We often hear that American jobs were “lost” to China, Mexico, India, or other countries. The language makes it sound as if those jobs simply disappeared, carried away by forces beyond anyone’s control.

Today, that story is retold as payback: Other countries took our jobs, and tariffs are how we strike back.

It’s a powerful political message because it creates a visible target: foreign governments and foreign companies.

But that framing misses a harder truth. In many cases, the decision to move production was made by U.S. companies themselves, often with the support of investors, trade policies, and consumers who welcomed lower prices.

Over the past several decades, U.S. companies have made deliberate decisions to shift manufacturing and production overseas. Sometimes they built their own facilities abroad. More often, they contracted with foreign companies to make the products Americans buy every day—from electronics and clothing to household goods and auto parts.

They did it for reasons that made business sense: lower labor costs, fewer regulations to protect workers and the environment, established manufacturing hubs, and easier access to materials.

There was also relentless pressure to keep prices low in a highly competitive marketplace.

Many of us, me included, accepted and often benefited from those lower prices. We filled our homes with less expensive goods, many labeled Made in India, Made in Vietnam, Made in Mexico, or Made in China.

Retailers built entire business models around affordability, convenience, and constant availability. Investors rewarded companies that improved margins by reducing production costs.

In other words, this was not just a corporate decision. It became part of a larger economic system that companies, policymakers, investors, and consumers all helped reinforce.

That is why tariffs alone cannot solve the problem.

With the one-year anniversary of Trump’s April 2 “Liberation Day” tariffs approaching, this is a useful moment to ask what those tariffs changed—and what they never could.

They do not automatically rebuild the factories, workforce pipelines, supplier networks, and infrastructure that once supported domestic production. They do not reverse decades of decisions that made overseas production the default choice for many industries.

Instead, tariffs often shift the immediate cost of imported goods to the people standing closest to the cash register: consumers and small businesses.

But as a broad promise to “bring jobs back,” they often ask for a tax policy to solve a structural problem.

The deeper issue is not simply where products are made. It is how we built an economy that rewarded moving production elsewhere in the first place.

That raises harder questions than campaign slogans usually allow:

• What should the government do to rebuild domestic supply chains, infrastructure, and worker training?

• What responsibility should companies bear when they choose short-term savings over long-term economic resilience?

• What responsibility do consumers share when lower prices come with hidden costs to local jobs and community stability?

Those are not easy questions, because changing course may mean paying more for some goods, at least in the short term.

Someone always bears the cost. The question is whether we are honest about who.

That does not mean ignoring unfair trade practices or neglecting industries that matter to national resilience. It does mean recognizing what tariffs can and cannot do.

It also does not mean returning to the industrial economy that the United States once had. That world has been transformed by automation, technology, and global supply chains.

But it is realistic to rebuild key domestic industries, strengthen regional supply networks, and create modern, stable opportunities for workers in manufacturing, infrastructure, clean energy, and advanced logistics.

Getting there requires long-term investment in people, worker training, modern transportation, and environmental protection. It means supporting policies that make domestic production practical, sustainable, and not merely symbolic.

And it may also require something from the rest of us: a willingness to think beyond the lowest price tag.

That is the part we do not talk about enough.

The real question is not who to blame. It is whether we are willing to help build an economy that creates stronger opportunities for American workers, job seekers, and communities.

Related reading

Tariffs Don’t Bring Jobs Back—or Lower Prices
How tariff costs often land on consumers and small businesses while doing little to rebuild domestic industries, July 9, 2025.

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I was playing with the word trust the other night—turning it sideways, pulling it apart, probably overthinking it.

Then it hit me: This isn’t a word problem. It’s a country problem.

Trust isn’t a slogan. It’s what makes a country work. You don’t notice it when it’s there. You feel it when it’s gone.

Elections require trust. Courts require trust. Markets require trust. Streets require trust—drivers trusting each other not to kill them. Families, schools, churches, teams—all of them run on trust.

So here’s the question:
Can anything function without it?

What we’re seeing in this country right now isn’t random chaos. It’s not just politics as usual. It’s something more deliberate.

It’s a strategy:

• Undermine trust in elections. People stop believing outcomes.

• Undermine trust in courts. People stop believing the law.

• Undermine trust in journalism. People stop believing facts.

• Undermine trust in science and expertise. People stop believing what’s known.

Once trust is weakened everywhere, what’s left?

Not shared understanding. Not common ground. Just power.

This didn’t happen by accident. It has been encouraged, amplified, and exploited, most visibly by Donald Trump and those who have chosen power over truth: his advisers, his enablers, his benefactors, and those who continue to support him.

They have learned something dangerous: A country that stops trusting itself becomes easier to control.

We still print “In God We Trust” on our money. But a country can’t function if it’s taught to trust nothing else—not its institutions, not its neighbors, not even itself.

Now we’re being trained not to trust anything at all. Distrust is being weaponized as a path to power.

Our coins still say, E pluribus unum—”out of many, one.”
But if we forget the “many,” the “one” stops being unity and starts becoming control. It means one country, not one leader.

Words don’t have to change to lose their meaning. They just have to be hollowed out. And when shared meaning disappears, trust goes with it.

The U.S. was built on trust; it’s built into the word itself.

So what do we do?

Not blind trust. Not naive trust.

Earned trust. Defended trust:

• We show up, as people did across this country at the No Kings protests.

