Category: Politics Page 1 of 7

In Defense of Dr. Fauci

On August 3, 2026

Last week, an 85-year-old physician sat before a Senate committee and, for the first time in more than 250 congressional appearances spanning five decades of public service, declined to answer. Dr. Anthony Fauci invoked his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination over one hundred times, telling the panel that its chairman’s “evident obsession with calling for my prosecution” left him with no other reasonable choice. He was invoking his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination, not because he believed he had committed a crime, but because he no longer trusted that anything he said would be treated as testimony rather than ammunition. It was a stunning scene, and it should trouble anyone who cares about how this country treats its public servants once the politics of a crisis outlast the crisis itself.

Fauci’s career is, by any fair measure, one of the most consequential in the history of American medicine. He joined the National Institutes of Health in 1968 and led the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases from 1984 until his retirement in 2022, advising seven presidents from Reagan to Biden. He was, for two decades, among the most cited scientists on earth. He helped transform HIV/AIDS from a near-certain death sentence into a manageable chronic condition, and his work undergirded PEPFAR, the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief, which is credited with saving more than 25 million lives worldwide. For that work, President George W. Bush — a Republican — awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2008. Doctor Francis S. Collins, former director of the National Institutes of Health, has called Dr. Fauci “a national treasure” and has stated that “Dr Fauci is the most dedicated public servant I have ever known. His contributions have saved countless lives from HIV/AIDS, Ebola and SARS-CoV-2, and will stand as a profoundly significant gift to humanity.” None of that is in dispute even by his fiercest critics.

What is in dispute is his conduct during COVID-19, when he became the public face of a federal response that asked Americans to accept school closures, business shutdowns, masking, and eventually vaccine mandates. Senator Rand Paul, who now chairs the Senate committee investigating him, has spent years arguing that the National Institutes of Health funded research in Wuhan China contributed to the virus’s emergence, and that Fauci misled Congress about it under oath.

Ahead of last week’s hearing, Paul released more than 1,100 pages of Fauci’s pandemic-era diary entries, obtained after an eight-month search led by Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. Paul argued that what Fauci wrote privately differs from what he told the public. Paul has now pledged to seek a contempt-of-Congress vote, which he says could open the door to Justice Department prosecution. Neither Paul nor Kennedy seems to understand that a diary entry is a statement fixed in time and may involve personal musing and speculation and that opinion and public statements can evolve as new knowledge becomes available. Or perhaps they don’t care.

Reasonable people can criticize specific decisions made during the pandemic. Some restrictions may have lasted too long. Officials could have communicated uncertainty more clearly. Public health agencies sometimes failed to explain why recommendations changed, allowing confusion and mistrust to spread. The shifting public health guidance that so many Americans remember as evidence of dishonesty is, to most working scientists, simply what science looks like in real time: recommendations changed because the evidence changed, not because anyone was hiding the truth. But that is not to say those criticisms don’t deserve serious discussion.

What deserves equal recognition, however, is the unprecedented uncertainty confronting public health officials. They faced a rapidly evolving virus, incomplete data, overloaded hospitals, political polarization, and an information environment saturated with misinformation. Perfect decisions were impossible.

The main issue in contention is Senator Paul’s accusation that Dr. Fauci falsely testified that NIH never funded gain-of-function research at the Wuhan virology lab. The element of funding is a technical issue. NIH did not directly fund research at the Wuhan lab; they provided a grant to a group known as EchoHealth who in turn funded research at Wuhan. The second element requires a brief explanation of gain-of-function research.

Gain-of-function is laboratory research that deliberately alters a virus or other pathogen to give it new or enhanced biological properties—such as increased transmissibility, infectivity, or the ability to infect a new host—in order to better understand disease mechanisms, improve surveillance, or develop vaccines and treatments. Senator Paul contends that the research did meet the gain-of-function definition while Dr. Fauci contends that it did not meet the federal guidelines in effect at that time and further that the research was not conducted on the SARS-CoV-2 virus and did not result in COVID-19. He continues to maintain that his testimony accurately reflected NIH policy and definitions. Federal reviews, including one commissioned by the National Institutes of Health, have concluded that the specific EcoHealth-funded research did not meet the technical definition of gain-of-function in place at the time, a conclusion Fauci’s critics dispute but have not conclusively rebutted.

As these hearings have pointed out, there is not a single definition of gain-of-function among virologists or microbiologists. Some argue for a tighter definition while others do not. To further add confusion to the question, the American Society for Microbiology has called for a more precise, evidence-based definition of the term gain-of-function.

It is worth being precise about what has and has not been shown. No evidence has emerged that the coronavirus was engineered or leaked from a laboratory; the scientific consensus still points toward a natural spillover event from a wild source.

The elements of perjury require two things: the person knowingly gave false testimony and did so with intention to deceive. Testifying to something that is believed to be true but is later proven to be false does not make the previous testimony perjury. Because the underlying definitions in this charge are under intense debate in the scientific community, the basis for a perjury charge is extremely weak. But we know from recent experience with the reflecting pool that the lack of evidence does not stop the Trump administration from making unfounded criminal charges.

The perjury allegations remain only allegations, litigated in hearing rooms, press conferences, and cable news segments rather than in courts. And Fauci already received a preemptive pardon from President Biden before leaving office specifically to protect him from prosecution over pandemic-era statements — a fact Paul acknowledged, raising the question of exactly what additional legal jeopardy this pursuit is meant to produce.

That question points toward the real story here, which is less about virology than about power. Since President Trump’s return to the White House, several of Fauci’s most vocal critics — Kennedy chief among them — occupy positions from which they can direct the machinery of government at a single retired scientist. A congressional hearing that features senators trying to provoke Fauci by asking about tie colors and the day of the week, his attorney forcibly removed from the room, and a gallery of Trump-aligned activists standing by to testify about vaccine mandates is not a forum for discovering facts.

It is a stage for finishing an old argument by other means. They are attempting to turn a pandemic that killed more than a million Americans, into the fault of one man rather than a shared national failure, much of which occurred on Trump’s watch. And part of it may be personal, given how frequently Fauci found himself publicly correcting a president who does not forget being corrected.

This seems to me to be a case of selective persecution and part of the Trump revenge program.

Fauci may have been an imperfect messenger, and reasonable people can fault his early missteps on masking guidance or his sometimes brusque certainty in front of cameras. But there is a meaningful difference between legitimate oversight of pandemic policy — which Congress should absolutely conduct — and a years-long campaign whose stated goal, in Fauci’s own paraphrase of his chief antagonist, is to see him “behind bars.” When a senator with subpoena power spends a hearing pursuing a scientist’s diary rather than debating the substance of research policy, the effort looks less like accountability and more like retribution dressed up as investigation. It is incredible to me that any reasonable person would believe that a man who spent his entire professional career trying to protect the American public from viral diseases would suddenly and intentionally try to trick them into wearing face masks and closing schools.

The American public deserves a legitimate, evidence-based scrutiny of pandemic-era policies . What the country has gotten instead, at least in the current hearings, looks less like accountability than theater, and neither a scientist’s record nor the public’s understanding of what actually happened is served by a proceeding that produced a great deal of heat and, by most independent accounts, no new facts.

Public servants who make consequential decisions under uncertain conditions deserve scrutiny, not immunity from criticism. But they also deserve a process that seeks truth rather than a scalp. A man who spent fifty years fighting AIDS, Ebola, and a novel coronavirus should not have to plead the Fifth to protect himself from the country he served. That he felt compelled to do so says less about Anthony Fauci than it does about the politics that have consumed the men now pursuing him. This is just one more in a string of embarrassments caused by the Trump administration that have brought shame to the American people in the eyes of the world.

Image generated by author using ChatGPT.

Sources:

1. NBC News, “Anthony Fauci invokes Fifth Amendment right not to answer questions at GOP-led Covid hearing” (July 29, 2026): https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/congress/anthony-fauci-5th-amendment-testify-covid-hearing-rand-paul-rcna589793

2. NewsNation, “Republican COVID-19 allegations against Dr. Anthony Fauci explained”: https://www.newsnationnow.com/health/what-fauci-is-accused-of/

3. The Washington Post, “Fauci’s critics have power. They’re coming after his pandemic record.” (August 2, 2026): https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/2026/08/02/faucis-critics-have-power-theyre-coming-after-his-pandemic-record/

4. TIME, “Fauci Pleads the Fifth at Senate Hearing on COVID, Escalating Long-Running Clash With Republicans” (July 29, 2026): https://time.com/article/2026/07/29/fauci-fifth-amendment-senate-hearing-covid-rand-paul-republicans/

5. The Washington Post, “Rand Paul threatens to hold Fauci in contempt after he declines to answer questions” (July 29, 2026): https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/2026/07/29/fauci-set-face-rand-paul-senate-gop-after-release-his-covid-diary/

6. AOL News, “Republicans ramp up attacks on Fauci”: https://aol.com/republicans-ramp-attacks-fauci-100000419.html

7. NIH MedlinePlus Magazine, “Meet Anthony S. Fauci, M.D., former Director of NIAID”: https://magazine.medlineplus.gov/article/meet-anthony-s-fauci-m.d-former-director-of-the-national-institute-of-allergy-and-infectious-diseases

8. Academy of Achievement, “Anthony S. Fauci, M.D.” (career timeline): https://achievement.org/achiever/anthony-s-fauci-m-d/

9. PBS American Masters, “Anthony Fauci biography and career timeline”: https://www.pbs.org/wnet/americanmasters/anthony-fauci-biography-and-career-timeline/26116

10. Encyclopaedia Britannica, “Anthony Fauci”: https://www.britannica.com/biography/Anthony-Fauci

Trump, MAGA, and the Politics of Permission

By John Turley

On July 18, 2026

In Commentary, Politics

Donald Trump did not invent a new American bigotry. He did something more subtle—and perhaps more consequential. He transformed long-standing resentments into a political identity and gave many people permission to express views they had previously kept private.

The central question surrounding the Make America Great Again movement is: has it created a new ethical worldview, or has it simply exposed attitudes that have long existed beneath the surface of American society? The answer is probably: both.

The resentments themselves are not new. Long before Trump entered politics, historians and political scientists documented the enduring influence of racial resentment, nativism, religious nationalism, and cultural anxiety. Many Americans believed their country was changing too quickly and that immigration, globalization, and shifting social norms threatened a way of life they once took for granted.

American history offers countless examples. Anti-immigrant movements flourished in the nineteenth century. Segregation and white supremacy were embedded in law for generations. George Wallace’s “law and order” campaigns, Pat Buchanan’s culture-war speeches, and the Tea Party’s reaction to Barack Obama’s presidency all reflected recurring fears that “real America” was slipping away.

