhile, the NBA postponed a Timberwolves–Warriors game over safety concerns, and suddenly the unrest was real enough to matter.

“Minnesota Nice” can only absorb so much before it curdles into something sharper.

I am not naïve about power. I know governments lie. I know institutions protect themselves. I know that violence often wears procedure like a medical lab coat. But there is a particular obscenity when cruelty claims God as its character witness.

What enraged me most was not the existence of evil; it was the insistence that we not name it.

When leaders wrap themselves in righteousness while sowing fear, when they speak of order while practicing intimidation, when they invoke faith while behaving like predators, something in me refuses to stay quiet. Wolves do not become shepherds because they quote Scripture. Badges do not sanctify brutality, and patriotism does not require amnesia.

The attempt to distract through spectacle, scandal, and the resurfacing of old villains felt desperate. Smoke bombs thrown into public consciousness while families buried their dead is a ruse. The suggestion that we are fools, that our eyes and ears are betraying us, and that reality itself was negotiable is disturbing. We will not be fooled. And, we still demand full access to the Epstein files, which name the Pedophile Protector, Donald J. Trump, and other people in power.

Ordinary Americans see what is happening, and so does the outside world. Gaslighting will fail because grief sharpens perception. When blood is spilled, clarity follows.

I am concerned now not only of what has already happened but of what is being normalized. Tempers are brewing. Lines are hardening. The National Guard has been called, and that fact sits heavily in my chest. Militarization does not soothe unrest; it formalizes it. Still, I believe anger can be disciplined without being domesticated.

This is not a call to violence. It is a refusal to pretend. It is a witness statement written in the language of faith because faith is the terrain being violated. If God hates what Proverbs says God hates, then neutrality is not humility; it is complicity.

I do not know how this ends. I know only that Alex Jeffrey Pretti should be alive. Renee Nicole Good should be alive, and a nation that claims to love righteousness should tremble when wolves in sheep’s clothing begin preaching on behalf of a corrupt, federal government.

Minnesota is a state on the edge. This week has been marked by relentless and deeply disturbing news as Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) continues what many Minnesotans now experience as a federal occupation of the state. Hardly a day passes without headlines filled with shock, horror, and disappointment over enforcement actions that have disrupted neighborhoods, traumatized children, and destabilized schools and families. At the same time, these developments have been met with an extraordinary civic response. Minnesotans are stepping up for one another, organizing mutual aid, showing up in the streets, and refusing to allow fear to define our communities.

What is unfolding is not an abstract policy debate. It is a lived reality, felt in classrooms where children are missing, in neighborhoods where unmarked vehicles circle, and in homes where families whisper contingency plans late at night. The cumulative effect has been a pervasive sense of unease, an erosion of normalcy that touches nearly every corner of daily life.

Even yesterday, as I was getting my home refinanced at the credit union, my loan officer, who was adopted from South Korean as a baby and is a mother of an American teenage son, expressed concern as she begins developing a plan of action in case either of them is abducted by the federal government.

The detention of children and using them as bait is evident in what happened this week when a five-year-old child, Liam Conejo Ramos, was detained by ICE and used as a pawn to track, Adrian Alexander Conejo Arias, in the Columbia Heights area of the Twin Cities. According to school officials and the family’s attorney, the child was taken during what ICE described as a routine enforcement operation. Local advocates and leaders within Columbia Heights Public Schools have accused ICE of using the child as “bait” to locate and detain relatives, an allegation the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) has denied. DHS maintains that agents did not intentionally target the child. Witness accounts, however, paint a devastating picture.

Bundled in a tiny plaid coat and a blue knit bunny hat with his Spiderman backpack, Liam stood silently as masked federal agents surrounded him in the driveway of his suburban Minneapolis home. One agent gripped the handle of the boy’s Spider Man backpack as Liam was loaded into a black SUV. Hours later, he was placed on a plane with his father and transported more than 1,300 miles away to a family detention facility in Texas. What precisely led ICE to take a kindergartener across the country remains in dispute. What is indisputable is the trauma inflicted on a child who was steps away from his home, his school, and his mother.

Liam is now the fourth child from Columbia Heights Public Schools to be taken by ICE in just two weeks, according to district officials. This fact alone has sent shockwaves through the community, raising urgent questions about the scope and intent of federal enforcement actions in Minnesota.

Legal status and contradictions by the federal government is alarming. They are not following the law; they are using the U.S. immigration process as a weapon to trap innocent people.

Liam’s family is originally from Ecuador. According to the family’s attorney, Marc Prokosch, Liam and his father presented themselves to U.S. border officials in Texas in December 2024 to apply for asylum. Their claims remain pending, placing them squarely within an ongoing legal process.

Despite this, DHS has described Adrian Conejo Arias as an “illegal alien” and disputes that he entered the United States legally. Prokosch reports that Liam’s father has no criminal record in Minnesota, Ecuador, or federal databases. DHS officials have not presented evidence of any criminal history, even days after the detention. Nevertheless, administration officials continue to assert that immigration operations are focused on “violent criminals” and the “worst of the worst,” even as children and families are repeatedly swept up in enforcement actions. These contradictions have fueled public outrage. For many Minnesotans, the gap between rhetoric and reality has become impossible to ignore.