• We support institutions that still deserve it and challenge those that don’t.

• We support credible journalism and pay attention to reporting that earns our trust.

• We push back on lies, even the small ones.

• We stay engaged, especially when it’s exhausting.

Because once trust is gone, it’s not easily rebuilt.

And without it?

Without trust, there is no us, no U.S.

“More than 8 million people protested against the Trump administration at more than 3,300 No Kings events across the US and in more than a dozen countries on Saturday, according to organizers. It’s the greatest number of protests in a single day in US history.”—The Guardian, March 29, 2026

Turning Concern Into Action

Executive Overreach and Abuse of Power
A ranked guide to organizations resisting authoritarianism and defending democratic norms.

Trump, MAGA, and Right-Wing Resistance
Top organizations taking action against Donald Trump, MAGA politics, and radical right-wing agendas.

Legal Resistance for Justice
A ranked guide to legal groups challenging anti-democratic policies and abuses of power.

🌟 … and music for inspiration and resilience:

Trust, Power, and the Truth We’re Told
Songs about doubt, deception, resistance, and the work of rebuilding trust

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Antisemitism. I don’t get it. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself since my senior year in college, when I served as student government vice president and chaired the student legislature.

I recall one day when I was in my office, the only enclosed office I’ve ever had, with a door and wood-paneled walls. A student legislator came in and shut the door behind her.

Without saying much, she sat down and pretty quickly began crying. I’m sure we had an extended conversation, but mostly I recall her telling me how she had been harassed, ridiculed, and snubbed while growing up because she’s a Jew.

I was aware, somewhat, from history classes of the horrendous persecution of Jews in Europe before and during World War II. And at some point, perhaps that day in my student government office, I became aware of the persecution of Jews in the United States.

And I still don’t get it. I also don’t get discrimination against people because of their race and ethnic background. But I’ve seen racial discrimination and learned about it in college classes, news reports, and other reading, and from friends and acquaintances, and from novels and movies and TV shows, and from my own political involvement.

Admittedly, I’m no expert on any of this. And I haven’t studied antisemitism in-depth despite that unexpected introduction to it 55 years ago. I’m not a religious person, and I approach these issues more from a civic and constitutional perspective than a theological one.

So I’ve been aghast when I’ve been told that antisemitism is based partly on the claim that Jews killed Jesus. Huh? That matters? All these many centuries later?

Historians note that the Roman government executed Jesus, yet the accusation against Jews persisted for centuries in parts of Christian teaching. It fueled prejudice and still influences the way some people think about Jews today.

Other stereotypes, such as the long-standing myth that Jews control finance or banking, have also fueled prejudice over the years.

As a former journalist and government communications officer—and as a continuing news junkie and political activist—I believe the First Amendment protects one of our most significant civil rights: freedom of expression.

That freedom encompasses a lot, of course: the freedom of the news media to report and comment on our government (and other matters), the freedom of speech for people to speak out on our government (and other matters), the freedom to join with organizations to speak out nonviolently, and the freedom to lobby our government. All rights built into our constitution.

But it also includes the freedom of religion: the right of people to believe and follow whatever religious traditions and practices they choose or have learned from their families, friends, and personal studies. Again, a constitutional right of expression.

But those freedoms and others also guarantee at least two other things:

• First, the government’s responsibility (through our elected and appointed leaders and representatives) to prevent itself from diminishing those rights, and

• Second, the government’s responsibility to actively protect those rights, without infringing on our other civil rights.

I write that in this article about religious discrimination because I not only oppose the U.S. government infringing on the rights of all people in their religious beliefs and practices, but I also oppose the government dictating and enforcing religious beliefs and practices.

I am thankful I live in a country that was founded on guaranteeing those rights, that our country’s founders valued those rights. They are rights that are essential to our democracy—and all democracies, I believe.

I pity countries that don’t recognize or respect freedom of religion within their boundaries, that encourage and allow, if not require, that only certain religious beliefs be practiced by their citizens and residents. I pity the people of those countries.

That said, I don’t believe it’s a right or responsibility of the U.S. to enforce its freedom of religion around the world, even as its citizens evangelize for particular religions in other countries. But I also don’t believe the U.S. must respect or accept or—most certainly—participate in religious persecution in other countries.

And I don’t believe the U.S. should support or oppose other governments based on religion. Our decisions should be based on how those governments act, especially how they treat people.

The long history of persecution against Jews—including centuries of discrimination in Europe and the Holocaust—helps explain why many people see Israel as a necessary refuge and homeland for the Jewish people.

But criticizing the policies of a government is not discrimination against a religion or a people. Governments make decisions; religions express beliefs. Those are not the same thing.

That distinction matters. Tolerance does not require accepting intolerance. A free society depends on protecting people’s rights, including religious freedom, while rejecting efforts to harass, exclude, or harm others because of who they are.

To me, criticism of a government’s actions is not antisemitism when it focuses on policy rather than targeting people because of their religion.

Prejudice rarely survives because it makes sense. It survives because myths and fears are repeated for generations.

And tragically, people don’t always survive the consequences.

Related resources

🟥 Confronting Hate, Extremism, and Authoritarianism

A ranked guide to organizations working to expose, resist, and prevent movements that threaten civil rights, human dignity, and democratic norms.

🟥 Freedom of Religion & Belief

A ranked guide to advocacy groups defending religious liberty and the separation of church and state—both through civic action and faith-based leadership.

