For much of the late twentieth century, “socialism” was almost a forbidden word in American politics. Republicans used it as an accusation, Democrats generally avoided it, and politicians who actually described themselves as socialists occupied a small place on the political fringe.
Things have changed dramatically. Today, politicians on both the right and the left talk about socialism—although they usually mean entirely different things.
On the right, “socialism” has become a broad warning label applied to proposals ranging from universal health insurance to government regulation and higher taxes. On the left, a growing number of politicians and activists have reclaimed the word, associating it with economic equality, stronger labor rights, universal public services, and restraints on corporate power.
The interesting question may be less whether America is becoming socialist than why Americans are suddenly arguing about the meaning of socialism.
Socialism Originally Meant Something Specific
Historically, socialism was not simply another word for government spending. It developed during the nineteenth century largely in response to industrial capitalism. Although socialist thinkers disagreed considerably among themselves, they generally believed that the production resources of society—factories, mines, transportation systems, land, and eventually large corporations—should be owned collectively or controlled by workers rather than by private investors.
Karl Marx advocated a transformation by revolution. Other socialists eventually pursued democratic and parliamentary approaches.
That distinction matters because many policies routinely described as “socialist” in American political debate do not meet the traditional definition at all. A government can tax corporations, regulate banks, provide health insurance, and maintain a generous welfare system while leaving most businesses privately owned. Economists would normally describe such a country as a mixed capitalist economy or social democracy, rather than a socialist economy.
What the American Right Means by Socialism
For many conservatives, socialism has acquired a much broader meaning. The term is frequently applied to policies that increase government involvement in the economy such as progressive taxation, environmental regulation, student-debt relief, subsidized health care, expanded welfare benefits, government-supported child care, or other programs that redistribute income or provide services collectively.
In this usage, socialism is less a precise economic system than a direction of travel. Conservatives argue that as government assumes greater responsibility for allocating resources and providing benefits, individual choice and private markets become less important.
There is a legitimate philosophical argument here. There has always been a debate over where the boundary should lie between private markets and collective responsibility.
But calling every government economic intervention “socialism” stretches the word almost beyond recognition. By that definition, nearly every modern industrial democracy—including the United States—has been partly socialist for generations.
The political usefulness of the word helps explain its persistence. For Americans who remember the Cold War, “socialism” may evoke the Soviet Union, communist Eastern Europe, Cuba, or more recently Venezuela. Calling an opponent socialist therefore does more than criticize a particular tax or health-care proposal. It associates that proposal with an entire political system many Americans regard as oppressive and economically unsuccessful.
Polling illustrates how powerful that association remains. Pew Research Center found in 2022 that only 14 percent of Republicans and Republican-leaning independents had a positive impression of socialism. Republicans were also much more likely than Democrats to associate socialism with restrictions on individual freedom.
What the American Left Means by Socialism
The situation on the left is considerably more complicated because there is no single left-wing definition of socialism.
Many Americans who describe themselves favorably toward “socialism” appear to mean something closer to social democracy: a basically capitalist economy combined with universal health care, stronger unions, affordable higher education, progressive taxation, extensive social insurance, and stronger regulation of corporations.
Their preferred models are often Scandinavian countries such as Denmark and Finland. Yet those countries retain private businesses, private property, financial markets, entrepreneurship, and international corporations. They are heavily regulated capitalist welfare states, not classical socialist economies.
Pew’s research demonstrates this ambiguity. When Americans favorable toward socialism were asked what they liked about it, many emphasized fairness, meeting basic needs, and combining elements of capitalism and socialism rather than eliminating capitalism altogether.
Other people on the American left mean something more substantial when they use the term. The Democratic Socialists of America, for example, explicitly says democratic socialism should go beyond merely regulating capitalism. The organization advocates greater democratic control of workplaces and collective ownership of important parts of the economy, including areas such as energy and transportation. That position is much closer to the traditional meaning of socialism.
Consequently, it is misleading to assume that a liberal Democrat supporting Medicare expansion and a democratic socialist advocating worker control of corporations necessarily have the same economic philosophy.
They may support some of the same immediate policies while disagreeing profoundly about the ultimate economic system they want.
Why Has Socialism Suddenly Returned?
First was the financial crisis of 2008. Younger Americans watched banks and financial institutions receive extraordinary government assistance while millions of ordinary Americans lost jobs, savings, and homes. That experience weakened the assumption that an essentially unregulated market produces fair outcomes.
Then came decades of concern about wage stagnation, college debt, housing affordability, medical expenses, and growing concentrations of wealth. For some younger Americans, “capitalism” increasingly came to mean not neighborhood businesses and entrepreneurship but enormous corporations, billionaires and now trillionaires, expensive housing, and economic insecurity.
Bernie Sanders accelerated the transformation during his presidential campaigns in 2016 and 2020. By openly calling himself a democratic socialist while attracting millions of votes, Sanders helped remove some of the Cold War stigma surrounding the word.
Generational change matters as well. Younger Americans did not experience the Cold War in the same way their parents and grandparents did. Pew found striking age differences in its 2022 survey. Americans under 30 were roughly as likely to have an exclusively positive view of socialism as an exclusively positive view of capitalism. Older Americans remained considerably more favorable toward capitalism.
The political right has responded by emphasizing the word even more strongly. That makes strategic sense. If progressive Democrats increasingly accept the socialist label—or propose policies Republicans can associate with it—Republicans have an incentive to connect those policies with a word that remains deeply unpopular among conservative and many older voters.
The result is a feedback loop: the left talks more about socialism because the word has become less frightening to some voters, while the right talks more about socialism precisely because it hopes to make the word frightening again.
Is America Already Partly Socialist?
The answer depends almost entirely upon our definition.
Under the traditional definition—collective ownership of the means of production—the United States is overwhelmingly capitalist. Most farms, factories, banks, hospitals, restaurants, stores, technology companies, media companies, and other productive enterprises are privately owned.
But America has never operated as a completely laissez-faire capitalist economy either.
The federal government operates Social Security, for example, which the Social Security Administration itself describes as a social insurance program. Workers and employers contribute through payroll taxes, and benefits provide partial income replacement after retirement, disability, or death. About 96 percent of American jobs are covered.
Medicare and Medicaid place government deeply into health-care financing while most hospitals, physician practices, pharmaceutical manufacturers, and medical suppliers remain private.
The government also insures private bank deposits through the FDIC. Deposits at insured banks are generally protected up to $250,000 per depositor, per bank, per ownership category, backed by the federal government.
Public schools, public universities, highways, libraries, police departments, fire departments, water systems, parks, and numerous municipal utilities provide goods and services collectively rather than through ordinary private markets.
The United States even owns or operates certain enterprises directly. The Postal Service, for example, is an independent establishment within the executive branch that provides a nationwide public service while simultaneously operating in a competitive marketplace.
These arrangements contain elements of collective provision, social insurance, public ownership, or economic regulation, but calling all of them “socialism” creates more confusion than clarity.
A public fire department is not evidence that America has adopted a socialist economic system any more than a privately owned grocery store proves that government has no role in the economy.
America Has a Mixed Economy—and Always Has
Perhaps the greatest problem with the current socialism debate is the assumption that capitalism and socialism exist as two completely separate boxes and that a country must choose one or the other. Modern economies rarely work that way.
The United States relies primarily on private ownership, competition, investment, and markets to produce goods and services. At the same time, Americans have repeatedly decided that certain risks and services should be handled collectively.