The family says they had long feared detention. Messages sent in a family WhatsApp group chat reveal growing anxiety in the weeks leading up to the incident. Liam’s uncle, Luis Conejo, described receiving a call from Liam’s mother shortly after the detention. She was in shock, unable to speak, struggling to comprehend that her husband and child had been taken.

A central point of dispute is why Liam was separated from his mother, who was inside the home at the time. DHS claims the child’s “alleged mother refused to take custody” of him. Community witnesses and faith leaders strongly dispute this account.

According to Pastor Sergio Amezcua, who has been assisting the family, Liam’s pregnant mother was terrified. She feared that if she opened the door, she too would be detained, leaving her teenage son without care. Pastor Amezcua stated that agents attempted to use the presence of the child to force her outside. ICE has denied this, insisting the agency has never used children as leverage. Fair-minded Americans know differently. How can the federal government be trusted? Their recent track record of the murder of Renee Nicole Good is an example that their words and actions are not congruent.

Multiple witnesses, including Columbia Heights School Board Chair Mary Granlund, described bystanders pleading with agents not to take the child. Neighbors and school officials repeatedly offered to take custody of Liam. “The school is here,” people shouted. “You don’t have to take him.” ICE took him anyway.

Liam and his father are now being held at the South Texas Family Residential Center in Dilley, Texas. The facility, operated by ICE, houses hundreds of families. While it includes classrooms and recreational spaces, attorneys and advocates have long raised concerns about conditions and the profound psychological harm caused by uprooting children from their communities and confining them in detention centers through no fault of their own.

For a five-year-old, the distance is not merely geographic. It represents a severing from familiar routines, trusted adults, and a sense of safety. Educators and child advocates warn that the long-term impacts of such experiences can be severe and enduring. Can you imagine being ripped away from your mother?

Liam’s case is not isolated.

In recent weeks:

• A 17-year-old Columbia Heights High School student was pulled from a car by armed, masked agents on the way to school.

• Another 17-year-old student and her mother were detained inside their apartment.

• A 10-year-old fourth grader was taken while walking to school and remains in detention in Texas.

School Superintendent Zena Stenvik reports ICE agents circling schools and following buses. “There’s no semblance of normalcy anymore,” she said. “Every week just keeps getting worse.” School attendance has dropped. Families are keeping children home out of fear. Educators are being asked to do the impossible, provide stability in an environment defined by uncertainty.

From the killing of Renée Nicole Good earlier this month to the detention of children in their neighborhoods and on their way to school, many Minnesotans see these actions as an unacceptable escalation, one that blurs the line between law enforcement and collective punishment.

As things continue to unravel, the resolve of Minnesotans remains strong. Collectively through statewide resistance and solidarity, people from across the state gathered to voice their opposition to our federal occupation. On Friday, January 23, despite temperatures plunging below –20°F, more than 20,000 people gathered in Minneapolis. Additional actions unfolded across the state. Protests included marches, teach-ins, prayer vigils, volunteer efforts, and an economic blackout known as the “Day of Truth & Freedom.” Hundreds of businesses closed as thousands took to the streets calling for reform, accountability, and an end to ICE’s presence in local neighborhoods.

Watch here: Protest March

In Mankato, the Carnegie Art Center hosted a community teach-in focused on knowing one’s rights and identifying meaningful local actions. Similar events took place in churches, libraries, union halls, and community centers statewide.

Watch protest here: Faith Leaders Arrested

In addition, dozens of faith leaders were arrested at Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport while protesting deportations carried out through the facility. Organizers estimate that roughly 2,000 people have been deported via the airport. Union leaders report that at least 12 airport workers have also been arrested by ICE.

These actions reflect a growing coalition of faith leaders, educators, labor unions, artists, students, and families who are united by the belief that what is happening in Minnesota is morally indefensible and abhorrent.

Why does this matter? Because fear is spreading through neighborhoods and schools. Because children are being traumatized. Because communities are being destabilized in ways that will echo for years. The normalization of these practices threatens the social fabric that binds communities together. Yet despite the heavy-handedness of federal enforcement and the absence of care from national leadership, Minnesotans continue to rise. Mutual aid networks are growing. Attendance at teach-ins and vigils is increasing. Other states are now developing plans of action to support Minnesota and to protect their own communities from similar escalation.

This week marks a rapid intensification of both federal enforcement and civic resistance. The people of Minnesota are making it unmistakably clear that the targeting of children, families, and schools will not be normalized.

The federal government has crossed a line that will not be tolerated. The abduction of children, the targeting of families, and the intimidation of entire communities will not be accepted as the cost of enforcement. Minnesotans are demanding transparency, accountability, and an immediate halt to practices that traumatize children and destabilize neighborhoods.

This moment will be remembered, not only for what federal authorities chose to do, but for whether elected leaders, institutions, and communities chose to intervene or remain silent.

History is watching, and so are the children.