🔤 Garbl’s Inclusive Language Guide

Writing that respects people and makes meaning clear.

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I wrote this last June. I wish it felt dated.

It doesn’t.

These men reach for war not out of strength but out of ego. And they send others to kill and die in their place.

If that line lands with you, the rest is worth your time.

What Cowards Call Strength: War, Power, and Ego

When dominance masquerades …

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President Trump has repeatedly invoked the idea of a “national emergency” to justify sweeping executive actions.

But the phrase raises a simple constitutional question: What authority does a president gain by declaring one?

The answer may surprise many Americans. The U.S. Constitution never mentions a “national emergency.” It also doesn’t grant presidents sweeping emergency powers.

The Constitution was written to prevent one person from claiming unlimited power during a crisis. The founders had just fought a revolution against a king who exercised emergency powers whenever he wished. So they deliberately scattered authority across branches of government.

The founders feared emergency power

The framers knew the president might use emergencies to justify extraordinary authority.

James Madison warned:

“The means of defense against foreign danger have always been the instruments of tyranny at home.”

Fear and urgency make it easier for citizens to surrender power. The founders’ solution was not to empower a single leader but to require debate and shared responsibility.

Emergency power belongs mainly to Congress

The framers assumed crises would happen: war, rebellion, invasion. But they assigned most decisive powers to Congress, not the president.

Congress has the authority to declare war, raise and fund the military, and regulate militias. It also controls federal spending.

One clause is especially revealing. The Constitution allows suspension of the writ of habeas corpus only “in Cases of Rebellion or Invasion” when public safety requires it. Habeas corpus is the legal protection that prevents the government from imprisoning people without showing a lawful reason before a judge.

That provision appears in Article I, Section 8, describing congressional powers. That placement was not accidental. The framers expected emergency decisions to go through Congress.

The president’s main constitutional role in a crisis is narrower: commander in chief of the armed forces once they’re authorized and funded by Congress.

If everything is an emergency, nothing is

There is also a language problem here. If everything becomes an “emergency,” the word begins to lose its meaning. If every policy dispute or political priority is labeled a national emergency, what do we do when a genuine emergency arises?

Clear language matters in public life. When leaders exaggerate or stretch words beyond their meaning, they risk confusing the public. And the inflated rhetoric pushes government toward haste and concentration of power.

‘National emergency’ is a modern creation

Most modern emergency powers come from laws passed by Congress during the 20th century. A revealing moment came in the early 1970s when Congress investigated presidential emergency powers.

Lawmakers discovered that the United States had technically been operating under several national emergencies for decades. Some date back to the Great Depression.

Because those declarations had never been formally ended, hundreds of extraordinary statutory powers remained available to the president long after the original crises had passed.

Alarmed by what one Senate investigation described as a “permanent state of emergency,” Congress passed the National Emergencies Act of 1976 to impose clearer limits and oversight.

That law allows presidents to declare emergencies and activate dozens of powers already written into federal law.

In other words, these powers come from legislation, not directly from the Constitution.

But laws are only part of the story. The Supreme Court has also played a significant role in defining how far presidential emergency powers can reach.

The courts have limited presidential power, but …

During the Korean War, for example, President Harry Truman ordered the federal government to seize the nation’s steel mills to prevent a strike that he feared would disrupt military production.

In Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. v. Sawyer (1952), the court ruled against him. The president could not take private property without authorization from Congress—even in wartime. The decision made clear that emergencies do not automatically create new presidential powers.

See the Sidebar below: Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. via Sawyer.

But over time, the court has also allowed broad presidential authority when Congress has delegated it.

For example, courts have generally upheld presidents’ use of emergency statutes to impose economic sanctions, redirect federal funds, or restrict trade during declared national emergencies.

Critics say this trend has gradually expanded presidential power. In their view, it goes beyond what the framers intended.

Supreme Court rulings are not permanent truths

Supreme Court decisions are interpretations of the Constitution, not the Constitution itself.

The Court has reversed itself many times. For example, it overturned Plessy v. Ferguson (1896) when it decided Brown v. Board of Education (1954). Plessy had allowed racial segregation under the doctrine of “separate but equal,” but Brown ruled that segregation in public schools was unconstitutional.

More recently, the Court overturned Roe v. Wade (1973), which had recognized a constitutional right to abortion, in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization (2022).

The bottom line is simple

A president doesn’t gain constitutional authority simply by declaring a “national emergency.” If the Supreme Court says otherwise, that interpretation deserves to be challenged—just as past court mistakes have been challenged and overturned.

In a democracy, citizens and their representatives have every right to question interpretations that move us away from the unintended concentration of power.

That vigilance is one of the Constitution’s most important safeguards.

Sidebar: Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. v. Sawyer (1952)

During the Korean War, President Harry Truman ordered the federal government to seize the nation’s steel mills to prevent a strike. He feared it would disrupt military production.

In Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. v. Sawyer (1952), the court ruled that Truman lacked that authority. Even wartime, the justices said, does not automatically create new presidential powers.

In his concurring opinion, Justice Robert H. Jackson wrote: “Emergency powers would tend to kindle emergencies.”

That line is famous because it captures a simple truth: If leaders gain more power during emergencies, they have an incentive to keep declaring emergencies.

Jackson made an even broader point in the same opinion. He warned that if courts allow presidents to expand power during crises, the Constitution could gradually be reshaped by those precedents.