Even organized labor introduces an element of collective economic power into a capitalist system, although union membership has declined substantially. In 2025, 10 percent of American wage and salary workers belonged to unions, compared with 20.1 percent in 1983.
The real political disagreement is rarely capitalism versus socialism in their pure theoretical forms. It is about where to draw the line between the market and the community.
Should health insurance operate primarily as a commercial product or a public service? Should housing be left largely to market forces or should government intervene to make it more affordable? Should corporations answer primarily to shareholders, or should workers have greater influence over corporate decisions? How progressive should taxation be? Which industries, if any, should be publicly owned? How much inequality should society tolerate in exchange for the incentives created by private enterprise?
A surprising twist is that some of the loudest recent “socialism” accusations are coming from conservatives — aimed at their own president. Since returning to office, the Trump administration has taken direct equity stakes in Intel, secured a “golden share” in U.S. Steel, arranged profit-sharing with Nvidia and AMD on chip sales to China, imposed sweeping tariffs, and directed the Pentagon to prioritize coal — an unprecedented degree of direct federal involvement in private enterprise for a Republican administration. Commentators across the spectrum — from the Council on Foreign Relations to the Wall Street Journal — have reached for terms like “state capitalism” or “state capitalism with American characteristics,” an explicit echo of the Chinese Communist Party’s own “socialism with Chinese characteristics”. One economist with more than three decades of market-watching called it plainly “the most economically interventionist government of my lifetime”.
Those are legitimate political questions. Calling one side “capitalist” and the other “socialist” obscures more than it explains.
The Word May Matter Less Than the Argument
There is one particularly revealing finding in the polling. Americans do not necessarily treat capitalism and socialism as opposites. Pew found people who expressed favorable opinions of both, suggesting that many Americans interpret capitalism as representing markets and opportunity while interpreting socialism as representing economic security and fairness.
That may tell us something important about the current debate. It appears that Americans want the vitality of capitalism tempered by the compassion of socialism.
The renewed interest in socialism doesn’t indicate that millions of Americans suddenly want the government to seize factories and abolish private enterprise. Instead, it reflects dissatisfaction with how the existing economic system distributes opportunity, security, wealth, and political power.
Conservative warnings about socialism often reflect a genuine concern that expanding government responsibility can gradually reduce economic freedom, increase taxation, and shift decisions from individuals and markets toward political institutions.
Those are fundamentally different concerns—and both become difficult to discuss when the same word means entirely different things to the people using it.
The question is not whether America should become “socialist,” it is what kind of capitalism we want.
That argument has been with us throughout American history. Only the vocabulary has changed.
For an additional discussion of the elements of socialism, see my post Three Shades of Left, published on November 10th 2025.
I’ve been a member of the Sons of the American Revolution for quite some time now. At the beginning of April, I started looking around for a Memorial Day event that we could join. I had assumed that my hometown of Charleston WV, being the state capital, would surely have an event since it is the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. I was surprised to find that none was planned.
I believed that it was especially important that a Memorial Day service be held here because West Virginia has, since World War II, one of the highest per capita rates of military service and combat casualties in the country. So, another SAR member and I got together, and we planned our own event and arranged for it to be held on the state capitol grounds. At the end of our service, I looked out at the group that was gathered: there was no right or left, there was no red or blue, there was no conservative or liberal. There were only proud Americans who had come together to honor our country, its veterans and its history.
Americans disagree about almost everything these days. Politics, religion, education, history, and even the meaning of patriotism have all become subjects of bitter debate. Too often, we define ourselves more by the groups we oppose than by the country we share.
Yet there are still opportunities to remember that before we were Republicans or Democrats, conservatives or progressives, we were Americans. The ongoing 250th Anniversary of the Revolutionary Era offers one of those rare opportunities to express what we share, not how we differ.
The semiquincentennial should be far more than fireworks, parades, and historical reenactments. It should be an invitation to rediscover the remarkable story we all inherited. The American Revolution was not perfect. The nation it created was imperfect from the beginning, carrying the stain of slavery, denying women equal rights, and often failing to live up to its own ideals. Those shortcomings do not erase the extraordinary achievement of creating a republic founded on the revolutionary belief that legitimate government derives its authority from the consent of the governed.
The founders left us more than a nation. They left us a challenge. Every generation has been asked to move the country a little closer to the principles expressed in the Declaration of Independence—that all people are created equal and possess inherent rights that no government should take away. Those words have inspired abolitionists, suffragists, civil rights leaders, immigrants seeking freedom, and millions of ordinary citizens who believed America could become better than it was.
That is a heritage worth celebrating together.
Organizations devoted to civic life have an important role to play in that celebration. Groups such as the Sons of the American Revolution, the Daughters of the American Revolution, the American Legion, Rotary clubs, Civitan clubs, veterans’ organizations, scouting groups, historical societies, libraries, museums, churches, and countless other local groups have spent decades preserving history, encouraging volunteerism, supporting education, and strengthening their communities. While each has its own mission and traditions, they all remind us that citizenship is more than voting every few years. It is an ongoing commitment to serving neighbors and improving the places where we live.
These organizations also offer something increasingly rare in modern America: opportunities for people with different political views to work side by side on practical goals. A community service project, a scholarship program, a veterans’ memorial, a food drive, or a history program rarely asks participants how they voted. It asks only if they are willing to help.
That is a lesson our country desperately needs. Social media and cable television often reward outrage. Algorithms profit by convincing us that our fellow Americans are enemies rather than neighbors. It becomes easy to believe that our differences outweigh everything we have in common.
History tells a different story. Americans have survived fierce political battles before. We have argued over the Constitution, endured civil war, struggled through economic depression and assassinations, fought world wars, and confronted profound disagreements about civil rights and social change. Our history has never been one of perfect unity. Instead, it has been a continuing effort to find common purpose despite deep disagreements.
The Revolution itself offers an example. The thirteen colonies differed enormously in religion, economy, geography, and culture. New England merchants, Virginia planters, Pennsylvania farmers, and South Carolina traders often had conflicting interests. Yet they discovered that some principles were more important than their differences. Their unity was never complete, but it was sufficient to build a nation. We face no less important a challenge today.
The 250th anniversary should encourage every community to host public readings of the Declaration of Independence, historical lectures, concerts, service projects, naturalization ceremonies, veterans’ recognitions, student essay contests, and volunteer events that welcome everyone. These occasions should not become platforms for partisan speeches. They should remind us that our history belongs to all Americans.
Celebrating our shared heritage does not require us to ignore the darker chapters of our past. Mature patriotism is honest enough to acknowledge failures while remaining grateful for the ideals that allowed those failures to be challenged and corrected. A confident nation can tell its whole story without either whitewashing its mistakes or denying its accomplishments.
Perhaps that is the greatest gift the 250th anniversary can offer is reminding us that America has always been a work in progress. Each generation inherits both the nation’s achievements and its unfinished work. If we can gather to honor the courage, sacrifice, and aspirations of those who came before us, perhaps we can rediscover something that has become increasingly scarce — the ability to see one another first as fellow citizens.
Our common heritage cannot solve every political disagreement. It will not erase ideological differences or end heated debates about the country’s future. Nor should it. Democracy depends upon vigorous debate. But it also depends upon something deeper — a shared commitment to our republic and our active participation as citizens. We need to become informed participants in our society and we need to vote and encourage others to vote.