Obama’s election encouraged hopes that the nation had entered a post-racial era, yet research continued to show that racial and cultural anxieties remained powerful undercurrents. Trump did not create those sentiments. He recognized them, embraced them, and gave them a simple narrative.

“Make America Great Again” is more than a campaign slogan. It tells a story of loss, restoration, and retribution. It suggests that something valuable has been taken away and that reclaiming it is both necessary and morally justified. For many supporters, it became less about policy than identity.

Trump’s most significant innovation was not ideological but cultural. Previous politicians often relied on coded language while preserving at least the appearance of restraint. Trump discarded those conventions. He mocked opponents, encouraged inflammatory chants, proposed banning Muslims from entering the country, and described immigrants as “poisoning the blood” of America. Many supporters interpreted this not as recklessness but as authenticity—a rejection of what they viewed as the constraints of political correctness.

That shift changed more than political rhetoric. It altered the boundaries of acceptable public behavior. Conduct once viewed as disqualifying became, for many supporters, evidence of courage and honesty. Loyalty increasingly outweighed character. Offending critics became proof that one was willing to stand up to elite opinion.

Political scientists describe this process as norm erosion. Laws remain the same, but the unwritten rules governing public life gradually weaken. Loyalty becomes more important than truth, institutions are trusted only when they favor one’s own side, and democratic restraints come to be seen as obstacles rather than safeguards.

Trump did not invent this dynamic. Populist movements throughout history have divided society into virtuous insiders and corrupt outsiders. His contribution was to make that style of politics a daily spectacle. Political conflict became a struggle between patriots and traitors, real Americans and dangerous enemies. Once politics is framed in existential terms, compromise becomes betrayal and restraint begins to look like weakness.

It would be inaccurate to say Trump created prejudice from nothing. A more persuasive argument is that he reduced the social cost of expressing it. Social norms matter because they define the boundaries of acceptable conduct. When prominent public figures use inflammatory language or repeat conspiracy theories without losing support from their followers, those boundaries inevitably shift.

Supporters who might once have hesitated can now dismiss criticism as media bias or political correctness. The line between prejudice and plain speaking becomes increasingly blurred.

This may prove to be Trump’s most enduring legacy. Even if his personal political influence fades, the standards governing public discourse may not return to where they once were. Future politicians can imitate the style—its confrontation, norm-breaking, and appeals to grievance—even if they reject parts of Trump’s agenda.

That is why the distinction between creating prejudice and legitimizing it matters. If Trump merely invented these impulses, defeating one political leader might solve the problem. But if he tapped into deeper currents already present in American society, then the challenge extends far beyond one election.

Trump is best understood as both symptom and accelerant. He gave shape to existing resentments, transformed them into a powerful political identity, and lowered the barriers against openly expressing them. The prejudices themselves were not new. The confidence with which they could be publicly displayed—and sometimes celebrated—was.

Whether that change proves temporary or enduring may become one of the defining questions facing American democracy.

The Golden Age That Never Was

By John Turley

On July 14, 2026

In Commentary, History, Politics

How the Myth of 1950s America Is Being Weaponized by the Modern Right

Not long ago, I was sitting in a waiting room waiting to get an X-ray done. They had MeTV on the television and Leave It To Beaver was playing. You know, the classic 1950s television show where dad went to work, mom stayed at home and did housework while wearing pearls, a dress and heels, and the kids were well behaved even though they may occasionally have been “scamps”. Few ideas exert a stronger pull on the American imagination than the belief that there was once a lost golden age—a time when the nation was more prosperous, more moral, more unified, and more secure than it is today.

Ask most Americans when the country was at its best and there’s a decent chance you’ll hear something like: ” the ’50s.” Clean neighborhoods. Stable families. Everyone going to church on Sunday. One income paying the bills. It’s a seductive image and it’s one that right-wing politicians and evangelical leaders have been selling hard for decades. The only problem is that it was never the whole truth. In 2025, the effort to resurrect that selective memory began the move from campaign rhetoric into actual governance.

Let’s take a close look at the mythology of postwar America and examine what the 1940s and 1950s actually looked like for the millions of Americans excluded from the postcard image and explore how modern conservative politicians and religious leaders are drawing on that mythology to reshape the country today.

The Legend: America’s Postwar Paradise

It’s easy to understand the emotional pull. After the trauma of World War II and the deprivation of the Great Depression, the late 1940s and 1950s did, for a particular slice of America, offer something genuinely new: suburban homes, new cars, television sets, and a sense of safety and prosperity that earlier generations couldn’t have imagined. For white, middle-class families in the northern and midwestern United States, the GI Bill opened the door to homeownership and college education. Real wages rose. Life expectancy improved. The birth rate climbed.

Televisions went from being owned by 12 percent of households in 1950 to over 90 percent by the end of the decade and beamed idealized domestic life straight into living rooms across the country. Programs like Father Knows Best and, of course, Leave It to Beaver were essentially aspirational advertising. Nobody was poor. Nobody was Black. Nobody was gay. Nobody was confused. Everyone’s lawn was neatly trimmed and their problems resolved in 22 minutes.

It is worth acknowledging that aspects of this nostalgia reflect real experience for a limited few. The cultural stability and sense of community that many Americans remember from the era were genuine features of daily life for some people in some places. Writer Alan Ehrenhalt, who wrote extensively about 1950s Chicago neighborhoods, documented the authentic bonds people formed and the coherent community life that anchored their lives. The nostalgia is not entirely manufactured. But the question is: whose nostalgia counts, and who pays the price for making it policy?

The Reality Check: Who Got Left Out

Here is what the postcard left out: the United States of the 1950s was a country of legally enforced racial segregation, economic exclusion, and profound gender inequality. It was, in many respects, a country operating an unofficial domestic system of apartheid.

Jim Crow laws governed daily life for Black Americans from the post-Reconstruction era through the mid-1960s. Schools, workplaces, public transportation, medical facilities, and parks were racially segregated across the South and informally segregated in much of the North. Poll taxes and literacy tests suppressed Black voting. Vagrancy laws effectively criminalized unemployment among Black men. Physical terror, including lynching and the threat of violence, was used as a tool of social control.

Black Americans in the 1950s faced a starkly different economic reality than white Americans. Discriminatory lending practices, including the federally sanctioned “redlining” that denied mortgages to Black families in certain zip codes, locked millions out of the very suburban prosperity that defines the nostalgic image of the era. The GI Bill, widely celebrated as the engine of postwar middle-class expansion, was administered locally and largely excluded Black veterans in the South through discriminatory implementation.

Women fared little better by today’s standards. The idealization of the 1950s housewife conceals the coercive nature of women’s domestic confinement in that era. Women were largely excluded from professional careers, could not obtain credit cards in their own names until 1974, and faced deeply limited legal recourse against workplace discrimination or domestic violence. The image of the contented housewife was, for many women, less a personal choice than the only option available to them.

The economy itself was more volatile than the mythology suggests. The United States suffered four recessions between 1949 and 1960. Average GDP growth during the Eisenhower years ran at about 2.5 percent — respectable, but hardly the sustained boom of legend. And when measured by real GDP per capita in today’s dollars, the average American is roughly 3.7 times better off financially now than in 1955, which complicates the argument that things were economically superior back then.

The period was also marked by intense Cold War anxiety. Americans conducted nuclear attack drills in schools and lived with the constant fear of atomic war. I can remember the “duck and cover” drills that we had in school, as if hiding under our desk would protect us from a nuclear blast. The era also witnessed the rise of McCarthyism, during which accusations of communist sympathies, most without proof, damaged careers and chilled political dissent.

In this version of history, America was once united, moral, prosperous, and respected. Something then went wrong—often identified as secularization, feminism, immigration, globalization, civil rights activism, cultural liberalism, or government expansion. The nation’s challenges are therefore attributed not to complex economic and social forces but to a departure from traditional values.

Building the Myth: The Role of Religion and Cold War Politics

One of the most significant and least understood aspects of 1950s nostalgia is how deliberately constructed it was at the time. The “Christian America” that modern evangelical conservatives point to as a foundational model was, in large part, a Cold War invention.

Historian Kevin Kruse, in his book “One Nation Under God,” documents in detail how business, political, and religious leaders worked during the 1940s and 1950s to fuse Christianity with American national identity in an explicit effort to distinguish the United States from “godless communism.” The phrase “under God” was inserted into the Pledge of Allegiance in 1954 following a lobbying campaign by the Knights of Columbus. “In God We Trust” was adopted as the national motto in 1956, replacing the unofficial but far more pluralistic “E Pluribus Unum” — “Out of Many, One.” Both initiatives had the explicit goal of defining American identity through religious contrast with the Soviet Union, not of recovering some ancient tradition.

President Eisenhower was the central political figure in this fusion of piety and patriotism. Though he had little religious affiliation for most of his life, in 1953 he was baptized in the Presbyterian Church and became active in what historians called the “religious revival” of 1950s America. He signed the National Association of Evangelicals’ “Statement of Seven Divine Freedoms” in 1953 and became what many regarded as a symbolic pastor-in-chief. The Advertising Council ran a nationwide “Religion in American Life” campaign encouraging church attendance. Corporate America joined in: Walt Disney incorporated explicitly patriotic and religious themes into his Anaheim park. The annual National Prayer Breakfast was institutionalized. Presidential speeches began ending with “God bless America” as a matter of course.

Kruse is careful to note that this represented something genuinely new, not the recovery of something original. The “Christian founding” narrative so beloved by modern evangelical conservatives is, in his assessment, more myth than history. What the 1950s actually produced was a strategic civil religion built for Cold War propaganda — a useful fiction that has since been mistaken for ancient truth.

For many voters, such appeals are less about historical accuracy than emotional reassurance. They promise stability amid rapid change and offer a sense of continuity in a world that often feels uncertain.

The Political Machinery: From Reagan to MAGA

“Make America Great Again” is not, as many people assume, a phrase that originated with Donald Trump. Ronald Reagan used it extensively during his 1980 presidential campaign. Its emotional logic — that there was a better time, that it was taken from us, that we can return to it — has been a structural feature of American right-wing politics for at least four decades.

What Trump did was amplify it and make the temporal reference more explicit. When pressed, Trump has pointed to the late 1940s and 1950s as the era he has in mind as a model of national greatness. And his supporters appear to share that view. A 2024 survey by the Public Religion Research Institute (PRRI) found that approximately 70 percent of Republicans believe that America’s culture and way of life has changed for the worse since the 1950s.