Another passage from the opinion puts it this way:

“With all its defects, delays and inconveniences, men have discovered no technique for long preserving free government except that the Executive be under the law.”

In other words, Jackson was defending the principle that even in emergencies, the president is still bound by law and by the constitutional structure of shared power.

Jackson warned that emergency claims can easily turn into permanent power if courts aren’t careful.

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When I was in eighth grade, I became fascinated with one of America’s most energetic presidents, Theodore Roosevelt.

It was a turbulent time in American politics, in 1963-64, as I recall. My father, a union member and committed Democrat, sat me down one day to explain why government had to stand up to concentrated economic power.

At about the same time, the previous owner of our house had left several books by Roosevelt. Already interested in U.S. history, I began reading them. I learned, among other things, about “trustbusting,” Roosevelt’s campaign against the country’s most powerful monopolies.

I had no idea that those books would influence how I think about the economy and democracy decades later.

A progressive Republican, Roosevelt was not hostile to business. He believed large corporations could do important things and spoke of distinguishing between “good trusts and bad trusts.” But he also believed that too much economic power in one place could threaten competition and democracy.

During his presidency, Roosevelt’s administration brought more than 40 antitrust cases, including a landmark effort to break up the powerful Northern Securities railroad trust.

Roosevelt argued that capitalism could remain healthy only if no single company dominated an industry.

As he told Congress in 1902, “Great corporations exist only because they are created and safeguarded by our institutions; and it is therefore our right and our duty to see that they work in harmony with those institutions.”

Regulating monopolies isn’t anti-capitalism. It protects the competition that capitalism depends on. And that benefits consumers, workers, businesses, and the economy.

For much of the 20th century, the concern about concentrated economic power remained part of American policy. Antitrust laws were used to challenge monopolies and limit mergers that threatened competition.

Competition matters not simply because it creates more businesses. It also matters because of what it produces for the public.

Economists have long observed that competitive markets tend to produce practical benefits:

• Prices stay lower. Companies must compete for customers rather than charge what the market will bear. That’s why airline fares dropped when low-cost carriers entered the market, and why generic drugs dramatically reduce prescription costs once patents expire.

• Companies work harder to improve their products. Businesses constantly look for better products and services to win customers. From smartphones to electric vehicles to streaming services, innovation often comes from companies trying to outdo one another.

• Consumers gain real choices. Shoppers have real alternatives rather than standardized options. Not just more stores selling the same thing but offering different approaches, products, and ideas.

• Service improves. Businesses must treat customers well when they can go elsewhere. Competition pushes companies to provide better customer service, better reliability, and better value.

• Businesses have a chance to start and grow. Competitive markets leave room for new ideas and new companies. When several companies dominate an industry, it becomes much harder for small firms and startups to enter.

• Workers have more job options. When several employers compete for employees, wages and working conditions tend to improve. When only a few companies control an industry, workers have fewer choices.

• Communities have a stronger voice. Local businesses often respond more directly to community concerns about environmental protection, public spaces, and quality of life.

Over the past four decades, however, the nation’s approach to corporate concentration has changed. Beginning in the 1980s, policymakers started treating large mergers as efficient and even desirable, approving mergers if consumer prices did not quickly rise.

As a result, industries became more concentrated. And independent businesses disappeared:

• Locally owned pharmacies have declined as large chains and pharmacy benefit managers dominate prescription distribution. Likewise, national chains have replaced neighborhood groceries.

• Large media chains have closed or absorbed thousands of community newspapers. That has left smaller staffs, reduced local coverage, and advertising revenue redirected away from those communities.

• Film production, distribution, and theaters that once showed independent movies are increasingly controlled by a handful of corporate entertainment firms.

• Private equity investors have bought hospitals, nursing homes, and physician practices—often cutting staffing and services to boost profits.

In recent decades, the idea that competition required protection faded from public debate. Fewer corporations now dominate markets that once supported dozens of competitors.

When did we decide that concentrated economic power was efficient instead of dangerous?

Efforts to regulate monopolies are criticized as anti-business. In reality, they protect the competition that makes markets work.

When only a few companies dominate an industry, prices rise, innovation slows, and smaller competitors disappear. Competition—not concentration—is what keeps markets dynamic.

Freedom in a democracy is not only freedom from government power. It is also the freedom of people to act—to start businesses, publish newspapers, compete in markets, and take part in civic life.

When economic power becomes too concentrated, those opportunities shrink.

Roosevelt worried that concentrated economic power could threaten democracy. As he warned in 1910:

“The absence of effective State, and especially national, restraint upon unfair money-getting has tended to create a small class of enormously wealthy and economically powerful men.”

More than a century later, it may be time to ask again a question that once guided American policy:

How much economic concentration is healthy for a democracy?

Related Reading at Plainly, Garbl

The Wrecking of the Republic: When Profit Trumps the Constitution
How corporate power and the Supreme Court are rewriting democracy

Congress Has the Power to Regulate Industry and the Duty to Do It
The Constitution is clear: Congress must regulate industry for the public good. Tell them to do their job before it’s too late.

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The United States and Israel have now launched military action against Iran. As of this writing, Congress has not declared war. Americans are again watching events unfold in real time, with consequences that are anything but theoretical.

When a president initiates military action without clear congressional authorization, it raises serious constitutional concerns—regardless of party.