As we celebrate America’s 250th birthday, the greatest act of patriotism is not winning another political argument. It is remembering that despite our many differences, we remain participants in the same remarkable American experiment. If civic organizations, veterans’ groups, historical societies, schools, churches, and local communities can help us rediscover that simple truth, they will have performed one of the greatest public services imaginable.
The founders gave us a republic, and they challenged each generation to preserve it and to improve it. Two hundred and fifty years later, that responsibility belongs to all of us. We must not fail.
Every vaccine the United States has ever rolled out has arrived with a shadow twin: a countermovement insisting the shot poses more danger than the disease it prevents, or that no government has the right to demand it. That pattern predates the country itself, and it has recurred with almost eerie consistency across three centuries — from the smallpox pustules of colonial Boston to the mRNA vials of 2021.
Colonial Boston and Smallpox
The story usually begins in Boston in 1721, during the sixth smallpox epidemic to strike the city since its founding. A ship called the Seahorse arrived from the Caribbean that April carrying a sailor with active smallpox, and within weeks the disease was moving through a city of roughly 11,000 people. By the time the epidemic burned out the following year, more than 6,000 Bostonians had been infected and about 850 had died.
The remedy that split the town in two was not vaccination in the modern sense but variolation, or inoculation — deliberately introducing live smallpox matter into a small cut in the skin, on the theory that a controlled, minor case would produce immunity without the risk of the full-blown disease. The technique had circulated for generations across West Africa, the Ottoman Empire, and Asia, and it reached Boston through the injustice of slavery. The Puritan minister Cotton Mather learned of it from Onesimus, a man he held in bondage, who described having undergone the procedure himself in Africa. Mather corroborated the account with other enslaved Africans in Boston and read reports out of Constantinople before becoming inoculation’s loudest champion.
Physician Zabdiel Boylston put the idea into practice, inoculating his own son and two enslaved members of his household first, then expanding the program despite fierce opposition. The city’s medical establishment largely revolted. Dr. William Douglass, one of the few Bostonians who actually held a medical degree, led the case against inoculation on grounds that ranged from the religious objection, that deliberately spreading disease usurped divine providence, to a reasonable-for-the-time scientific worry that the practice itself was seeding new outbreaks. The argument did not stay academic. Someone threw a lit grenade through Mather’s window that November, with a note attached reading, in essence, that he could inoculate himself with the bomb. It failed to detonate.
The case against inoculation was never purely religious or clinical; it was tangled up with its origin. Opposition writers repeatedly invoked its African and Ottoman source as grounds for distrust, treating its foreign, non-Christian lineage as evidence of danger apart from any medical argument. One Boston pamphleteer asked why residents should “cherish the cruel Blood of Africa or Asia” in their bodies, and a London critic writing a decade later dismissed inoculation as a “barbarous and dangerous Invention” imported from Turkey that had wrought “Havock and Slaughter” once it took hold. Because the technique reached Boston through Onesimus, the racial dimension of the debate was impossible to separate from the medical one — critics were rejecting a treatment in part because of who had brought it, not because of what it did.
What makes 1721 more than a historical curiosity is that Boylston and his allies did something close to a clinical study. They tallied outcomes among the inoculated against outcomes among those who caught smallpox naturally, and the inoculated group fared markedly better. That comparison helped slowly tip opinion in inoculation’s favor over the following decades. By the time George Washington ordered mandatory inoculation of the Continental Army in 1777, the practice — though still controversial — had become an accepted tool of public health.
The Gilded Age Leagues: Liberty, Quackery, and the Courts
Edward Jenner’s cowpox vaccine, introduced in 1796, eventually replaced variolation as the standard smallpox prevention. As vaccination spread across the Atlantic world through the nineteenth century, so did organized resistance. Britain passed an 1853 law making infant vaccination compulsory, and an 1867 act extended the mandate to age fourteen with real penalties attached for refusal. Britons who objected on religious, medical, or libertarian grounds organized the Anti-Vaccination League and, in 1867, the Anti-Compulsory Vaccination League, and within a few years it claimed over a hundred branches and roughly 10,000 members.
The British campaigner William Tebb carried that movement across the Atlantic. Following Tebb’s visit, Americans opposed to compulsory vaccination founded the Anti-Vaccination Society of America in 1879, and the New England Anti-Compulsory Vaccination League followed in 1882. These organizations drew on a mix of motives that will sound familiar to a modern reader: a libertarian objection to state intrusion into personal and parental decisions, religious conviction that disease and its prevention were matters for providence, and — more cynically — the financial interests of the era’s patent-medicine sellers and homeopaths, whose loosely regulated business model was directly threatened by a state-endorsed, evidence-based alternative.
The movement’s grievances were not entirely invented. In 1901, contaminated diphtheria antitoxin killed thirteen children in St. Louis, and contaminated smallpox vaccine killed several more in Camden, New Jersey, in the same year. Congress responded with the Biologics Control Act of 1902, the first federal law requiring licensure and safety standards for vaccine manufacturers — an early ancestor of the FDA’s modern oversight role. Those tragedies, however, did not settle the legal question of whether a state could force the issue. That came in 1905, when the Supreme Court decided Jacobson v. Massachusetts, upholding a Cambridge ordinance that fined residents who refused smallpox vaccination during an outbreak. The Court held that individual liberty was not absolute and could yield to a state’s power to protect public health — the first Supreme Court ruling on the subject, and one still cited today in disputes over compulsory vaccination and other public health mandates.
The ruling galvanized rather than pacified the opposition. Three years later, in 1908, opponents founded the Anti-Vaccination League of America in Philadelphia, built on the principle — in the League’s own words — that health was nature’s greatest safeguard against disease and that no state had the right to demand its impairment. It had the stated goal of abolishing what it called oppressive medical laws. Charles Higgins, one of the League’s most prolific pamphleteers, published tracts like his 1912 broadside “Open Your Eyes Wide!” arguing that vaccination was both dangerous and a violation of fundamental freedom. When Texas tried to require vaccination for public school attendance, the League’s arguments resurfaced in Zucht v. King, a 1922 case in which the Supreme Court again sided with the state.
Polio and The Vaccine Disasters of the 20th Century
By the mid-twentieth century, American vaccine skepticism had a new source of fuel, manufacturing failures serious enough to validate the movement’s oldest fear, that the shot itself might cause the disease. On April 12, 1955, officials announced that Jonas Salk’s inactivated polio vaccine, tested in a trial of 1.8 million children, was safe and effective, and the federal government licensed five manufacturers within days to begin mass production. One of them, Cutter Laboratories of Berkeley, California, shipped batches in which the virus-inactivation process had failed, leaving live, virulent polio virus in vaccine given to roughly 200,000 children across five states. An estimated 40,000 developed abortive polio, 200 were left with some degree of paralysis, and at least ten died. The program was suspended within weeks, federal oversight of vaccine manufacturing was overhauled, and vaccination resumed that fall under tighter controls.
The Cutter Incident became a formative episode in the history of American vaccine regulation and it had a lasting effect: a generation of parents who had watched the worst-case scenario for the trustworthiness of vaccines play out on the evening news, and that memory did not fade quickly.