That survey finding is worth thinking about. Seven in ten members of one of the nation’s two major political parties believe the country was better when segregation was legal, women couldn’t get a credit card, and McCarthyism was destroying careers on the basis of rumor and suspicion. The longing is, of course, more selective than that, most of those respondents are thinking of the community, stability, and cultural coherence of the era, not its injustices. But the political machinery that exploits that nostalgia does not make those fine distinctions.

Project 2025, the 900-page policy blueprint produced by the Heritage Foundation and dozens of allied conservative organizations, is perhaps the most systematic expression of this restorationist project. Its stated goals include restoring “the family as the centerpiece of American life,” reducing federal government size, centralizing executive power, and returning to what it calls “foundational values.” The document explicitly frames the current moment as a crisis requiring urgent corrective action to restore something that has been lost: a rhetorical structure that assumes the loss of a golden past as its premise.

The Evangelical Revival: Reclaiming a Nation That Never Quite Was

For evangelical Christians in the MAGA coalition, the 1950s hold special significance because of the Eisenhower-era fusion of Christianity and national identity. The addition of “under God” to the Pledge and “In God We Trust” to the currency are treated as evidence of a deep historical tradition — proof that America has “always” been a Christian nation. As one analysis published in Mere Orthodoxy noted, among proponents of Christian nationalism, there is broad agreement that “the cultural Christianity of the Eisenhower era presents a model to which we should aspire.”

The political ambitions of this movement are not subtle. During the first year of Trump’s second term, a series of executive orders moved explicitly toward institutionalizing evangelical Christian priorities within the federal government. One established a task force to “eradicate Christian bias” from government. Another created a White House Faith Office. A third established a Religious Liberty Commission. The rhetorical framing was consistently restorative — “bringing back” religion, returning to foundational truths, recovering what was lost.

What this narrative omits, as historians of religion have carefully documented, is that the “Christian America” of the 1950s was itself a political construction, not an inherited tradition. The founders were, at best, a religiously mixed group whose Enlightenment-influenced constitutional framework was deliberately secular. As Americans United for Separation of Church and State ha noted, the Cold War-era religious symbols that Christian nationalists now treat as bedrock tradition would have been unfamiliar and to the actual founders.

The 1950s that evangelicals and Christian nationalists embrace as a Christian model was also the decade that ended with Supreme Court rulings in 1962 and 1963 prohibiting sponsored prayer and Bible reading in public schools. From the Christian nationalist perspective, those rulings mark the beginning of America’s moral decline. Which means the golden age they want to restore existed for, at most, a few years before it was, by their own account, already being dismantled.

Nostalgia as a Political Tool: The Psychology Behind the Appeal

None of this is to say that nostalgia is inherently dishonest or manipulative. Research in psychology consistently shows that people misremember the past by emphasizing positive personal experiences and filtering out context that complicates the picture. This is normal human cognition, not bad faith. For working-class white Americans who experienced the 1950s as a period of genuine stability and upward mobility, the memory is not false. The problem arises when personal memory is converted into universal history and then into policy prescription.

Political movements have always understood the emotional power of a remembered golden age. The appeal to restoration allows politicians to diagnose the present as fallen and to promise recovery without having to specify precisely what they’re recovering. It is a rhetorically flexible tool: it can mean lower taxes, stronger churches, tougher borders, whiter neighborhoods, or simply the vague sense that things made more sense once and someone took them away from you. The ambiguity is a feature, not a bug. It allows a coalition of people with different specific grievances to unite around a shared emotional posture.

What makes the current moment distinctive is the ambition and specificity of the institutional project. Earlier iterations of “Make America Great Again” were largely rhetorical. Project 2025, Christian nationalism’s White House offices, and the executive order campaign of Trump’s second term represent an attempt to translate nostalgic sentiment into durable structural change. The mythology is no longer just a campaign slogan. It is becoming, or attempting to become, a governing framework.

What Gets Left Out When We Go Back

The practical consequences of any serious attempt to restore something like 1950s governance deserve direct examination. The America of that era did not inadvertently exclude Black citizens, women, LGBTQ+ Americans, and religious minorities from full participation in public life. It excluded them by law and by deliberate institutional design. Any genuine “return” to the social order of that era would require actively undoing the legal and social progress of the intervening seven decades.

Some elements of the contemporary right’s agenda move explicitly in that direction: challenges to voting rights provisions, rollbacks of civil rights protections for LGBTQ+ Americans, attacks on DEI programs, restrictions on reproductive autonomy, and pressure on the constitutional separation of church and state. Whether these specific policies will achieve their stated goals is a matter of legitimate political debate. But the historical record of the 1950s for the Americans who were not white, male, heterosexual, and Protestant is not ambiguous. For them it was not a golden age, not even close.

Perhaps the most honest thing one can say about the 1950s is what the historical record shows: it was a complex, contradictory decade. For some Americans, it genuinely offered stability, community, and opportunity. For others, it was a system of legal oppression maintained by violence and economic exclusion. Both things are true. A serious engagement with the era requires recognizing that contradiction. A political mythology that acknowledges only one of those truths is not history. It is propaganda.

A Final Thought

The golden age of America is a powerful story. It has the great advantage of being partly true — enough to feel authentic to those who experienced it, enough to resonate with people who wish the present were simpler and more coherent. But it is a partial truth that has been shaped, amplified, and in some cases invented to serve political ends. The religious symbolism of the Eisenhower era was a Cold War construction, not an ancient tradition. The prosperity of the postwar years was real for some but radically unequal. The community stability that people remember was purchased, in part, through the enforced subordination of millions of Americans.

Understanding all of this doesn’t require abandoning the genuine good things of that era — community, stability, the importance of family and neighborhood. It requires being honest about the terms on which those good things were available and for whom. And it requires asking whether the politicians and religious leaders invoking that era’s memory are interested in what made it work for many Americans and extending those benefits to everyone, or whether they are more interested in what made it work specifically for white, Christian, heterosexual men.

History does not go backward. But it can be selectively remembered in ways that carry serious consequences for the present. That is worth thinking carefully about.

Sources

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2. Cochrane, J. H. (2026). “The 1950s: A Not-So-Golden Age.” Coolidge Review

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The House That Trump Built: Is MAGA a Political Movement or a Cult of Personality?

By John Turley

On July 7, 2026

In Commentary, Politics

The word “cult” is often tossed around in American politics as little more than an insult. But dismissing it outright may obscure something real. When political scientists and psychologists begin applying the term with specificity—pointing to identifiable patterns of behavior and belief—it deserves more than a reflexive eye roll. The question is not whether “cult” is too strong a word for the MAGA movement. The question is whether the label, used carefully, helps explain what we are actually seeing.

Start with the basics. Psychiatrist Robert Jay Lifton’s early work on cults emphasized three elements: a charismatic leader, mechanisms for sustaining loyalty, and a degree of devotion that overrides independent judgment. More recently, Steven Hassan’s “BITE” model—Behavior, Information, Thought, and Emotional control—has attempted to map how high-control groups shape members’ reality. Critics are right to note that these frameworks can be stretched too far. Not every cohesive political movement is a cult. But when multiple criteria begin to align, the comparison becomes harder to dismiss.

Consider first the role of Donald Trump. Charismatic leadership, as Max Weber described it, is not mere popularity. It is authority rooted in personal magnetism so strong that followers treat the leader as a primary source of truth. Trump’s political durability rests precisely on this dynamic. His supporters routinely absorb claims—about elections, public health, or crime—that have been widely discredited, not by rejecting evidence outright but by reinterpreting his statements as strategic, symbolic, or justified. When factual accuracy becomes secondary to loyalty, something deeper than conventional partisanship is at work.

Equally telling is how dissent is handled. Political movements always enforce boundaries, but MAGA does so with unusual speed and severity. Figures once central to Trump’s orbit can be recast as enemies almost overnight for the crime of deviation. This is not simply hardball politics; it is a system of social discipline that rewards conformity and punishes independence. The effect is to narrow the range of acceptable thought until disagreement itself becomes suspect.

The movement’s identity reinforces this dynamic. Its symbols—hats, flags, slogans—and its tightly aligned media ecosystem create a sense of belonging that goes well beyond policy preferences. Again, that is not unique. But what is unusual is how consistently that identity orbits a single individual rather than a consistent set of ideas. Positions that were once staples of conservative ideology—on trade, foreign policy, even the role of government—have shifted as Trump’s own positions have shifted. That kind of ideological fluidity is less characteristic of a political program than of a personality-centered movement.

None of this settles the question definitively. There are good reasons many scholars resist the “cult” label. MAGA is not a secluded sect cut off from society; it is a mass political force with institutional power and millions of participants who live ordinary lives. Applying the term too loosely risks draining it of meaning. But rejecting it entirely risks ignoring the extent to which loyalty to an individual has, at times, eclipsed loyalty to institutions, principles, or even observable reality.

What is harder to dispute is the movement’s psychological core. MAGA is not primarily a policy agenda; it is an emotional alignment organized around grievance, distrust, and a sense of cultural dispossession that is channeled through a single dominant figure. Whether one calls that a cult or an extreme form of political tribalism may be, in the end, a matter of vocabulary. The underlying structure is what matters.

That brings us to the more consequential question: what happens when the figure at the center is gone. History offers three broad paths for movements built on charismatic authority: succession, fragmentation, or decline. Durable movements typically have two things MAGA lacks—a clear heir and a body of doctrine that can survive the founder. Trump has cultivated neither. His dominance depends on being singular.

There is, however, another possibility. After death, leaders of personality-driven movements often grow more powerful as symbols than they ever were as individuals. Freed from the constraints of real-time controversy, they become vessels for projection. In that sense, Trumpism could outlast Trump even if no successor can replicate his particular hold on the electorate.

The safest conclusion is also the least comforting. MAGA is not an aberration but a familiar pattern in American political life. From McCarthyism to the John Birch Society to the Tea Party, waves of populist, personality-driven politics have risen before, each fueled by similar currents of anxiety and resentment. They recede, but they do not disappear.

So the debate over whether MAGA is a “cult” risks missing the larger point. Labels matter less than patterns. And the pattern here is clear: a movement defined less by ideas than by allegiance, less by persuasion than by identity, and less by institutions than by one man. That combination is unlikely to vanish when Trump does. It will adapt, rebrand, and return. The only real uncertainty is in what form and how prepared we will be to recognize it.

America’s First Constitution

By John Turley

On June 26, 2026

In History, Politics

The Articles of Confederation: Birth, Failures, and Legacy

The United States Constitution, ratified in 1788 and implemented in 1789, is often treated as the nation’s true founding framework. Yet before it, there existed another governing document, one far less celebrated but no less essential to understanding the early republic. The Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union served as America’s first constitution from their adoption by the Continental Congress in 1777 to their replacement just over a decade later. Imperfect, fragile, and ultimately unsustainable, the Articles nevertheless provided the institutional bridge between revolution and nationhood.