I wrote the piece below in 2010, during the long wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I reposted it last year because I believed its message still applied. I wish I did not feel compelled to spotlight it again today.

My argument then was simple: War does not solve root problems. It spills blood, expands suffering, and often leaves the original cause untouched. Treating violence as a solution is like putting a bucket under an overflowing sink instead of turning off the faucet.

Sixteen years later, the question remains the same. Will we deal with causes—or manage consequences?

The essay below is unchanged.

War = Deadly Child’s Play

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After President Trump’s State of the Union address Tuesday night, I found myself thinking about my own years inside government.

In 2025, Trump—often alongside Elon Musk—moved aggressively to dismantle or discredit federal agencies and public institutions, arguing that government is bloated, ineffective, or unnecessary. I disagree with much of what I’ve heard, not out of reflex or partisanship but from experience.

Fifteen years ago today, I retired after more than three decades working in local government communications. Before that, I worked as a newspaper reporter, photographer, and editor, covering local government from the outside.

I made an intentional decision to move from reporting on government to working within it.

As a journalist, I tried to help readers understand how their schools and cities worked. Later, inside government, I worked in communications for public transit and wastewater treatment—first for the former Municipality of Metropolitan Seattle, then for King County after a merger. My roles included news media relations, employee communications, publications editing, speechwriting, website management, and eventually leading service information for Metro Transit.

Some of the work was routine. Some was technical. Some was highly visible. None of it was glamorous. But it mattered.

From the outside, I learned to be skeptical, as journalists should be. From the inside, I learned something equally important: Most of the people working in government are trying to do their jobs well.

They are planners, engineers, mechanics, operators, accountants, customer-service representatives, environmental scientists, communications staff, and many others. They show up every day to keep buses running, treat wastewater, manage budgets, maintain infrastructure, respond to public records requests, and answer questions from confused or frustrated residents.

Is every public employee outstanding? Of course not. Government is made up of human beings. Imperfection exists in every profession.

But after years inside the system, I can say this with confidence: The sweeping claims that government workers are lazy, incompetent, or unnecessary are simply wrong.

They reflect misunderstanding at best and deliberate misrepresentation at worst.

One of the most sobering changes I saw over the years was not inside government but in journalism.

When I first worked in media relations in the early 1980s, multiple daily newspapers and radio stations had beat reporters who regularly covered Metro and King County. They understood the agencies. They followed the budgets. They knew the players. They asked informed questions.

When I returned to media relations years later, the landscape had changed. There were fewer newspapers. Fewer reporters. Less sustained coverage of how government runs. Stories focused more on controversy and conflict and less on process, planning, and decision-making.

That shift has consequences.

When people mostly hear about government in moments of crisis or dispute, they lose sight of the thousands of daily tasks that quietly serve the public. They don’t see the steady work needed to maintain systems that most of us depend on without thinking about them.

Public trust erodes in that vacuum.

I do not romanticize government. I worked long enough to know it can be bureaucratic, slow, and frustrating. I also saw how political agendas shape narratives about public institutions.

But I also saw dedicated public servants collaborating across departments, solving practical problems, and producing publications and websites that helped residents understand what their government was doing and how to engage with it.

As I approached retirement, a colleague summarized my career this way: You helped people learn about, understand, influence, and use their government services.

That description still feels right.

Journalism and government communication serve different roles—and should. When each is done responsibly, both help the public understand how decisions are made, how systems function, and how citizens can engage with them.

Democracy depends not only on elections and political debate but also on competent administration and informed citizens.

Local government is where that becomes tangible. It is where buses run or don’t run. Where wastewater is treated or pollutes waterways. Where public records are provided or withheld. Where budgets are balanced or mismanaged. Where public information is clear or confusing.

It is not abstract.

After seeing government from both sides of the press desk, I am still what I once called a realistic optimist. Institutions are imperfect because people are imperfect. But they can work—and often do—when staffed and led by people who take their responsibilities seriously.

Public service is not the enemy of a free society. It is one of the ways a free society organizes itself to function.

If we want a government that works well, we should demand accountability and recognize competence, integrity, and the public needs government is meant to meet.

That is what I learned.

And that is why public service still matters.

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We often think of the American Founders as either stainless heroes or complete hypocrites. The truth, as historian Walter Isaacson argues, is more complicated. They were enlightened enough to dream of a world where everyone was equal but not courageous enough to build it.

Today, the second sentence in the Declaration of Independence remains both our greatest pride and our loudest wake-up call. I was reminded of that power while reading Isaacson’s concise, 41-page study, The Greatest Sentence Ever Written.

He writes about this famous sentence:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

Drafted by Thomas Jefferson and edited by Benjamin Franklin and John Adams, it became the moral creed that bound a diverse group of colonies into one nation. For people with many different beliefs and backgrounds, it defined our common ground and the American Dream.

Many of us know that sentence by heart, but we may not fully appreciate its profound wisdom. For the 250^th birthday of the Declaration that founded the United States, Isaacson analyzes and celebrates, word by word, how that sentence was crafted, what it truly means, and how we can honor, in these troubled times, its underlying values.

To aid my understanding, I studied each short chapter, wondering how to summarize the essence of each word or phrase into one clear sentence:

We
“We” shifts authority from rulers to the people themselves, grounding the argument for independence in collective moral judgment rather than inherited power.

Self-evident truths
By calling the principles “self-evident,” Jefferson frames them as conclusions any rational person can recognize, not ideas that need approval from church or king.