Two decades later, a different kind of failure struck the flu vaccine. In early 1976, an Army recruit at Fort Dix, New Jersey, died of an influenza strain resembling the one responsible for the catastrophic 1918 pandemic. Fearing a repeat, the Ford administration pushed Congress to fund a crash national vaccination campaign, and nearly 43 million Americans were vaccinated within about ten weeks — an extraordinary logistical feat. The anticipated pandemic never arrived. Worse, as vaccinations proceeded, epidemiologists began detecting a modest but real increase in Guillain-Barré syndrome, a rare autoimmune paralytic condition, among recipients — roughly one additional case per 100,000 doses by later estimates. The program was suspended in December 1976, the CDC director was fired on live television, and the New York Times dubbed the whole affair a “fiasco,” a label that stuck for decades.
The Flu Shot’s Persistent Image Problem
Unlike smallpox or polio vaccination, the annual flu shot has never fully shaken a reputation for being optional, unpleasant, and only modestly effective in any given year. This is largely because the vaccine’s composition is re-engineered annually against strains predicted months in advance. That combination of a recurring injections, a variable and sometimes underwhelming efficacy rate, and the folk memory of 1976 has kept flu vaccination rates well below public health targets in most seasons, hovering in recent years around half of American adults, with substantial swings by age, region, and political affiliation. There is still the belief among some groups that the vaccine itself can cause flu even though flu vaccines do not contain live virus and cannot cause the disease.
COVID-19: An Old Argument at Unprecedented Speed
The COVID-19 pandemic compressed a century of vaccine controversy into about eighteen months. The mRNA vaccines developed by Pfizer-BioNTech and Moderna, along with a viral-vector vaccine from Johnson & Johnson, received emergency authorization by early 2021 after a development timeline that was, by historical standards, astonishingly fast. It was a point public health officials framed as a triumph of scientific investment and one that vaccine skeptics framed as a reason for caution. By September 2021, about 62 percent of Americans age twelve and older had received at least one dose, but demand had already begun slowing well before the country approached anything like universal coverage.
What followed diverged from earlier vaccine controversies in one important respect, hesitancy did not fade as more safety data accumulated, and in some respects it hardened. One national longitudinal study found that COVID-19 vaccine refusal actually rose from about 41 percent of adults in 2021 to nearly 45 percent in 2022. Even as overall vaccination coverage climbed, belief in the vaccine’s broader social benefit fell sharply, from roughly 48 percent to 25 percent. Parental hesitancy about vaccinating children against COVID-19 rose by nearly 16 percentage points in just nine months of 2021 and 2022, notably concentrated among white and rural parents, a pattern that cut against the demographic profile of vaccine resistance in earlier eras of American history. By the 2025–26 respiratory virus season, CDC surveillance found that only about 16 percent of American adults had received that season’s COVID-19 vaccine, with somewhat higher uptake — about 31 percent — among adults sixty-five and older, who face the greatest risk from the disease.
COVID-19 did not create vaccine skepticism, but it sharply politicized and enlarged the anti-vaccine movement by tying vaccination to partisan identity, distrust of government and public-health institutions, and debates over mandates, individual liberty, and pandemic restrictions. Political leaders, partisan media, and online networks often framed vaccination less as a medical decision grounded in evidence than as a symbol of cultural allegiance or resistance to perceived government overreach. Anti-vaccine activists used that environment to spread misinformation and reach audiences far beyond earlier disputes over childhood immunizations. The result was a more organized “health freedom” politics in which skepticism about COVID-19 vaccines could spill over into opposition to other routine vaccines, making public health a continuing front in America’s broader political polarization.
The pandemic-era pattern echoes several of its historical predecessors at once: distrust of a fast-moving federal program (echoing 1976), suspicion of a technology many found unfamiliar and difficult to evaluate (echoing the original inoculation debates of 1721), and a fusion of libertarian and religious objection to government mandates (echoing the Anti-Vaccination League of America a century earlier).
A Recurring American Argument
Over the last 50 years, advocacy groups have questioned the growing number of childhood vaccines and raised concerns about vaccine ingredients, scheduling, and possible long-term effects. The movement gained momentum after publication in 1998 of a now-retracted paper by Andrew Wakefield that falsely suggested a link between the measles-mumps-rubella (MMR) vaccine and autism. Numerous large studies subsequently found no evidence supporting such a connection, and investigations revealed ethical violations and scientific misconduct in Wakefield’s work, but the damage was done and the foundation was laid for the modern anti vaccination movement.
Read across three centuries, American vaccine resistance is not one continuous movement so much as the same underlying argument recurring in new costumes. It is a tension between collective protection and individual or parental autonomy, sharpened at each turn by episodes — some tragic and real, like Cutter and the 1976 swine flu campaign, some largely fabricated, like William Tebb’s invented nineteenth-century casualty statistics — that gave skeptics evidence, or the appearance of it, to point to. The debate has never been resolved so much as relitigated, generation after generation, against whatever the era’s most feared disease happens to be.
Disclaimer: The author writes independently. The views expressed here are his own and are not made on behalf of, and should not be attributed to, any hospital, university, or other institution with which he is affiliated. This article is a work of historical journalism, not medical advice.
Donald Trump has never been shy about asking for money, but the scale and personal involvement of his second-term fundraising is genuinely new. According to reporting from the Wall Street Journal published in late July 2026, Trump has raised more than $800 million from corporate donors and wealthy individuals since returning to office in January 2025. Donations have been spread across the White House ballroom, a planned presidential library, a super PAC, and various political committees. What makes the operation unusual is not just the total raised, but how hands-on Trump has been. The Journal describes him calling his lead fundraiser, Meredith O’Rourke, from the White House on a near-nightly basis to review a running tally of who has paid and who hasn’t, sometimes pushing her to ask specific donors for far more than she’d planned to request.
Where the Money Is Going
Four distinct pots have absorbed most of this money, and it’s worth keeping them separate because the ethical and legal questions differ for each.
The White House ballroom
Trump’s roughly $300 million ballroom project, which required demolishing the White House’s East Wing, is funded through the Trust for the National Mall, a nonprofit that normally partners with the National Park Service on Mall upkeep. Corporate donors named publicly or in congressional correspondence include Apple (reported around $25 million), Microsoft (about $10 million), Amazon (about $5 million), along with Altria, Caterpillar, NextEra Energy, Palantir, Lockheed Martin, Booz Allen Hamilton, Comcast, Reynolds American, and Carrier, which donated an air-conditioning system in kind. Alphabet’s Google contributed $22 million to the ballroom fund as part of a settlement over Trump’s YouTube suspension. The Trust itself could collect as much as $10 million in fees for managing the fund, according to Senate Democrats who have pressed the organization for more transparency.
The presidential library
Trump’s future library has become the default destination for money tied to legal settlements. SoftBank reportedly pledged $50 million. Disney’s ABC and Paramount’s CBS each paid $16 million to settle lawsuits Trump filed over news coverage, with most of each sum earmarked for the library. Meta paid $25 million and X’s owner, Elon Musk, $10 million, to resolve similar suits over his removal from their platforms. Trump has also said he intends to redirect leftover inaugural committee funds toward the library once his term ends.
The super PAC and political committees
MAGA Inc., the main pro-Trump super PAC, entered 2026 with close to $300 million on hand after raising about $102 million in the second half of 2025. Recent large checks include $25 million from OpenAI co-founder Greg Brockman, $20 million from Foris DAX (the parent of Crypto.com), and $11 million from private equity investor Konstantin Sokolov. Meta separately gave $10 million to a Trump-aligned political committee, on top of its ballroom and library contributions. A separate nonprofit, Securing American Greatness, is also raising money but does not have to disclose its donors.