To understand why the Articles were structured as they were—and why they ultimately failed we need to step back into the mindset of the revolutionary generation. The men who drafted them were not political theorists operating in calm conditions; they were wartime leaders grappling with uncertainty, scarcity, and deep suspicion of centralized authority. They had just rebelled against British tyranny, and they were determined not to allow such power on American soil. The result was a system deliberately designed to restrain national authority, even at the cost of efficiency. The Articles represented both a solution to immediate wartime needs and a reflection of deeply held ideological fears. Their story is not merely one of failure, but of experimentation, adaptation, and political learning.

Revolutionary Context and the Need for Union

The intellectual origins of the Articles stretch back well before independence. Colonial leaders had long recognized the potential benefits of intercolonial cooperation. Benjamin Franklin’s Albany Plan of Union in 1754 proposed a centralized colonial government capable of coordinating defense and managing relations with Native nations. Though ultimately rejected by the colonies, the plan foreshadowed later efforts at union by raising the fundamental question of how semi-autonomous political entities might cooperate without surrendering their independence.

That question became urgent during the American Revolution. When the Second Continental Congress convened in 1775, it functioned as a provisional government, but its authority was ambiguous and largely dependent on voluntary compliance. As the war intensified, it became increasingly clear that thirteen separate colonies could not effectively wage a coordinated struggle against the British Empire without some formal political structure. Congress needed legitimacy—not merely as a gathering of delegates, but as a governing body with recognized authority over military, diplomatic, and financial matters.

On June 11, 1776, Congress appointed a committee to draft a plan of confederation, even as another committee worked on the Declaration of Independence. The parallel timing was no coincidence. Independence required not only separation from Britain but also the creation of a new political order. The Articles were intended to provide that order, a framework through which the states could act collectively while preserving their individual sovereignty.

Drafting Under Pressure

The drafting process unfolded under extraordinary circumstances. John Dickinson of Pennsylvania, a respected lawyer and political thinker, chaired the committee and produced the initial draft in July 1776. Debate over its provisions, however, proved slow and contentious. Congress was simultaneously managing a war, and immediate military concerns often took precedence over constitutional deliberation.

Disagreements over representation, taxation, and western land claims delayed progress for more than a year. It was not until November 15, 1777, while Congress was in exile in York, Pennsylvania, following the British capture of Philadelphia, that the Articles were finally approved. Even then, the document was widely understood as a compromise rather than an ideal solution.

Ratification presented an additional challenge. Because the Articles required unanimous consent, any single state could delay their implementation. The principal obstacle came from disputes over western lands. States with expansive territorial claims, such as Virginia, were reluctant to relinquish them, while smaller states like Maryland insisted that such lands should be held in common for the benefit of the union. Only after Virginia agreed to cede its claims did Maryland ratify the Articles on March 1, 1781, bringing them into full effect.

Structure and Principles

The Articles of Confederation established a national government that was intentionally limited in scope. At its core was a unicameral Congress in which each state, regardless of size or population, held a single vote. This arrangement reflected the primacy of state sovereignty: the union was conceived not as a single nation but as a “league of friendship” among independent states.

The national government possessed certain powers, including the authority to declare war, negotiate treaties, coin money, and manage relations with Native nations. However, these powers were constrained by critical limitations. Congress could not levy taxes directly, regulate interstate commerce, or enforce its decisions upon the states. Instead, it relied on requisitions, little more than requests for funds, which states frequently ignored or, at best, only partially fulfilled.

Equally significant was the absence of both an executive branch and a national judiciary. There was no president to enforce laws or coordinate policy, and no federal court system to interpret them. Administrative functions were handled by committees and departments accountable to Congress, resulting in a diffuse and often ineffective system of governance.

Amending the Articles required unanimous consent, a provision that made meaningful reform nearly impossible. While intended to protect state sovereignty, this requirement ensured that structural weaknesses could not be easily corrected.

Achievements Under the Articles

Despite their limitations, the Articles of Confederation were not without success. Most importantly, they provided a legal framework that enabled the colonies to prosecute and ultimately win the Revolutionary War. The Continental Congress, operating under the authority of the Articles, secured crucial alliances, most notably with France, and negotiated the Treaty of Paris in 1783, which formally ended the conflict and recognized American independence.

The Confederation government also achieved lasting success in western land policy. The Land Ordinances of 1784 and 1785, followed by the Northwest Ordinance of 1787, established a systematic process for surveying, selling, and governing western territories. These measures ensured that new states would enter the union on equal footing with the original thirteen and prohibited slavery in the Northwest Territory. This framework not only facilitated orderly expansion but also set important precedents for federal authority over territories.

The Articles also fostered a sense of national identity, however fragile. They affirmed the name “United States of America” and maintained a formal union during a period when regional differences might easily have led to fragmentation.

Structural Weaknesses and Growing Crisis

The weaknesses of the Articles, however, became increasingly apparent in the postwar period. Financial instability was among the most pressing issues. Without the power to tax, Congress struggled to pay war debts, fund the military, or support basic governmental functions. Inflation, currency devaluation, and economic dislocation further compounded these difficulties.

Interstate economic conflict added another layer of instability. In the absence of federal regulation, states imposed tariffs and trade barriers against one another, undermining economic cohesion. Competing currencies and inconsistent policies created an environment of uncertainty that hindered recovery and growth.

The lack of enforcement mechanisms proved equally problematic. Congress could pass laws and enter into treaties, but it had no means of compelling compliance. States frequently ignored national directives, and often violated provisions of the Treaty of Paris, particularly regarding the treatment of loyalists and British creditors. This inability to enforce national policy damaged American credibility abroad.

These structural deficiencies reflected the underlying philosophy of the Articles: a deep distrust of centralized power. By the mid-1780s, it was becoming clear that excessive decentralization carried its own dangers.

Shays’ Rebellion and the Turning Point

The crisis reached a breaking point with Shays’ Rebellion in 1786–1787. Economic hardship, particularly among farmers in western Massachusetts, led to widespread unrest. Burdened by debt and high taxes, many farmers faced foreclosure and imprisonment. When legal and political remedies failed, they turned to direct action, closing courts and attempting to seize the federal arsenal at Springfield.

The Confederation government was effectively powerless to respond. Lacking both funds and military authority, Congress could offer no assistance. The rebellion was ultimately suppressed by a state militia supported by private funds, underscoring the inability of the national government to maintain order.

The implications were profound. For many leaders, including George Washington and Alexander Hamilton, Shays’ Rebellion demonstrated that the existing system was untenable. A government that could not enforce laws or ensure domestic tranquility was doomed to collapse.

Toward a New Constitution

Efforts to address these problems began modestly. The Annapolis Convention of 1786, initially convened to discuss trade issues, concluded that broader reforms were necessary and called for a general convention in Philadelphia. In February 1787, Congress endorsed this proposal, though officially only to revise the Articles.

The Philadelphia Convention, however, quickly moved beyond revision. Delegates recognized that the Articles’ fundamental structure, particularly the reliance on voluntary state compliance, could not support an effective national government. The solution was to become an entirely new framework: the United States Constitution.

Ratified in 1788 and implemented the following year, the Constitution addressed the central weaknesses of the Articles by establishing a stronger federal government with the power to tax, regulate commerce, enforce laws, and operate through separate executive, legislative, and judicial branches.

Legacy and Historical Significance

It is tempting to view the Articles of Confederation solely as a failure, a flawed experiment quickly discarded in favor of a superior system. Such a perspective, however, overlooks their broader significance. The Articles represented a necessary first step in the creation of the American republic. They reflected the political realities and ideological commitments of their time, particularly the pervasive fear of centralized authority.

Their shortcomings provided invaluable lessons. The Constitution did not emerge in a vacuum; it was shaped directly by the experience of governing under the Articles. The framers understood, from hard experience, the dangers of both excessive centralization and excessive decentralization. The resulting system sought to balance these concerns, creating a government strong enough to function yet constrained enough to preserve liberty.

The Articles also demonstrated that political systems can evolve. They were not the final word on American governance, but an early chapter in an ongoing process of constitutional development. Their legacy lies not only in what they achieved, but in what they revealed about the challenges of building a nation.

In this sense, the Articles of Confederation were not a failure so much as an experiment, one conducted under extraordinary pressure, with limited precedent, and with stakes that could scarcely have been higher. They held the union together long enough for a more durable system to emerge. That alone secures their place in the story of American constitutional history.

Image generated by author using ChatGPT.

Sources

National Archives: Articles of Confederation (1777) — Primary Document

Library of Congress: Articles of Confederation — John Dickinson (1778)

HISTORY.com: Articles of Confederation — Weaknesses, Definition, Date

George Washington’s Mount Vernon: The Articles of Confederation

U.S. Department of State, Office of the Historian: Articles of Confederation, 1777–1781

Encyclopedia of Greater Philadelphia: Articles of Confederation

Encyclopaedia Britannica: John Dickinson

Wikipedia: John Dickinson

Historical Society of Pennsylvania (via Panorama/SHEAR): The John Dickinson Draft of the Articles of Confederation

National Archives: John Dickinson Writings

University of Delaware Library: John Dickinson — Penman of the Revolution

EBSCO Research Starters: Analysis — Articles of Confederation

Wikipedia: Articles of Confederation

Wikipedia: Shays’s Rebellion

National Constitution Center: Summary of Shays’ Rebellion

American History Central: Articles of Confederation

SLCC Press / Attenuated Democracy: Chapter 12 — Articles of Confederation, Shays’ Rebellion and the Road to the Constitution

GovFacts.org: Why the Articles of Confederation Failed

Who Gets to Decide? The Modern Battle Over Books in America

By John Turley

On June 19, 2026

In Commentary, Politics

If you thought book banning was a relic of the past, think again. The United States is experiencing the most intense wave of book challenges in modern memory. Over the last four years, thousands of books have been removed from school and library shelves, sparking a national debate about parental rights, free expression, education, and the role of government.

At the center of the controversy is a simple but powerful question: Who gets to decide what children and communities are allowed to read?

We were casually looking for books to read with our grandson this year. He loves baseball so we were looking for books on that topic. Somehow we got on a site about banned books and, yes, there was a baseball story on the list, curiosity got us. The book is Baseball Saved Us by Ken Mochizuki and Dom Lee. This is the story about a baseball field that was created in a Japanese internment camp in during World War II and the prejudice they faced when they returned home after the war. The story, written on a fourth grade reading level, is about how the boys played baseball during their internment and how it helped them to survive. This is a banned book?? Why??