All men
Though limited in practice in 1776, the sweeping phrasing sets a standard that applies to everyone, everywhere, always—one that future generations can and must expand.

Created equal
Equality is presented as a starting condition of human existence, not a reward for status, wealth, race, or virtue.

Endowed by their Creator
Rights are anchored above government authority—grounded in nature or a higher power without naming a specific faith—so no earthly power can claim ownership over them.

Certain unalienable Rights
These rights are inherent and can’t be taken away or surrendered, which makes tyranny not simply wrong but also illegitimate.

Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness
That trio defines human flourishing as existence, freedom, and the ability to seek meaning and fulfillment without state interference.

Isaacson then applies the two ideals at the heart of the Declaration: common ground and the pursuit of the American Dream.

Common ground
The sentence succeeds because it speaks in language broad enough to unite people with different beliefs around shared principles.

The American Dream
Over time, the sentence becomes both a goal we’re still trying to reach and a measuring stick, defining the national promise while exposing the nation’s failures to live up to it.

And he concludes by turning reflection into responsibility.

Going forward
The enduring power of the sentence lies in its demand that each generation reinterpret and expand its promise, using its universal language not as nostalgia but as a mandate for continued moral progress.

But thinking back, I recall learning about our country’s founders during the U.S. history classes I loved in grade school, junior high, and high school. And of the three authors of the Declaration, Jefferson continues to pop up in other books and articles I read. After reading this book, I want to learn more about Franklin, who appears in my memory mostly as an eccentric publisher and inventor.

I was impressed by how enlightened all three founders were, in differing ways, in turning lofty ideas into functional goals (as with “all men” and “created equal”). They were influenced by Enlightenment thinkers such as John Locke and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, names we often recognize from history books but rarely connect to everyday civic life.

That said, I wondered: Were the founders truly enlightened about “all men” and “created equal”? Or is Isaacson putting an optimistic face on reality in 1776 that was not inclusive?

The short answer: They had visionary ideas but lived old-fashioned lives. And Isaacson leans toward generosity in interpretation, though not naïveté.

First, their ideas were genuinely radical.
When Jefferson wrote “all men are created equal,” he was drawing from philosophers who argued that political authority rests on natural rights, not monarchy or bloodline. In 1776, that idea challenged the right of kings to rule.

Second, they knew the words were bigger than their world.
Jefferson owned enslaved people. Adams did not. Franklin evolved and became an abolitionist. But none of them proposed immediate universal equality in 1776. The phrase was a principle, not a practical, everyday rule.

Third, “all men” was not accidental.
In 18th-century political language, “men” often meant “humankind,” but socially it absolutely excluded women, enslaved people, Native Americans, and non-property holders. That exclusion was real. No sugarcoating it.

So, was Isaacson overly optimistic?

Not exactly, but he emphasizes something important:

The power of the sentence lies in its lack of qualifiers. It doesn’t say “all white men,” “all property-owning men,” or “all Christian men.” Once equality is stated universally, later generations can use it as a tool to fight injustice. And they did.

Frederick Douglass invoked it, Abraham Lincoln treated it as the moral core of the Union, Elizabeth Cady Stanton echoed it at Seneca Falls, and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. called it a promissory note—a check that hasn’t been cashed yet.

That’s not Isaacson spinning history. That’s historical fact: The sentence became a moral standard used against the nation’s own hypocrisy.

Here’s the honest bottom line:

Were the founders personally inclusive by modern standards?
No.

Did they write a principle that undermined the exclusions they tolerated?
Yes.

That tension is the story of America.

The founders were enlightened enough to articulate a universal principle.
They were not courageous or unified enough to apply it universally.

And that’s why the sentence still matters. It doesn’t let anyone off the hook. Not them. Not us.

In an era when equality, rights, and citizenship are debated daily, the sentence still asks a simple question: Who counts?

Final thought

The authors of the Declaration did not live up to their own standard, but they wrote a standard that future generations could use to demand better.

And here’s the forward-looking part, the part that matters: The real test isn’t whether they were perfect in 1776. It’s whether we are brave enough to widen the circle in 2026.

That work doesn’t belong to the founders anymore. It belongs to us.

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If it looks like terror, if it functions like terror, and if it reshapes daily behavior through fear …

Then it is not wrong for the people experiencing it—or witnessing it—to call it what it feels like: Terror.

Families who stop letting children walk to school alone.
Workers who avoid hospitals and courts.
Neighbors who don’t report crimes.
Communities that whisper instead of speak.

Fear does not require explosives to be real. It only requires power, unpredictability, and the credible threat of loss.

That lived reality is why comparisons between domestic terrorism and the actions of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) keep surfacing—especially from people who have watched masked agents carrying weapons get out of unmarked vehicles and take parents away in broad daylight.

When fear becomes routine, semantic debates start to feel beside the point.

And yet, the differences do matter—legally, structurally, and politically.

Domestic terrorists operate outside the law. Their goal is explicit coercion through violence or threat of violence. Fear is not a side effect; it is the goal. Their actions are criminal by definition, and their legitimacy is nil.

ICE agents, by contrast, act under color of law, delegated authority by Congress and the executive branch, and housed within the Department of Homeland Security. Their stated purpose is enforcement and compliance, not terror. Courts exist to oversee them and could restrain them. Legislators could do so, too.