Legal settlements framed as donations
This is the category that has drawn the sharpest criticism. Because Paramount, Disney, Meta, and X all resolved lawsuits Trump filed against them by directing money toward his library rather than his personal accounts, the payments read simultaneously as litigation settlements and as political tribute. Several First Amendment lawyers and members of Congress, including Senators Elizabeth Warren, Bernie Sanders, and Ron Wyden, have argued that at least the Paramount and Disney settlements function as disguised payments for favorable regulatory treatment, since both companies had matters pending before agencies Trump oversees, including Paramount’s merger review at the FCC.
A Separate Stream: Trump’s Own Businesses
Everything described so far involves money flowing to entities Trump controls politically but does not personally own. A different and arguably more direct channel runs straight into Trump’s personal finances, primarily his family’s cryptocurrency ventures. It deserves separate treatment because the money there isn’t a donation to a cause; it’s revenue to a business he and his sons own.
World Liberty Financial, launched in 2024 by Trump’s sons Eric and Donald Jr. along with several partners, issues a stablecoin called USD1 and a separate token called WLFI, and takes a majority share of net revenue from token sales. Trump’s own financial disclosures show he personally earned more than $57 million from the venture in its first several months, and by mid-2026 CBS News reported his total crypto-related income, including proceeds from a separate TRUMP meme coin, had passed $1 billion for the year, the largest single component of his roughly $2.2 billion in disclosed 2025 income. Forbes has separately estimated his stake in World Liberty at around $240 million and his share of WLFI tokens at roughly $175 million, with his sons’ individual stakes each estimated near $133 million.
Two transactions illustrate how this business has intersected with people who also have legal exposure to Trump’s federal government. In May 2025, an Abu Dhabi state-owned investment fund used $2 billion in USD1 stablecoins to take a stake in Binance, the world’s largest crypto exchange. Binance also holds the large majority of all USD1 in circulation. Binance’s founder, Changpeng Zhao, had pleaded guilty in 2023 to a money-laundering-related charge and served a four-month sentence. In October 2025, Trump pardoned him. When asked about the connection, Trump told CBS News he didn’t know who Zhao was. World Liberty’s lawyers have said the company played no role in the pardon and had no contact with the president about it, while acknowledging Binance provided the venture with free technical assistance.
Separately, the crypto entrepreneur Justin Sun invested $75 million in WLFI tokens and another $100 million in the TRUMP meme coin in 2025. This made him World Liberty’s largest outside holder and a featured guest at a Trump dinner for top meme coin buyers. At the time, Sun was fighting a 2023 Securities and Exchange Commission fraud lawsuit alleging he manipulated trading volume in his own Tron-based tokens. That case was paused within months of his investment and formally settled for $10 million in March 2026, without an admission of wrongdoing. The current SEC chairman has wound down crypto enforcement actions brought by the previous administration. Sun and World Liberty later fell into a bitter and still-unresolved legal dispute after the company froze his tokens, which is a separate matter from the SEC case but worth noting because it shows the relationship soured even as the earlier regulatory question was being resolved in Sun’s favor.
In a more recent example, Truth Social, controlled by Trump, has established a paid tier for early access to Trump’s posts. Subscribers will receive notice of the content of Trump’s posts prior to them being made available to the general public. The fee is $100,000 a month. Since his posts routinely send stock markets soaring or plunging depending on his announcements, this could be considered insider trading by those willing to pay the price to beat the market.
Pardons, Donors, and Business Partners
The crypto pardon is not an isolated data point. NPR identified at least fifteen former officials convicted or charged with public-corruption offenses who received Trump pardons or commutations after he returned to office, including former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich, former Nevada official Michele Fiore, and former Congressman Michael Grimm. Beyond that corruption-specific list, several pardons have gone to significant Trump donors whose giving preceded or closely followed their clemency. Nikola founder Trevor Milton, convicted of securities and wire fraud, had donated close to $2 million to Trump’s 2024 campaign before receiving a pardon. Former Republican Congressman George Santos, expelled from the House after a fraud conviction, was pardoned after having donated to and supported Trump. And in July 2026, Republican megadonor Adam Kidan, convicted in 2006 in the Jack Abramoff fraud and lobbying scandal, received a pardon just three days after donating to the leadership PAC of a Pennsylvania congressman Trump had campaigned alongside days earlier. This is a sequence Democratic critics called corruption in plain sight, though the congressman’s office said he had no role in the pardon decision.
In May 2026, congressional Democrats sent letters to seventeen pardon recipients asking whether their clemency involved any pay-to-play arrangement, estimating that the group had given Trump-aligned committees roughly $250,000 combined.
It’s worth noting a structural point raised by Justice Sonia Sotomayor in her dissent from the Supreme Court’s 2024 immunity ruling Because the Court held that a president cannot be criminally prosecuted for official acts, including the pardon power, a pardon exchanged for a bribe would, on her reading, be effectively unreviewable by the criminal justice system even if the exchange were provable. Whether that reading will be tested in a real case is itself uncertain, since the ruling is relatively new and no prosecutor within this administration would be likely to bring such a case.
Enthusiastic Donors, Reluctant Donors, and the Ones Who Said No
The donor pool is not uniform, and the differences are informative. Some money looks genuinely enthusiastic: Musk was already the largest Republican donor of the 2024 cycle before adding a further settlement payment, and newer entrants like Crypto.com, which had made almost no prior political donations, gave $10 million to MAGA Inc. with no apparent reluctance. Cryptocurrency and artificial intelligence firms in general, an industry seeking friendly regulatory treatment on digital assets, have been some of the most eager givers.
Other donations look more like compliance than enthusiasm. Microsoft told congressional investigators it was approached by a fundraiser working on the ballroom project and simply followed the instructions it was given on how to contribute, a description that reads as accommodating rather than eager. Comcast, by contrast, stated explicitly that its donation carried no conditions and was not intended to secure anything in return, a formulation that looks like an attempt to draw a clean legal line around the gift. Meta and Nvidia, when directly asked by lawmakers whether their donations were connected to a quid pro quo, notably declined to deny it, which is its own kind of data point.
At least one major institution appears to have refused outright. JPMorgan Chase chief executive Jamie Dimon said publicly that his bank had not donated to the ballroom fund because of the risk to its reputation of anything that could look like buying favors. That is a useful data point: it shows that at least one important financial institution judged the risk of giving to outweigh whatever access it might buy.
Fundraising, Bribery, Extortion, or Tribute? A Speculative Look
Here I want to be explicit that I am speculating, not reporting settled fact, because the honest answer is that these categories overlap and the law hasn’t caught up with the phenomenon.
Ordinary fundraising describes money given voluntarily to support a cause or campaign the donor genuinely favors without expectation of a specific official act in return. Some of this money likely fits that description, particularly gifts from ideologically aligned donors like Musk or crypto-industry executives who would probably give even without pending business before the administration.
Bribery, in the legal sense, requires something that a voluntary donation doesn’t, an explicit link between a payment and a specific official act, sometimes called a quid pro quo. That’s a high bar, and it’s exactly the bar that federal prosecutors would need to clear, and that the current Department of Justice, led by Trump appointees, is unlikely to pursue. Legal scholars quoted in outlets like NPR have used the word bribery to describe the corporate legal settlements, but no bribery charge has been filed, and it is difficult to imagine one being filed by this Justice Department against this president. I’d rate the likelihood of a legal bribery label being applied here as low, not because the underlying facts are unclear, but because the label depends on intent and that is something we cannot observe from outside.