This made us wonder what it means to be on a “banned book list”. Just because it’s on the list does every library or school have to ban it? The answer is no, thank goodness. Members of library boards and school boards and parents play an important role and they have a lot to consider. Here are some interesting details about book banning in its current evolution.

The Scale of the Movement

The numbers are striking. According to PEN America, nearly 23,000 book bans have occurred in public schools since 2021. During the 2023–24 school year alone, more than 10,000 individual book bans were recorded. The following year saw nearly 7,000 additional bans affecting more than 3,700 unique titles.

Florida has led the nation in book removals for three consecutive years, followed by Texas and Tennessee. The American Library Association (ALA) documented more than 4,200 unique titles challenged in 2025, making it one of the highest years ever recorded.

Not every challenge results in a permanent ban. Some books are removed temporarily while review committees evaluate complaints. Others are eventually restored to shelves. Yet the sheer volume of challenges has significantly reduced access to books for many students and library users.

Supporters argue these actions protect children from inappropriate material. Critics view them as a growing campaign of censorship.

Which Books Are Being Targeted?

The books most frequently challenged share common themes.

According to the ALA, many complaints focus on books that discuss race, racism, gender identity, sexuality, or LGBTQ+ experiences. Others involve sexual content, abuse, violence, or mental health issues.

Among the most challenged books in recent years are Gender Queer by Maia Kobabe, The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky, Looking for Alaska by John Green, and several novels by Sarah J. Maas.

Classic works have also been caught in the controversy. Schools and districts in several states have removed or restricted books such as The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini, and even George Orwell’s 1984.

Critics of the banning movement note that many of these books have been available in schools for years or even decades. They argue that the current challenges are less about newly discovered concerns and more about broader cultural and political disagreements.

Who Is Driving the Challenges?

One of the most significant developments is the changing source of complaints.

The ALA reports that in 2025, 92 percent of book challenges originated from organized groups, government officials, or political activists rather than individual parents. Twenty years earlier, most challenges came from local citizens raising concerns about specific books.

This shift suggests that book challenges have become part of a larger political movement rather than isolated local disputes.

Among the most visible organizations is Moms for Liberty, founded in Florida in 2021. Originally focused on opposition to COVID-19 school policies, the group later turned its attention to curriculum issues and library books. It now claims chapters in dozens of states and has become a major force in school board elections and library controversies.

Other organizations, including No Left Turn in Education, Citizens Defending Freedom, and various state-based groups, have pursued similar goals. These organizations often share lists of books to challenge, provide guidance to local activists, and coordinate campaigns across multiple communities.

Supporters describe these efforts as parental advocacy. Critics see them as organized attempts to impose political and ideological restrictions on public education.

The Political Connection

The book-banning movement has become closely associated with broader conservative politics, particularly the MAGA movement.

Moms for Liberty has maintained ties with the Heritage Foundation, the conservative think tank that developed Project 2025. The Heritage Foundation has sponsored Moms for Liberty events and honored the organization with awards recognizing its activism.

The relationship became even more visible when Moms for Liberty co-founder Tiffany Justice left the organization to lead the Heritage Foundation’s parental-rights initiative.

Former President Donald Trump has also embraced many of the same themes. He appeared at a Moms for Liberty national summit and has frequently criticized educational institutions, libraries, and schools that he believes promote what he describes as inappropriate or politically biased material.

Supporters view these alliances as part of a broader effort to restore parental control over education. Opponents argue they demonstrate that book challenges have become deeply intertwined with national political agendas.

Project 2025 and Libraries

Much attention has focused on Project 2025, the policy blueprint produced by the Heritage Foundation.

The document calls for stronger action against what its authors characterize as inappropriate materials in schools and libraries. Critics have highlighted language suggesting that educators and librarians who provide access to certain materials could face legal consequences.

Supporters argue that such proposals are intended to protect children from explicit content. Opponents contend that they would create a chilling effect, discouraging educators and librarians from offering books dealing with controversial subjects.

The debate reflects a broader disagreement about where the line should be drawn between protecting minors and preserving intellectual freedom.

How Libraries and Schools Are Responding

Responses vary widely across the country.

Some school districts remove challenged books immediately. Others establish review committees consisting of teachers, librarians, administrators, parents, and sometimes students. These committees examine books in their entirety before making recommendations.

Public libraries have generally been more resistant to removing books. Most rely on formal collection-development policies and challenge procedures designed to balance community concerns with principles of intellectual freedom.

Many libraries have retained challenged books after review, arguing that public libraries serve diverse populations and that parents should make reading decisions for their own children without limiting access for others.

At the same time, librarians in some states report increasing pressure from elected officials and advocacy groups. Concerns about funding, employment consequences, and potential legal liability have led some libraries to avoid purchasing controversial titles altogether.

Critics refer to this phenomenon as “preemptive censorship” because books disappear before formal challenges even occur.

State Governments Enter the Fight

Several states have moved beyond local challenges and enacted statewide policies.

Utah, South Carolina, and Tennessee have adopted mechanisms that allow certain books to be removed from schools statewide. Florida has expanded parental authority over educational materials and library collections.

Supporters argue these measures provide consistency and protect children across entire states. Critics counter that statewide restrictions eliminate local decision-making and reduce access to books for students whose families may have no objections to the material.

The controversy has occasionally reached dramatic levels. In Randolph County, North Carolina, county commissioners dissolved the public library board after it refused to remove a children’s book featuring a transgender character.

Such disputes illustrate how library policy has become a flashpoint in cultural conflicts.

The Courts Push Back

Many of these policies have faced legal challenges and the results have been mixed.

In Iowa, a federal judge blocked portions of a state law that prohibited books containing descriptions of sexual activity, ruling that the restrictions likely violated First Amendment protections. In the Rutherford County, Tennessee case, the first legal challenge to that state’s expanded book statute — a federal judge declined to issue a preliminary injunction, writing that a school board “has not prohibited students from reading the books or acquiring them elsewhere; instead, it has merely opted not to carry them on school library bookshelves.”

Courts have often struggled to balance competing interests. School boards possess significant authority over educational materials, while students have constitutional protections related to access to information.

The legal outcomes remain uncertain, but the judiciary has become one of the primary battlegrounds in the debate.

Voters Respond

School board elections have become another arena for the conflict.

In several Texas districts during 2025, voters removed incumbents who had championed aggressive book-removal policies. Similar results appeared in other states, suggesting that many voters are uncomfortable with the scope of current restrictions. At the same time, candidates supporting stricter controls continue to win elections in other communities.

The mixed results indicate that Americans remain deeply divided on the issue.

A Growing Countermovement

Opposition to book bans has generated its own political response. Organizations such as PEN America, the Authors Guild, the ALA, and numerous local advocacy groups have organized campaigns defending intellectual freedom. Several states have considered legislation designed to make book removals more difficult.

Minnesota, for example, has considered legislation that would prohibit the removal of books based primarily on ideological objections and would place greater authority in the hands of professional librarians.

Supporters argue such laws protect access to information. Critics contend they diminish parental influence and local control.

The Bottom Line

The modern book-banning movement is unlike anything seen in recent decades. Its scale is unprecedented, its organization is sophisticated, and its connections to broader political movements are well documented.

Supporters view the effort as a legitimate exercise of parental rights and community standards. Critics see it as an organized campaign to restrict access to ideas, experiences, and viewpoints that some groups find objectionable.

The debate is unlikely to disappear anytime soon. It touches fundamental questions about education, democracy, free speech, and the role of public institutions.

Who should decide what belongs on library shelves? Parents? Librarians? Teachers? School boards? Legislatures? Courts?

Americans have not reached a consensus on those questions. Until they do, the battle over books is likely to remain one of the most visible fronts in the nation’s ongoing culture wars.

Illustration generated by author using Chat GPT

Sources

PEN America — Book Bans Overview

PEN America — The Normalization of Book Banning (2024–25 Report)

American Library Association — Censorship by the Numbers

ALA — Most Challenged Books

NPR — ALA Releases 2025 Most Challenged Books

NPR — PEN America 2024–25 Report

Authors Guild — Voters Reject Book Restrictions, 2025

Washington Post — Trump, Moms for Liberty, Heritage Foundation

New Jersey Monitor — M4L Summit and Project 2025 Ties

GLAAD — Moms for Liberty and Book Bans

EveryLibrary Institute — Project 2025 and Libraries

I Love Libraries — Book Challenges Update

Freedom to Learn Foundation — 2025 State of Book Banning

The President’s Private Prosecutor

By John Turley

On June 10, 2026

In Commentary, Politics

How Trump Turned the Department of Justice into a Tool of Personal Revenge

There is an old maxim in law: fiat justitia ruat caelum — let justice be done though the heavens fall. It reflects the principle that the law belongs to everyone equally and is not meant to serve personal grudges. Critics argue that Donald Trump’s second administration has embraced a very different view: that the Department of Justice can be used to pursue those who have challenged, investigated, or defeated him.

This is not simply a partisan accusation. It is based on a pattern in which Trump publicly identifies enemies and calls for action against them, followed by Justice Department investigations or prosecutions. The targets have included former administration officials, prosecutors, election experts, and individuals who prevailed against Trump in court.

The Guardrails Come Off

Trump’s first term provided occasional glimpses of this tendency, but institutional resistance often limited its reach. His second term began with far fewer constraints.

The selection of Pam Bondi as attorney general was widely viewed as a signal that loyalty would take precedence over the traditional independence of the Justice Department. During her confirmation hearing, Bondi declined to assure senators that the White House would remain separate from prosecutorial decision-making. That exchange foreshadowed what followed.

Within months, Trump directed investigations into former administration officials Miles Taylor and Christopher Krebs. Taylor had authored the anonymous 2018 op-ed describing internal resistance within the administration. Krebs, Trump’s former cybersecurity chief, had publicly stated that the 2020 election was secure. Trump accused Taylor of “treason” while signing an executive memorandum ordering an investigation.

Whether or not either man had committed any wrongdoing, the sequence was striking: public presidential condemnation followed by federal scrutiny.

More consequential were the cases involving figures directly connected to Trump’s legal battles.

The Letitia James Case

Perhaps no public official has drawn Trump’s anger more consistently than Letitia James, the New York attorney general whose civil fraud case resulted in a massive judgment against Trump and his business organization.

In October 2025, James was indicted on bank fraud charges shortly after Trump publicly urged Bondi to move against his political opponents. The circumstances surrounding the case raised immediate questions.

According to reports, the original prosecutor assigned to the matter concluded that evidence was insufficient to support criminal charges and declined to proceed. He was replaced by Lindsey Halligan, a former member of Trump’s personal legal team who had no prosecutorial experience. Within weeks, Halligan secured an indictment.