That distinction is real. It is also where the moral tension begins.

Because fear may not be the stated goal of immigration enforcement, but it is often an accepted operational tool:

• Raids are designed to be visible.

• Uncertainty is tolerated.

• Collateral trauma is treated as unavoidable.

Over time, those actions produce something terrorism also produces: behavioral control through fear.

There is another difference worth naming:
Terrorist violence is episodic and spectacular. It shocks, then recedes.
State enforcement, when aggressive and unaccountable, is bureaucratic and continuous. Its power lies not in a single act, but in repetition.

The result is not panic—it is chronic stress. Communities adapt by withdrawing.

So, the distinction ultimately runs like this:

• Domestic terrorists intend terror.

• ICE normalizes it.

Legality explains that difference. It does not erase the harm.

Calling the lived experience of immigration enforcement “terror” is not rhetorical excess. It is descriptive language chosen by people responding rationally to coercive power.

If the state finds that comparison uncomfortable, the answer is not to argue definitions—but to change policies so fear is no longer the organizing principle of enforcement.

Words matter. But what shapes lives matters more.

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We are watching the U.S. federal government drift out of balance in real time, not because it lacks safeguards but because those safeguards are no longer being exercised.

The Constitution’s separation of powers was designed to prevent unilateral control. It assumed ambition would check ambition. What it did not anticipate was broad acquiescence across branches that were designed to restrain one another.

Once you notice that pattern at the national level, it becomes hard not to see it elsewhere.

It’s called groupthink. And groupthink doesn’t require unanimous agreement. It only requires that people with the power, authority, or influence to slow or stop something decide not to.

Looking back now, I observed it as a newspaper reporter covering school districts and city halls in small and mid-sized cities—and later while working in communications for nonprofit and local government agencies in major metropolitan areas. I’ve also seen it as a volunteer and resident in small towns.

The setting changes. The specifics differ. The mission changes. The people involved are often capable, well-meaning, and committed to doing the right thing. But the dynamics repeat.

Questions go unasked. Doubts stay private. Decisions gather momentum without much visible resistance. Silence is read as agreement or consent.

Decisions are shaped not just by who has authority but also by who carries power and influence. And those aren’t always the same people.

A short detour to history (for a reason)

This isn’t a new problem, and we’ve known about it for a long time.

I first encountered this pattern as a student of political science studying organizational administration. In graduate school, I learned about Victims of Groupthink, an influential book published in 1972 by Irving Janis.

He examined how cohesive leadership groups can drift into disastrous decisions when dissent is discouraged. They don’t lack intelligence or good intentions; instead, they value agreement over scrutiny.

Two examples from the Kennedy administration are still taught for a reason:

• The Bay of Pigs Invasion, widely regarded as a failure driven by groupthink, where skepticism was muted, and alternatives were not seriously tested.

• The Cuban Missile Crisis, where lessons from that failure led to deliberate changes in process—structured dissent, competing viewpoints, and slower decision-making.

The difference wasn’t intelligence or access to information. It was whether disagreement was invited or quietly suppressed.

That distinction turns out to matter everywhere. And the theory stuck with me because real life kept confirming it.

Groupthink isn’t loud consensus. It’s quiet reluctance. It’s the unspoken calculation that raising a concern might slow things down, upset the balance, or mark you as not being a team player. Over time, those small calculations add up.

What groupthink looks like in practice

In organizations, groupthink rarely announces itself. It sounds reasonable. Familiar, even.

You hear things like:

• “We don’t want to slow momentum.”

• “This is already pretty well settled.”

• “We can revisit it later.”

• “No one objected.”

• “Let’s stay aligned.”

None of those statements sound unreasonable on their own. That’s the problem.

What’s missing is often more revealing than what’s said: Questions about authority. About process. About long-term implications. About whether a decision is being endorsed or formally authorized.

When those questions go unasked, decisions gain legitimacy simply by moving forward.

Boards, councils, and committees may begin to see their role as supportive rather than supervisory. Oversight becomes something you exercise only when something goes visibly wrong.

By then, it’s usually late.

Authority, power, and influence (the quiet drivers)

This is where the theories I learned long ago still prove useful.

Organizations are shaped not just by authority but also by power and influence:

• Authority comes from position. It’s formal, defined, and written into bylaws, job descriptions, or law.

• Power often comes from personality, confidence, effectiveness, or control of resources. People defer even when they don’t have to.

• Influence flows from expertise, experience, institutional memory, or credibility. It shapes outcomes without issuing orders.

In healthy organizations, these forces are distributed and checked. In unhealthy ones, they concentrate.

Groupthink becomes most dangerous when authority, power, and influence align in the same people—whether they are elected officials, founders, executives, directors, or simply the loudest or most confident voice in the room.

No one needs to say, “Don’t question this.” People figure it out on their own.

Not just a small-town problem

If this sounds familiar locally, it should. If it sounds familiar nationally, it should. The point is that scale doesn’t protect us.

It’s tempting to think of these dynamics as a small-town issue—something that happens where people know each other too well, where social relationships complicate professional roles. But that’s not true.

Groupthink shows up just as reliably in large public and private organizations with formal hierarchies, professional staffs, and thick policy manuals. In fact, it can be harder to see there, hidden behind process, professional language, expertise, and a belief that “someone else must have checked this.”

And, of course, we see it now in the U.S. federal government.

The common thread isn’t size. It’s how power operates inside groups.