Extortion is the word used most often by critics of the media settlements specifically, on the theory that Trump filed lawsuits many legal experts considered weak, then used the threat of protracted litigation and regulatory friction, such as a pending merger review, to extract payment. That framing has real support—multiple press-freedom organizations and legal commentators have used the word extortion to describe the CBS and ABC settlements in particular, and the underlying pattern, filing suit and then collecting money tied to a business approval the target needs, matches the ordinary meaning of the word reasonably well. It fits for the media settlements specifically, but less so for donations that were solicited without any accompanying lawsuit or investigation. Although it is possible there may have been sub rosa threats.
Tribute is the least legally precise of the four words but may be the most descriptive for a meaningful slice of the ballroom and library money: recurring, expected payments from parties who depend on the goodwill of a powerful figure, offered less because of any single transaction than to maintain an ongoing relationship. The nightly tally, the personalized dollar targets, and the pattern of companies giving again shortly after a prior gift all resemble tribute more than either standard fundraising or a one-time bribe. This is my own interpretation rather than a term used by reporters or lawmakers and is offered as one plausible view rather than a conclusion.
My overall speculation is that all four are in play, unevenly distributed across roughly $800 million in payments. A portion is conventional political fundraising from true believers. A portion, concentrated in the media settlements, looks close to what most people would call extortion even if it never meets the criminal-law bar. A portion resembles tribute from companies managing an ongoing relationship with a powerful regulator. And very little of it will likely ever be provable as bribery in the narrow legal sense, whatever the appearance.
The crypto and pardon pattern arguably adds a fifth category that doesn’t fit neatly into fundraising, bribery, extortion, or tribute at all, because the money in that channel isn’t going to a political cause or a public-facing project; it’s going directly into a business that Trump’s family owns. Calling Sun’s $175 million in World Liberty and meme coin purchases, or Zhao’s earlier assistance to the venture, a donation understates what’s happening. It may look like ordinary commerce between a business and its customers, except that one side of the transaction also happens to control pardons and regulatory enforcement. I’d describe this as closer to direct personal enrichment than to any of the four original categories, and I’d flag it as the pattern most analogous to classic bribery in structure, a private benefit flowing to the officeholder personally rather than to a cause or nonprofit. I do need to admit, again, no bribery charge has been filed, and Trump and his family have denied any connection between the business dealings and the pardons.
Is It Transactional? Does Trump Require Donations for Policy Decisions?
This is the most speculative question I’ll address, and I want to flag it clearly as speculation rather than something I can document. The circumstantial case for a transactional relationship is strong. Multiple donors with active antitrust, merger, or enforcement matters before the administration have given large sums with some companies winning federal contracts after donating. Trump’s own team has reportedly offered donors special access as an incentive to give. The Washington Post reported in June 2026 that a group of ballroom donors collectively won roughly $50 billion in federal contracts after their gifts, though a correlation of that kind does not by itself prove the contracts were awarded because of the donations rather than for unrelated reasons.
What I cannot responsibly claim, because no reporting I’ve found demonstrates it, is that Trump has made a specific, identifiable policy decision that would not otherwise have been made, in direct exchange for a specific payment. That kind of explicit linkage is exactly what would be needed to prove a transactional arrangement rather than merely an environment in which donors reasonably believe giving improves their odds. My honest opinion is that the relationship is transactional in a soft, ambient sense, donors give in part because they believe it helps, and the administration’s fundraisers have sometimes implied as much, without there necessarily being an explicit ledger where a specific check buys a specific ruling. That is a meaningfully different claim from the harder allegation being made by some of Trump’s critics.
The pardon cases and the crypto business narrow that gap somewhat, because the timing there is tighter and easier to observe than in the corporate donation cases: a pardon three days after a donation, an SEC settlement a few months after a $75 million investment, a pardon of a business partner’s founder shortly after that partner’s exchange helped anchor a Trump family stablecoin. Timing alone still isn’t proof of illegal, or even unethical activity and in each case the administration or the family business has offered a nonfinancial justification, that a prosecution was political, that a settlement reflected the merits, that a business relationship was coincidental to a legal one. I believe it likely that the pardon pattern reflects some degree of donor and business partner favoritism, based on the sheer number of cases and their consistent direction. At the same time, I recognize that in any single case establishing a quid pro quo is unlikely, since proving intent behind one discretionary pardon or one enforcement decision is difficult even with favorable timing.
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.
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
1. Petit, K. (2025). “The Myth of the American Golden Age.” Medium
2. Cochrane, J. H. (2026). “The 1950s: A Not-So-Golden Age.” Coolidge Review
3. Kabaservice, G. (2025). “Populism and Working-Class Nostalgia for the 1950s.” Niskanen Center
4. Americans United for Separation of Church and State. (2020). “Trapped in a Time Warp: Christian Nationalists Pine for the 1950s.” au.org
5. Fea, J. (2015). “One Nation Under God.” Review of Kruse, K., “One Nation Under God: How Corporate America Invented Christian America.” Christianity Today
6. Americans United for Separation of Church and State. (2025). “In God We Trust: Don’t Blame It on the Founders.” au.org
7. Baptist News Global. (2023). “Christian Nationalism: How Evangelical Christianity Became a Political Religion.” baptistnews.com
8. Homeaddict.io. (2025). “19 Myths About the 1950s.” homeaddict.io
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.
When Americans celebrate the Fourth of July, we imagine fireworks, flags, and a dramatic reading of the Declaration of Independence. We think we know the story—The Continental Congress selected Thomas Jefferson to write the declaration. He labored alone to produce this famous document. Congress then approved it unanimously and it was signed on the 4th of July.
But the truth is far different and more complex. The story behind this iconic document—the how, who, and why of its creation—is just as explosive and illuminating as the day it represents. Far from a spontaneous outburst of rebellion, the Declaration was the product of political strategy, collaborative writing, and a shared sense of urgency among men who knew their words would change the course of history.
Setting the Stage: Why a Declaration?
By the spring of 1776, the American colonies were deep in conflict with Great Britain. Battles at Lexington and Concord had already been fought. George Washington was attempting to transform the continental army into a professional fighting force. Thomas Paine’s Common Sense had ignited widespread public support for full separation from the British Crown. The Continental Congress had been meeting in Philadelphia, debating how far they were willing to go. By June, the mood had shifted from reconciliation to revolution.
On June 7, 1776, Richard Henry Lee of Virginia introduced a resolution to the Continental Congress declaring “that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States.” The motion was controversial—some delegates wanted more time to consult their colonies. But most in Congress knew that if independence was going to happen, it needed to be explained and justified to the world, so they created a committee to draft a formal declaration.
The Committee of Five
On June 11, 1776, the Continental Congress appointed a “Committee of Five” to write the declaration. The members were:
Thomas Jefferson of Virginia
John Adams of Massachusetts
Benjamin Franklin of Pennsylvania
Roger Sherman of Connecticut
Robert R. Livingston of New York
This was not a random selection. Each man represented a different region of the colonies and had earned the trust of fellow delegates. Jefferson was relatively young but already known for his eloquence. Adams was an outspoken advocate of independence. Franklin brought wisdom, wit, diplomatic experience, and international prestige. Sherman brought New England theological perspectives and legislative experience, while Livingston represented the more moderate New York delegation and brought keen legal insight.