The legal process that followed was unusual. The indictment was later dismissed. Subsequent efforts to obtain new indictments reportedly failed before grand juries, an outcome that is relatively rare given the traditionally high success rate prosecutors enjoy in grand jury proceedings.

Yet the investigation continued.

Critics saw the episode as evidence that prosecutorial decisions were being driven not by evidence but by determination to target a political adversary. Supporters countered that investigations should continue if legitimate questions remained unresolved.

Regardless of one’s interpretation, the case illustrates a recurring theme: Trump publicly demands action against an opponent, and federal law enforcement soon responds.

The Comey Prosecution

James Comey has been a target of Trump’s anger since his dismissal as FBI director in 2017. That conflict entered a new phase in September 2025 when Comey was indicted on charges of making false statements and obstruction.

The indictment arrived only days after Trump publicly called for prosecution on social media. Trump later suggested that he hoped there would be “others.”

Comey pleaded not guilty and moved to dismiss the case, arguing that he was the victim of selective and vindictive prosecution. Civil liberties advocates condemned the prosecution as an abuse of presidential power.

Whether the charges ultimately survive judicial scrutiny remains to be seen. But the timing reinforced the perception that DOJ actions increasingly followed Trump’s personal grievances. The ongoing “86 47” prosecution further emphasizes the appearance of political vengeance.

E. Jean Carroll: From Plaintiff to Target

No case better illustrates the concerns surrounding Trump’s Justice Department than that of E. Jean Carroll.

Carroll sued Trump for defamation after he denied her allegations that he sexually assaulted her in a Manhattan department store decades earlier. Two juries ruled in her favor, awarding her a combined $88.3 million in damages.

In May 2026, the Justice Department opened a criminal investigation into Carroll herself.

The investigation centers on statements Carroll made during civil litigation regarding funding for her legal expenses. Prosecutors are examining whether financial assistance connected to a nonprofit associated with LinkedIn co-founder Reid Hoffman was disclosed accurately and whether any false statements were made under oath.

Carroll is now 82 years old. She successfully sued Trump and won two jury verdicts. The federal government headed by the man she defeated in court is investigating whether to charge her with federal crimes.

The optics are difficult to ignore.

Carroll’s attorneys argue that the investigation lacks substantive merit and represents retaliation against a successful plaintiff. Legal observers note that if charges are eventually filed, Carroll would likely argue that the case constitutes vindictive prosecution — the use of prosecutorial power to punish someone for exercising a legal right.

Whatever the ultimate outcome, the sequence is extraordinary: a citizen sues a powerful public figure, wins twice before juries, and then becomes the subject of a federal criminal investigation under that same figure’s administration.

A Larger Pattern

Individually, each case can be debated on its merits. Together, they form a pattern that has become increasingly difficult for critics to dismiss as coincidence.

Many of the administration’s highest-profile investigations involve people who share one characteristic: they challenged Trump politically, legally, or personally. Former election officials. Former administration insiders. Prosecutors. Investigators. Civil plaintiffs.

The pattern is often the same. Trump publicly attacks an individual. He demands action. An investigation follows. Organizations tracking retaliatory government actions have documented numerous examples of this sequence. Legal scholars frequently identify such timing as one of the warning signs associated with selective prosecution.

The concern is not merely whether individual targets are guilty or innocent. The larger issue is whether prosecutorial decisions are being made independently or whether they are increasingly shaped by presidential preferences.

That distinction matters because the Department of Justice possesses powers unlike those of any other federal agency. It can investigate, indict, and imprison citizens. Its legitimacy depends heavily on public confidence that those powers are exercised fairly and consistently.

The Cost of the Process

Defenders of the administration argue that investigations should not be immune from scrutiny simply because targets claim political persecution. That is true. Public officials, former officials, and private citizens alike should be subject to the law.

But critics respond that the problem is not accountability. It is selectivity.

Even unsuccessful investigations impose significant costs. Legal defense can consume hundreds of thousands of dollars. Grand jury investigations create stress, uncertainty, and reputational damage. Years of litigation can disrupt careers and lives regardless of whether convictions are ultimately obtained.

The process itself becomes a punishment.

Courts and grand juries have occasionally pushed back. Several high-profile cases have encountered significant legal obstacles. But judicial intervention often occurs only after substantial personal and financial costs have already been imposed.

The Weaponization Paradox

Perhaps the greatest irony is that Trump’s political rise was fueled in part by his claim that the justice system had been weaponized against him.

For years, he argued that prosecutors, investigators, and political opponents used government institutions to pursue personal or partisan objectives. That argument resonated with many Americans because the principle involved is important. The justice system should not be used as a political weapon.

The challenge for Trump’s administration is that the same characteristics he identified as evidence of weaponization now appear in cases initiated by his own Justice Department.

He argued that prosecutors were motivated by personal animus rather than evidence. Critics now make the same allegation about prosecutions involving Letitia James, James Comey, and E. Jean Carroll.

He argued that the process itself was punishment. His opponents now make the same claim.

He argued that political pressure shaped prosecutorial decisions. Critics point to repeated examples in which Trump’s public demands appear to precede DOJ action.

Whether one accepts those comparisons or rejects them, the contradiction is difficult to ignore.

A Democracy’s Stress Test

The Justice Department was designed to serve the public interest rather than the interests of any single president. That principle became especially important after Watergate, when both parties embraced reforms intended to insulate law enforcement from political interference.

The durability of those norms is now being tested.

The central question is not whether every investigation discussed here will ultimately succeed or fail. Courts will decide that. The more important question is whether Americans will continue to believe that justice is being administered independently.

If citizens come to believe that criminal investigations are triggered by personal loyalty or presidential anger, confidence in the rule of law inevitably suffers.

The power to prosecute is among the most formidable powers government possesses. In a constitutional democracy, that power must belong to institutions, not individuals.

Whether that principle remains intact may prove to be one of the defining questions of Trump’s second term.

Image generated by author using ChatGPT

Sources

• Just Security — Chronology of Trump/DOJ Targeting (Oct. 2024)

• PBS NewsHour — Comey Indictment & Trump Vows More Prosecutions (Sept. 2025)

• Slate — Trump’s Vengeance Tour (May 2026)

• Time — Trump Vows to Prosecute Political Enemies (March 2026)

• Protect Democracy — Retaliatory Action Tracker (ongoing)

• Yahoo/AP — Trump Directs DOJ to Investigate Taylor & Krebs (2025)

• Time — DOJ Launches Criminal Investigation into E. Jean Carroll (May 28, 2026)

• Axios — DOJ Probes Reid Hoffman Nonprofit Over Carroll Funds (May 28, 2026)

• CNN — Carroll and the Pattern of Trump Retribution (May 28, 2026)

• MS NOW — Vindictive Prosecution Analysis (May 28, 2026)

• Newsweek — Timeline of Carroll’s Legal Battles with Trump

• CNBC — Trump DOJ Intervenes in Carroll Case (Oct. 2020)

• CNBC — DOJ Fails Second Time to Indict Letitia James (Dec. 2025)

• ABC News — Letitia James Indicted (Oct. 2025)

• PBS — Full Indictment of Letitia James

• House Judiciary Democrats — Investigation into DOJ Retaliation Against Letitia James (March 2026)

• 19th News — From Letitia James to Comey, Trump’s DOJ as Instrument of Revenge

• Sen. Whitehouse Letter to Barr re Carroll (Sept. 2020)

Is the Roberts Court Biased? The Pattern Speaks for Itself

By John Turley

On May 19, 2026

In Commentary, Politics

Chief Justice John Roberts keeps telling Americans the Supreme Court is not political. He recently complained that people “view us as purely political actors,” and insisted that’s just not how the Court works. That might have been plausible twenty years ago. After the decisions of the past decade, it sounds less like reassurance and more like spin.

The Roberts Court started out conventionally conservative. Then came the turning points: Anthony Kennedy’s retirement in 2018 and Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s death in 2020. Donald Trump replaced them with Brett Kavanaugh and Amy Coney Barrett, locking in a 6–3 conservative supermajority. Since then, on the biggest fights of our time—voting, money in politics, reproductive freedom, presidential power—the Court’s answers have marched almost uniformly to the right.

One analysis of the Court’s work through 2018 found more than seventy cases where the conservative bloc formed a majority in areas like voting rights, campaign finance, corporate accountability, and civil rights where the conservative justices either bent precedent or quietly shelved their own stated doctrines to get where they wanted to go. That is not happenstance. That is a method.

Look at the decisions that define this era.

In Citizens United, the Court announced that corporations have a First Amendment right to spend unlimited money in elections, destroying what remained of campaign finance law and supercharging the power of wealthy donors and corporate interests. In Shelby County, it gutted a core provision of the Voting Rights Act, inviting a wave of state-level restrictions that predictably hit minority voters hardest. In Rucho, Roberts openly acknowledged that partisan gerrymandering is “incompatible with democratic principles”—and then declared the federal courts powerless to stop it. The Court saw a threat to democracy and chose to shrug.

Dobbs went further. For nearly fifty years, Roe v. Wade recognized a constitutional right to abortion. In 2022, that right vanished in a single 6–3 decision that tracked partisan lines. The majority did not just reject Roe; it rewrote the understanding of liberty in a way that puts other long‑standing rights on shakier ground.

Then there is Trump v. United States, which discovered sweeping criminal immunity for presidents found nowhere in the Constitution’s text or structure. Contrast that with New York State Rifle & Pistol Association v. Bruen, where the same Court insisted modern gun laws must mirror 18th‑ and 19th‑century regulations. History is mandatory when it narrows gun regulation. History is optional when it might constrain a president. The “neutral” principles somehow keep landing on the same ideological side.

The real indictment of the Roberts Court is not that the justices are conservative; conservative legal thought has serious intellectual roots. It is that the Court’s philosophy behaves like a trapdoor: originalism when it helps, textualism when that works better, “judicial restraint” when restraint freezes progressive policies, and muscular judicial power when restraint would get in the way. The tools keep changing. The destination does not.

The shadow docket has only deepened the concern. Using unsigned, unexplained emergency orders, the Court has green‑lit sweeping policy changes—on immigration, civil rights, and executive power—while lower courts were still sorting out legality. Normally, dramatic changes to national policy come with full briefing, oral argument, and written opinions. Under Roberts, some of the most consequential decisions arrive in the dead of night, with no reasoning the public can read and no guidance lower courts can follow.

To be honest, the story is not all one-way traffic. Justice Neil Gorsuch wrote the majority opinion which held that federal employment law protects LGBTQ workers. Roberts has occasionally voted to preserve precedent he personally disliked. There are a handful of high‑profile cases where the conservative justices have broken ranks or rejected expansive claims of presidential power, but those cases are rare.

In the high‑stakes political questions of the last decade the line is brutally clear: when democracy is at stake, money wins; when voting rights are at stake, restrictions win; when women’s bodily autonomy is at stake, state power wins; when presidential accountability is at stake, the president wins. That is not a random walk through neutral legal doctrine. It is a pattern.

Roberts is right about one thing: it is simplistic to call justices “politicians in robes.” Asking whether the Roberts Court is “biased” is not the point. Regardless of label, we have a Supreme Court whose decisions on the most contested issues overwhelmingly favor one political side. The law requires consistency and when the Court keeps changing its rules but not its results, the public is not fooled.

The Chief Justice can insist that is just how the law shakes out. The rest of us are entitled to look at the record and draw our own conclusions.

The Persecution Brand: How Trump Turns Grievance Into Political Currency

By John Turley

On May 14, 2026

In Commentary, Politics

“They’re not after me, they’re after you. I’m just in the way.” —Donald J. Trump

Introduction

Donald Trump has turned political victimhood into something remarkably durable: a brand. Since his first term, Trump has consistently advanced a narrative that he is the unfair target of a corrupt establishment — not because of anything he has done, but because of who he is and the threat he poses to entrenched power. That narrative, far from fading, has deepened and accelerated in his second term, propelled by a relentless series of legal maneuvers, institutional confrontations, and rhetorical provocations that seem engineered to keep the grievance machine running. Whether the cause is a leaked tax return, a photograph of seashells on a beach, or a comedian’s joke at a press dinner, Trump and his allies have shown a remarkable ability to recast every controversy as evidence of persecution. The result is a political identity built less on policy than on shared victimhood — one that has proven more resilient to contradiction than almost anything else in modern American politics. I first wrote about this several months ago, but recent events have motivated me to update the topic.

The Anatomy of a Persecution Story

At the heart of Trump’s messaging is the claim that nearly every major American institution is rigged against him: the judiciary, the press, federal agencies, social media companies, and even fellow Republicans who fail to show sufficient loyalty. He doesn’t stop at personal grievance. His signature rhetorical move is to project that persecution outward — to his supporters — insisting that the forces targeting him are really targeting them, and that he alone stands in the way. Strongmen throughout history have used this populist inversion to build fierce loyalty, but Trump has refined it for the digital age, where every legal setback can be instantly monetized through fundraising appeals and turned into rally fodder before the ink is dry on a court filing.

Suing His Own Government: The IRS Lawsuit

Few episodes illustrate the paradox of Trump’s persecution narrative more sharply than his $10 billion lawsuit against the IRS and Treasury Department, agencies he controls as president. Filed in January 2026, the suit alleges that a government contractor wrongfully leaked his tax records to the press during his first term — a legitimate grievance in isolation, since the contractor did plead guilty and was sentenced to five years in prison. But the spectacle of a sitting president suing his own executive branch for a payout that would come from taxpayers has raised serious legal and ethical flags. Florida District Judge Kathleen M. Williams questioned whether Trump and the agencies are “sufficiently adverse to each other” for the case to proceed at all, noting that Trump’s own executive orders require the Justice Department to follow his legal interpretations. In plain terms: the president would be suing the government he runs, defended by lawyers who must take his side, with any settlement check written to him by American taxpayers. Trump’s lawyers and the IRS have meanwhile entered settlement talks, requesting a 90-day pause in proceedings. Democratic lawmakers introduced a bill to prohibit the president, vice president, and their families from collecting any such settlement. The episode is vintage Trump — a genuine underlying grievance amplified into a high-profile conflict that simultaneously reinforces his victimhood and generates favorable headlines.

The Pursuit of James Comey: Retribution as Policy

The Trump Justice Department’s second criminal indictment of former FBI Director James Comey, announced April 28, 2026, reads like a case study in how prosecution can become an instrument of political narrative. The charges stem from an Instagram post Comey made in May 2025 showing seashells on a beach arranged to spell “86 47” — a formation Comey said he simply found and photographed. Prosecutors interpreted it as a threat against the 47th president, an argument that First Amendment scholars have called legally dubious. Stanford First Amendment expert Eugene Volokh told CNN: “This is not going anywhere. This is clearly not a punishable threat.” The indictment is the second attempt to prosecute Comey; the first, built on allegations that he lied to Congress, collapsed when a judge ruled that the prosecutor handling the case had been unlawfully appointed. Trump had publicly urged then-Attorney General Pam Bondi to move against Comey, and Bondi was fired in April 2026 after reports that the president was frustrated that she wasn’t pursuing his critics aggressively enough. Her successor, Todd Blanche — Trump’s own former personal defense attorney — moved quickly. The pattern is hard to miss: an allegation, a prosecution, a dismissal, another allegation, a second prosecution. Whether or not the charges succeed, the process itself delivers the message Trump wants delivered.

Perhaps his fear of seashells has caused him to forget that he posted a picture of then President Biden bound and gagged on the back of a pickup truck. Certainly, that was more of a threat than someone’s beachside graffiti, yet Trump was not prosecuted. I wonder why.

The Ballroom and the Bullet: Security as Metaphor

On the evening of April 25, 2026, shots were fired near the security screening area outside the White House Correspondents’ Dinner at the Washington Hilton, where Trump was attending his first such dinner as a sitting president. The suspect, identified as Cole Tomas Allen, was arrested; no attendees inside the ballroom were struck. It was, by any measure, a frightening episode, and the third reported attempt on Trump’s life. What followed, however, quickly illustrated Trump’s talent for turning crisis into confirmation of his narrative. Within two minutes of beginning his press briefing that night, Trump pivoted to arguing that the incident proved the wisdom of his plan to build a new ballroom on White House grounds — a project historic preservationists have challenged in court as unlawful. His administration immediately pressured the National Trust for Historic Preservation to drop its lawsuit, with the acting attorney general writing that the preservation group’s case “cannot possibly justify delaying the construction of a secure facility for the President.” Critics pointed out that Trump’s own administration had given the Correspondents’ Dinner a lower security classification than other events he attends — a detail that complicated his argument. But in Trump’s telling, the shooting was simply the latest proof that enemies lurk everywhere and that his foresight is perpetually vindicated.

The Widow Joke: Melania, Kimmel, and the Media Enemy

Two days before the Correspondents’ Dinner shooting, comedian Jimmy Kimmel delivered a mock roast on his late-night program that included the line: “Look at Melania, so beautiful. Mrs. Trump, you have a glow like an expectant widow.” Kimmel later said it was an obvious joke about the couple’s age difference. The timing — the joke aired before the attempted shooting — became fuel for a firestorm after the incident. First Lady Melania Trump, called on ABC to “take a stand” against Kimmel and President Trump wrote on social media that Kimmel should be “immediately fired by Disney and ABC,” calling his comments “beyond the pale.” FCC Chair Brendan Carr had previously threatened ABC affiliates over Kimmel’s coverage of an earlier controversy. Kimmel pushed back on his Monday night broadcast, calling the joke a “light roast” and denying any connection to the shooting, but the episode had already served its purpose in the persecution playbook: a comedian’s punchline reframed as an incitement; the president and first lady as targets of a corrupt, hostile media; and a federal regulator positioned to remind a broadcast network of who holds the license.

The Nobel Grievance: Peace Prize as Persecution

Trump’s relationship with the Nobel Peace Prize offers perhaps the purest distillation of his persecution aesthetic: a prestigious honor he was not given becomes evidence of institutional bias against him. In January 2026, Trump sent a text message to Norwegian Prime Minister Jonas Gahr Støre that, as reported by PBS and confirmed by Norwegian officials, declared: “Considering your Country decided not to give me the Nobel Peace Prize for having stopped 8 Wars PLUS, I no longer feel an obligation to think purely of Peace.” The message was sent in the context of Trump’s threats to acquire Greenland by force and his tariff pressure on Norway. The factual problems were substantial. PolitiFact reported that the prize is awarded by an independent Norwegian committee, not the Norwegian government — a distinction Støre himself spelled out in a public statement — and Trump’s claim to have “stopped 8 wars” was not supported by evidence. The Nobel Committee separately clarified that a medal gifted to Trump by Venezuelan opposition leader María Corina Machado did not legally transfer the prize to him. None of these corrections appeared to land with Trump’s base, for whom the image of a deserving president snubbed by a foreign establishment is emotionally resonant regardless of the technical details or even the truth.

THE BOARD OF PEACE: TRUMP’S PERSONAL PEACE PRIZE

The Board of Peace offers perhaps the most grandiose expression of Trump’s persecution narrative — not a complaint about being snubbed, but an institutional response to it. When Trump texted Norway’s prime minister in January 2026 linking his Greenland threats to the Nobel Committee’s failure to award him the prize, he was voicing a grievance he had already begun to act on. The Board of Peace, formally established at the World Economic Forum in Davos that same month, designated Trump as chairman for life — an arrangement that inverts the Nobel dynamic entirely: rather than waiting for an independent body to recognize his peacemaking, Trump created his own institution where recognition is structural and permanent. On the anniversary of his inauguration, Trump cited the United Nations never having helped him as a justification for the Board’s existence, suggesting it might eventually replace the UN altogether. The persecution logic runs cleanly through both episodes: the institutions that should have honored him failed him, so he built alternatives he controls. That no other G7 nation joined the Board, including Norway — the very country Trump blamed for the Nobel snub — will almost certainly be absorbed into the same narrative as further proof of establishment resistance to a leader they refuse to recognize.

Why the Narrative Works

Trump’s persecution story endures because it performs several functions simultaneously. It flips accountability into loyalty — every legal charge or critical headline becomes not evidence of wrongdoing but proof of how threatening Trump is to the establishment. It mirrors the genuine anxieties of his base, many of whom feel overlooked by media and government institutions. And it delegitimizes opposition before opposition can speak — if the system is rigged, then any ruling, verdict, or investigation against Trump is by definition corrupt. The narrative also has deep theological resonance for evangelical supporters who see Trump’s legal and political battles as a form of spiritual warfare, reinforcing the language of martyrdom that has surrounded his campaigns since 2016. For many supporters, belief in Trump’s victimhood has become identity, not analysis — and identity is far more resistant to factual challenge than any ordinary political position.

The Profitable Persecution

Trump’s persecution narrative is not merely persuasive — it is a business model. Every new indictment, investigation, or hostile media segment has historically triggered an immediate fundraising surge. His platform, Truth Social, serves simultaneously as megaphone and monetization engine. He has sold branded merchandise and Bibles invoking themes of embattlement and martyrdom. And now, with his IRS lawsuit, the grievance machinery has potentially come full circle: a complaint about institutional victimization that — if settled favorably — would result in a taxpayer-funded payout to the president himself. The architecture is durable precisely because it converts every attack into a resource, every setback into a rally cry, and every enemy into a fundraising opportunity.