Jefferson Takes the Pen
Although it was a group project on paper, the heavy lifting fell to Thomas Jefferson. The committee chose him to draft the initial version. Why Jefferson? According to John Adams, Jefferson was chosen for three reasons: he was from Virginia (the most influential colony), he was popular, and, Adams admitted, “you can write ten times better than I can.”
Jefferson wrote the draft in a rented room at 700 Market Street in Philadelphia. He leaned heavily on Enlightenment ideas, especially those of John Locke, emphasizing natural rights and the notion that government derives its power from the consent of the governed. He also borrowed phrasing from earlier colonial declarations, including his own A Summary View of the Rights of British America and borrowed extensively from George Mason’s Virginia Declaration of Rights.
The Editing Process: Group Work Gets Messy
After Jefferson completed the initial draft (likely by June 28), he shared it with Adams and Franklin. Both men suggested revisions. Franklin, ever the editor, softened some of Jefferson’s sharpest attacks and corrected language for flow and diplomacy. His most famous contribution was changing Jefferson’s phrase “We hold these truths to be sacred and undeniable” to the more secular and philosophically precise “We hold these truths to be self-evident.”
Adams contributed to structural suggestions and to tone. He also contributed to the strategic presentation of grievances against King George III, understanding that the declaration needed to justify revolution in terms that would be acceptable to both colonial readers and potential European allies.
Sherman and Livingston played more limited but still meaningful roles. Sherman, with his theological background, helped ensure the document’s religious references would appeal to Puritan New England, while Livingston’s legal expertise helped refine the constitutional arguments against British rule. Otherwise, their involvement in the actual content of the declaration was likely minimal.
The revised draft was presented to the full Continental Congress on June 28, 1776. What followed was a few days of intense debate and revision by the entire body.
Congress Takes the Red Pen
From July 1 to July 4, the Continental Congress debated the resolution for independence and edited the Declaration. Jefferson watched as more than two dozen changes were made to his prose. The Congress cut about a quarter of the original text, including a lengthy passage condemning King George III for perpetuating the transatlantic slave trade that would have sparked deep division among the delegates, especially those from Southern colonies.
Other modifications included strengthening the religious language, toning down some of the more inflammatory rhetoric, and making the grievances more specific and legally grounded. Congress made 86 edits, removing about a quarter of Jefferson’s original content. Jefferson was reportedly frustrated by the changes, calling them “mutilations,” but he recognized that compromise was the cost of consensus
Approval and Promulgation
Despite the extensive revisions, the core of Jefferson’s vision remained intact and on July 2, 1776, the Continental Congress voted in favor of Lee’s resolution for independence. That’s the actual date the colonies officially broke from Britain. John Adams even predicted in a letter to his wife that July 2 would be celebrated forever as America’s Independence Day. He was close—but the official adoption of the Declaration came two days later.
On July 4, 1776, Congress formally approved the final version of the Declaration of Independence. Contrary to popular belief, most of the signers did not sign it on that day. Only John Hancock, as president of Congress, and Charles Thomson, as secretary, signed then. The famous handwritten version, now in the National Archives, wasn’t signed until August 2. But the document approved on July 4 was immediately printed by John Dunlap, the official printer to Congress.
These first copies, known as Dunlap Broadsides, were distributed throughout the colonies and sent to military leaders, state assemblies, and even King George III. George Washington had it read aloud to the Continental Army. This rapid dissemination was crucial to its impact, as it was needed to rally public support for the revolutionary cause and explain the colonies’ actions to the world.
Legacy and Impact
The Declaration wasn’t just a break-up letter to the British Crown—it was a manifesto for a new kind of political order. Its assertion that “all men are created equal” would echo through centuries of American history, invoked by abolitionists, suffragists, civil rights leaders, and more.
The creation of the Declaration of Independence demonstrates that even the most iconic documents in American history emerged from collaborative processes involving compromise, revision, and collective wisdom. While Jefferson deserves primary credit for the document’s eloquent expression of revolutionary ideals, the contributions of his committee colleagues and the broader Continental Congress were essential to creating a text that could unite thirteen diverse colonies in common cause.
This collaborative origin reflects the democratic principles the declaration itself proclaimed, showing that American independence was achieved not through the vision of a single individual, but through the collective efforts of representatives working together to articulate their shared commitment to liberty, equality, and self-governance. The process that created the Declaration of Independence thus embodied the very democratic ideals it proclaimed to the world.
Today, the Declaration of Independence is enshrined as one of the foundational texts of American democracy. But it’s worth remembering that it was created under immense pressure, forged by committee, and edited by compromise. Its authors knew they were taking a dangerous step. As Franklin quipped at the signing, “We must all hang together, or most assuredly we shall all hang separately.”
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.
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.
Why Is Everyone Talking About Socialism Again?
By John Turley
On August 22, 2026
In Commentary, Politics
For much of the late twentieth century, “socialism” was almost a forbidden word in American politics. Republicans used it as an accusation, Democrats generally avoided it, and politicians who actually described themselves as socialists occupied a small place on the political fringe.
Things have changed dramatically. Today, politicians on both the right and the left talk about socialism—although they usually mean entirely different things.
On the right, “socialism” has become a broad warning label applied to proposals ranging from universal health insurance to government regulation and higher taxes. On the left, a growing number of politicians and activists have reclaimed the word, associating it with economic equality, stronger labor rights, universal public services, and restraints on corporate power.
The interesting question may be less whether America is becoming socialist than why Americans are suddenly arguing about the meaning of socialism.
Socialism Originally Meant Something Specific
Historically, socialism was not simply another word for government spending. It developed during the nineteenth century largely in response to industrial capitalism. Although socialist thinkers disagreed considerably among themselves, they generally believed that the production resources of society—factories, mines, transportation systems, land, and eventually large corporations—should be owned collectively or controlled by workers rather than by private investors.
Karl Marx advocated a transformation by revolution. Other socialists eventually pursued democratic and parliamentary approaches.
That distinction matters because many policies routinely described as “socialist” in American political debate do not meet the traditional definition at all. A government can tax corporations, regulate banks, provide health insurance, and maintain a generous welfare system while leaving most businesses privately owned. Economists would normally describe such a country as a mixed capitalist economy or social democracy, rather than a socialist economy.
What the American Right Means by Socialism
For many conservatives, socialism has acquired a much broader meaning. The term is frequently applied to policies that increase government involvement in the economy such as progressive taxation, environmental regulation, student-debt relief, subsidized health care, expanded welfare benefits, government-supported child care, or other programs that redistribute income or provide services collectively.
In this usage, socialism is less a precise economic system than a direction of travel. Conservatives argue that as government assumes greater responsibility for allocating resources and providing benefits, individual choice and private markets become less important.
There is a legitimate philosophical argument here. There has always been a debate over where the boundary should lie between private markets and collective responsibility.
But calling every government economic intervention “socialism” stretches the word almost beyond recognition. By that definition, nearly every modern industrial democracy—including the United States—has been partly socialist for generations.
The political usefulness of the word helps explain its persistence. For Americans who remember the Cold War, “socialism” may evoke the Soviet Union, communist Eastern Europe, Cuba, or more recently Venezuela. Calling an opponent socialist therefore does more than criticize a particular tax or health-care proposal. It associates that proposal with an entire political system many Americans regard as oppressive and economically unsuccessful.
Polling illustrates how powerful that association remains. Pew Research Center found in 2022 that only 14 percent of Republicans and Republican-leaning independents had a positive impression of socialism. Republicans were also much more likely than Democrats to associate socialism with restrictions on individual freedom.
What the American Left Means by Socialism
The situation on the left is considerably more complicated because there is no single left-wing definition of socialism.
Many Americans who describe themselves favorably toward “socialism” appear to mean something closer to social democracy: a basically capitalist economy combined with universal health care, stronger unions, affordable higher education, progressive taxation, extensive social insurance, and stronger regulation of corporations.
Their preferred models are often Scandinavian countries such as Denmark and Finland. Yet those countries retain private businesses, private property, financial markets, entrepreneurship, and international corporations. They are heavily regulated capitalist welfare states, not classical socialist economies.
Pew’s research demonstrates this ambiguity. When Americans favorable toward socialism were asked what they liked about it, many emphasized fairness, meeting basic needs, and combining elements of capitalism and socialism rather than eliminating capitalism altogether.
Other people on the American left mean something more substantial when they use the term. The Democratic Socialists of America, for example, explicitly says democratic socialism should go beyond merely regulating capitalism. The organization advocates greater democratic control of workplaces and collective ownership of important parts of the economy, including areas such as energy and transportation. That position is much closer to the traditional meaning of socialism.
Consequently, it is misleading to assume that a liberal Democrat supporting Medicare expansion and a democratic socialist advocating worker control of corporations necessarily have the same economic philosophy.
They may support some of the same immediate policies while disagreeing profoundly about the ultimate economic system they want.
Why Has Socialism Suddenly Returned?
First was the financial crisis of 2008. Younger Americans watched banks and financial institutions receive extraordinary government assistance while millions of ordinary Americans lost jobs, savings, and homes. That experience weakened the assumption that an essentially unregulated market produces fair outcomes.
Then came decades of concern about wage stagnation, college debt, housing affordability, medical expenses, and growing concentrations of wealth. For some younger Americans, “capitalism” increasingly came to mean not neighborhood businesses and entrepreneurship but enormous corporations, billionaires and now trillionaires, expensive housing, and economic insecurity.
Bernie Sanders accelerated the transformation during his presidential campaigns in 2016 and 2020. By openly calling himself a democratic socialist while attracting millions of votes, Sanders helped remove some of the Cold War stigma surrounding the word.
Generational change matters as well. Younger Americans did not experience the Cold War in the same way their parents and grandparents did. Pew found striking age differences in its 2022 survey. Americans under 30 were roughly as likely to have an exclusively positive view of socialism as an exclusively positive view of capitalism. Older Americans remained considerably more favorable toward capitalism.
The political right has responded by emphasizing the word even more strongly. That makes strategic sense. If progressive Democrats increasingly accept the socialist label—or propose policies Republicans can associate with it—Republicans have an incentive to connect those policies with a word that remains deeply unpopular among conservative and many older voters.
The result is a feedback loop: the left talks more about socialism because the word has become less frightening to some voters, while the right talks more about socialism precisely because it hopes to make the word frightening again.
Is America Already Partly Socialist?
The answer depends almost entirely upon our definition.
Under the traditional definition—collective ownership of the means of production—the United States is overwhelmingly capitalist. Most farms, factories, banks, hospitals, restaurants, stores, technology companies, media companies, and other productive enterprises are privately owned.
But America has never operated as a completely laissez-faire capitalist economy either.
The federal government operates Social Security, for example, which the Social Security Administration itself describes as a social insurance program. Workers and employers contribute through payroll taxes, and benefits provide partial income replacement after retirement, disability, or death. About 96 percent of American jobs are covered.
Medicare and Medicaid place government deeply into health-care financing while most hospitals, physician practices, pharmaceutical manufacturers, and medical suppliers remain private.
The government also insures private bank deposits through the FDIC. Deposits at insured banks are generally protected up to $250,000 per depositor, per bank, per ownership category, backed by the federal government.
Public schools, public universities, highways, libraries, police departments, fire departments, water systems, parks, and numerous municipal utilities provide goods and services collectively rather than through ordinary private markets.
The United States even owns or operates certain enterprises directly. The Postal Service, for example, is an independent establishment within the executive branch that provides a nationwide public service while simultaneously operating in a competitive marketplace.
These arrangements contain elements of collective provision, social insurance, public ownership, or economic regulation, but calling all of them “socialism” creates more confusion than clarity.
A public fire department is not evidence that America has adopted a socialist economic system any more than a privately owned grocery store proves that government has no role in the economy.
America Has a Mixed Economy—and Always Has
Perhaps the greatest problem with the current socialism debate is the assumption that capitalism and socialism exist as two completely separate boxes and that a country must choose one or the other. Modern economies rarely work that way.
The United States relies primarily on private ownership, competition, investment, and markets to produce goods and services. At the same time, Americans have repeatedly decided that certain risks and services should be handled collectively.
Even organized labor introduces an element of collective economic power into a capitalist system, although union membership has declined substantially. In 2025, 10 percent of American wage and salary workers belonged to unions, compared with 20.1 percent in 1983.
The real political disagreement is rarely capitalism versus socialism in their pure theoretical forms. It is about where to draw the line between the market and the community.
Should health insurance operate primarily as a commercial product or a public service? Should housing be left largely to market forces or should government intervene to make it more affordable? Should corporations answer primarily to shareholders, or should workers have greater influence over corporate decisions? How progressive should taxation be? Which industries, if any, should be publicly owned? How much inequality should society tolerate in exchange for the incentives created by private enterprise?
A surprising twist is that some of the loudest recent “socialism” accusations are coming from conservatives — aimed at their own president. Since returning to office, the Trump administration has taken direct equity stakes in Intel, secured a “golden share” in U.S. Steel, arranged profit-sharing with Nvidia and AMD on chip sales to China, imposed sweeping tariffs, and directed the Pentagon to prioritize coal — an unprecedented degree of direct federal involvement in private enterprise for a Republican administration. Commentators across the spectrum — from the Council on Foreign Relations to the Wall Street Journal — have reached for terms like “state capitalism” or “state capitalism with American characteristics,” an explicit echo of the Chinese Communist Party’s own “socialism with Chinese characteristics”. One economist with more than three decades of market-watching called it plainly “the most economically interventionist government of my lifetime”.
Those are legitimate political questions. Calling one side “capitalist” and the other “socialist” obscures more than it explains.
The Word May Matter Less Than the Argument
There is one particularly revealing finding in the polling. Americans do not necessarily treat capitalism and socialism as opposites. Pew found people who expressed favorable opinions of both, suggesting that many Americans interpret capitalism as representing markets and opportunity while interpreting socialism as representing economic security and fairness.
That may tell us something important about the current debate. It appears that Americans want the vitality of capitalism tempered by the compassion of socialism.
The renewed interest in socialism doesn’t indicate that millions of Americans suddenly want the government to seize factories and abolish private enterprise. Instead, it reflects dissatisfaction with how the existing economic system distributes opportunity, security, wealth, and political power.
Conservative warnings about socialism often reflect a genuine concern that expanding government responsibility can gradually reduce economic freedom, increase taxation, and shift decisions from individuals and markets toward political institutions.
Those are fundamentally different concerns—and both become difficult to discuss when the same word means entirely different things to the people using it.
The question is not whether America should become “socialist,” it is what kind of capitalism we want.
That argument has been with us throughout American history. Only the vocabulary has changed.
For an additional discussion of the elements of socialism, see my post Three Shades of Left, published on November 10th 2025.
Image generated by author using ChatGPT.
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