After the Correspondents’ Dinner shooting, Republican senators moved to authorize $400 million in federal funding, with Senator Graham suggesting private donations could remain in play for furnishings or other expenses. What will happen to the hundreds of millions already raised and sitting in a private nonprofit shielded from standard conflict-of-interest review? That has not been addressed by the legislation or the White House and given the lack transparency in the ballroom fund it is reasonable to speculate on the probability of diversion to other uses.

Trump transferred $1.2 billion of US funds to the Board of Peace. He has pledged to transfer a total of $10 billion. These are taxpayer funds that will be totally under his personal control and can be used at his discretion. There is no public accountability for these funds.

For those who wonder about Donald Trump’s motivation for his persecution narrative, his personal wealth has almost doubled in little more than a year since his inauguration.

The Authoritarian Parallels

Scholars of democratic backsliding have noted that Trump’s strategy tracks closely with patterns seen in other countries where elected leaders have gradually dismantled independent institutions. The elements are recognizable: vilify the press as the enemy of the people; claim that legal proceedings against you are politically motivated; replace career officials with personal loyalists; and promise retribution against those who prosecuted or opposed you. In Trump’s second term, those patterns have sharpened. The firing of an attorney general perceived as insufficiently aggressive toward critics, the second indictment of a former FBI director on a legally thin — some say imaginary — theory, the use of regulatory threats against a broadcast network that aired an unflattering joke, are not isolated incidents. They form a coherent approach in which the persecution narrative both justifies and accelerates the consolidation of power.

Critiques and Contradictions

The persecution narrative has real vulnerabilities. Legal scholars have consistently argued that Trump mischaracterizes how due process works and overstates the degree to which prosecutions against him were politically directed. Fact-checkers have documented numerous false claims woven through his victimhood rhetoric — including the Nobel Peace Prize claim, the “8 wars” assertion, and the repeated charge of a “weaponized” Justice Department that, critics note, he now controls and is actively using against his own perceived enemies. The second Comey indictment, built on a social media photo that First Amendment experts regard as clearly protected speech, has drawn criticism even from some conservative legal commentators. The IRS lawsuit’s fundamental conflict of interest — a president suing the agencies he runs for money from taxpayers — has no obvious precedent in American legal history. Whether these contradictions ultimately matter to Trump’s political standing is another question entirely.

Conclusion

Donald Trump’s persecution narrative has outlasted every legal challenge, every fact-check, and every prediction of its imminent collapse. In the spring of 2026, it is more operationally central to his presidency than ever. The narrative is the brand. It galvanizes supporters, raises money, provides cover for the use of government power against political adversaries, and makes every institutional constraint on presidential authority look like persecution rather than law. For many Americans who support Trump, his legal fate matters far less than the story his victimhood tells — and in that story lies a political power that has proven remarkably difficult to dislodge.

Illustration generated by author using ChatGPT

Benjamin Franklin and Slavery: A Complicated Legacy

By John Turley

On May 7, 2026

In History, Politics

Few figures in American history are as celebrated — or as contradictory — as Benjamin Franklin. Founding Father, inventor, diplomat, and philosopher. Franklin is remembered for just about everything except the uncomfortable truth that he was also, for much of his life, a slave owner. His relationship with slavery is a study in the slow, painful moral evolution of a brilliant but flawed man — one who spent decades benefiting from the institution he would spend his final years fighting to abolish.
The Slaveowner
Franklin was a slave owner beginning around 1735, and he owned enslaved people until at least 1785 when he freed two slaves after his return from France. Over the course of his life, there were up to seven named slaves in the Franklin household, including Peter, his wife Jemima, their son Othello, and George, John, and King.
Franklin’s complicity in slavery extended beyond personal ownership. As editor of the Pennsylvania Gazette, Franklin benefited financially from advertisements for runaway slaves and slave auctions that were paid for by slave owners and traders. He also used his printing press to publish content that supported the slave trade and, as a British colonial agent, sought to have the British government accept Georgia’s slave code. In short, slavery wasn’t just a private matter for Franklin — it was woven into his professional and financial life. At the same time, he printed Quaker antislavery tracts, a sign that his professional role placed him at the intersection of both pro‑slavery commerce and early antislavery movements.
What little we know about how Franklin treated his enslaved people comes mostly from letters and financial records. In part this is because northern slaveholders kept fewer detailed records of slave families, births, and deaths than large southern planters. His enslaved servants lived within his household and were integrated into domestic routines, a common arrangement in urban slavery that still left them legally and socially unfree.
When Franklin traveled to London in 1757, he brought two enslaved men, Peter and King, who lived and worked at 36 Craven Street. Peter remained with Franklin until their departure in 1762, but King ran away sometime in 1758 and was later found living in Suffolk, having been taken in by a Christian woman who taught him to read and write. The fact that King fled at the first opportunity tells its own story about the nature of slavery, whatever Franklin’s personal demeanor may have been.
His Evolving Written Views
Franklin’s early writings on slavery were at best ambivalent and at worst openly racist. In his 1751 essay “Observations Concerning the Increase of Mankind,” Franklin argued that slave labor wasn’t economically efficient in part because enslaved people pilfered from their owners, writing that “almost every Slave [being] by Nature a Thief.” His concern about slavery in this period was largely economic rather than moral — he worried that it would hurt poor white laborers and enriched a wealthy elite, not that it was a profound violation of human dignity.
By the 1760s, something began to shift. His perspective began to change following a 1759 visit arranged by his friend Samuel Johnson to one of Dr. Bray’s schools for Black children. He also met Anthony Benezet, who had started a school in Philadelphia and would later co-found the Abolition Society. By 1763, Franklin wrote that African “shortcomings” were not inherent but came from lack of education, slavery, and negative environments — and that he saw no difference in learning ability between African and white children.
While in London in the 1760s, he supported black education projects and in 1770 anonymously published “Conversations between an Englishman, a Scotchman, and an American,” a piece that criticized both the slave trade and the broader institution. In 1782 he circulated “A Thought Concerning the Sugar Islands,” condemning the African wars that fed the trade, the horrors of the Middle Passage, and the “numbers that die under the severities of slavery,” arguing that even sugar was morally tainted by blood.
By the late 1780s, Franklin’s language had become openly abolitionist. In 1787 he signed a public antislavery appeal declaring that the Creator had made “of one flesh, all the children of men,” and in 1789–1790 he wrote essays insisting that slavery was an “atrocious debasement of human nature.” He also argued that formerly enslaved people needed education, moral instruction, and employment to make the transition from bondage to full participation in civil society.
This was a meaningful intellectual leap for the era. Franklin was moving from a view of enslaved people as economic units toward recognizing their common humanity and the role that oppression itself played in creating the inequalities he had previously attributed to nature.
Franklin the Constitutional Convention and the Three-Fifths Compromise
By the time of the 1787 Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, Franklin. then 81 years old, was a delegate from Pennsylvania. The Three-Fifths Compromise — which counted enslaved people as three-fifths of a person for purposes of congressional representation and taxation — was one of the most contentious issues at the Convention. The compromise was formally proposed by delegate James Wilson and seconded by Charles Pinckney.
Franklin’s specific role in the Three-Fifths Compromise itself is limited. His more direct contribution to the Convention’s structural debates was to the Great Compromise about proportional representation and spending rather than the slavery count.
Notably, just weeks before the Convention began, Franklin signed a public antislavery appeal stating that “the Creator of the world” had made “of one flesh, all the children of men.” Yet he ultimately signed a Constitution that embedded protections for slavery, including the Three-Fifths Compromise and a provision preventing Congress from banning the slave trade until 1808. Franklin’s acquiescence reflected his broader pragmatic calculation, shared by many Northern founders, that preserving the Union required compromise with the slaveholding South, even at a terrible moral cost. This is partly speculative — Franklin left few direct written statements about his reasoning on this specific tradeoff at the Convention.
The Abolitionist
Whatever compromises Franklin made at Philadelphia, the years that followed saw him embrace abolitionism with increasing conviction and urgency. In 1787, he began serving as President of the Pennsylvania Society for Promoting the Abolition of Slavery — the oldest abolitionist organization in the country — which had originally formed in 1775 and was reorganized and incorporated by Pennsylvania in 1789.
In 1789, Franklin wrote and published several essays supporting abolition, including a public address dated November 9th of that year in which he called slavery an “atrocious debasement of human nature.” He called for practical support for emancipated people, including education and employment — ideas that were radical for the time and would remain largely unaddressed for generations.
His final public act was perhaps his most consequential. On February 3, 1790, Franklin signed a petition to the first Congress on behalf of the Abolition Society, asking lawmakers to “devise means for removing the Inconsistency from the Character of the American People” and to “promote mercy and justice toward this distressed Race.” The petition was immediately denounced by pro-slavery congressmen and referred to a committee, which ultimately concluded that the Constitution prevented Congress from acting on the matter until 1808.
Franklin died in April 1790, just weeks after these debates, leaving a legacy that combined early complicity in slavery with later, forceful advocacy for abolition and Black education. As part of his will, he directed all remaining enslaved people in his household be freed upon his death, although it is unclear if he still owned slaves at the time and this may have been a symbolic declaration that he hoped others would follow. His life illustrates both the pervasiveness of slavery in colonial America — even among its most famous reformers — and the possibility, however belated, of moral and political transformation on the issue.
What to Make of It All
Franklin’s association with slavery resists easy conclusions. He spent roughly four and a half decades owning enslaved people, profiting from the slave trade through his newspaper, and diplomatically defending slavery when it served colonial interests. His evolution toward abolitionism was real, but it was also late — and driven partly by visits to schools for Black children and Quaker friendships rather than a spontaneous moral awakening.
At the same time, his final years represent one of the most prominent Founding Fathers publicly and passionately challenging the institution while other contemporaries remained silent or actively defended it. As historian David Waldstreicher has cautioned, Franklin’s antislavery credentials have sometimes been “remembered backwards” and exaggerated — but that doesn’t mean the later evolution wasn’t genuine.
What Franklin’s story offers isn’t a story of redemption so much as a realistic portrait of moral growth under the weight of self-interest, social norms, and political pragmatism. He was, as one observer put it, a man who showed himself to be “thoughtful, open, teachable” — eventually. The tragedy is how long it took, how few followed his lead, and how much damage was done in the meantime.

Illustration generated by author using ChatGPT.

Sources:
                Benjamin Franklin House – Franklin and Slavery
https://benjaminfranklinhouse.org/education/benjamin-franklin-and-slavery/

                Benjamin Franklin House – The Philadelphia Household 1735–1790
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