Leadership isn’t limited to job titles. It includes elected officials, appointed executives, directors, and people whose voices carry extra weight—sometimes literally, sometimes because of reputation, tenure, or role. When those voices dominate the room, objections can be minimized without anyone explicitly saying, “Don’t object.”

And that affects people in other positions, too. No one has to shut dissent down. Often, it simply withers.

Why capable people go along

Groupthink doesn’t require bad actors. It thrives among people who care.

Trust, loyalty, fatigue, respect for experience, and fear of conflict all play a role. So does the understandable desire to avoid being the lone skeptic in a room full of apparent agreement.

We each may have been in those rooms. Sometimes we noticed the unease and didn’t name it. Sometimes we assumed someone else would. Sometimes, we might have thought the issue wasn’t big enough to justify pushing back.

And sometimes we may have spoken up.

Still, staying silent is not a failure of character. It’s a human response to social pressure.

Structure helps, but it doesn’t save you

Clear bylaws, defined roles, and shared governance can reduce risk. But structure alone doesn’t prevent groupthink.

Long-serving leaders often carry moral authority that extends beyond formal roles. Elected officials and executives may unintentionally discourage dissent simply by the confidence with which they speak. Informal norms can override written rules without anyone consciously deciding to ignore them.

The quiet cost of acquiescence

When boards and oversight bodies consistently defer, small exceptions become precedents. Temporary decisions become ongoing practices. Lines of authority blur, not through conspiracy but through convenience.

Groupthink makes acquiescence feel reasonable.

Eventually, the organization pays a price: strained trust, public confusion, internal resentment, or decisions that no longer reflect the values people thought they were protecting.

By the time conflict surfaces, it often looks sudden. It isn’t.

What healthy oversight actually requires

Healthy organizations don’t end disagreement. They normalize it.

That means making room for skepticism before momentum builds. They separate support for people from scrutiny of decisions. They treat governance questions as neutral and necessary, not oppositional. They value the person who asks, “Can we slow this down?” as much as the person who says, “Let’s move.”

Oversight isn’t obstruction. It’s stewardship.

A closing thought

Groupthink isn’t rare, and it isn’t confined to any one sector or place. It emerges wherever people care deeply about a mission and want to get along while doing good work.

What makes this moment different is scale.

When groupthink takes hold in a club, a nonprofit, a small business, or a city council, the damage is local. When it takes hold across national institutions designed to check one another, the consequences ripple outward—quietly at first and then all at once.

The danger isn’t disagreement. It’s when people with the authority, power, or influence to intervene decide, consciously or not, that silence is safer.

History suggests otherwise.

At moments like this, oversight doesn’t begin with grand gestures. It begins when people who know better are willing to slow things down, ask harder questions, and say clearly and publicly: “Let’s take another look.”

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I get it. The daily outrages are exhausting. They’re meant to be.

Outrage fatigue isn’t a personal failing. It’s a political strategy. When people are overwhelmed, they might disengage. When they disengage, damage accelerates quietly, without resistance.

If you find yourself yelling at your TV these days—angry, upset, frustrated—you’re not alone. But you’re also not doing anything that changes what happens next.

To be blunt: I know that yelling may feel satisfying, but it’s a waste of energy. And, more importantly, it’s a waste of time.

The people causing the damage can’t hear you. The institutions that matter aren’t affected by it. And the only thing it reliably produces is more exhaustion.

By “yelling at the TV,” I don’t just mean that single act. I mean all the ways our frustration gets burned off without being directed—venting, stewing, doomscrolling, or lashing out. They may release emotion, but they don’t change outcomes.

There are things we can do, by ourselves and with others, that can affect what’s happening. They’re quieter than shouting. They’re less satisfying in the moment. But they matter.

Pressure works when it’s directed: toward elected officials, toward institutions, toward narratives that are being normalized, and toward elections that we can influence before campaign ads flood the airwaves.

Trading outrage for action isn’t about going numb. It’s about choosing effectiveness over catharsis.

That’s why I’m uneasy with the idea that the only response to the current madness is “just focus on the 2026 election.” Voting matters enormously. Elections can stop the damage. But they do not prevent it.

Democracies don’t fall apart on Election Day. They erode on ordinary Tuesdays.

The false choice we’re being offered

We’re often presented with a bad choice:

• Option A: Stay informed, stay angry, burn out.

• Option B: Tune out, protect your sanity, wait for the midterms.

That’s a false choice. The real option—the one authoritarians fear—is sustained, ordinary pressure that doesn’t rely on rage or viral moments.

Not screaming. Not doomscrolling. Not waiting politely.

Some readers may recognize this argument. Last year, I wrote that We Must Walk and Chew Gum at the Same Time: Defend democracy now while preparing for the 2026 and 2028 elections. I still believe that. If anything, events since then have made it more obvious, not less.

There’s also a fair concern underneath this debate: Constant attention to political damage can make people anxious, angry, and numb. Stepping back to enjoy life, protect mental health, and reconnect with community isn’t indulgent. It’s necessary.

Stepping back doesn’t have to mean stepping out.

I don’t live in a permanent state of outrage. I write. I take photographs and make music. I volunteer. I spend time with people I love. I share resources in Plainly, Garbl on Activist Resilience & Emotional Support and Conflict Resolution & Community Healing.

Sustainable engagement requires an inner life, not just a political one. Taking care of ourselves is not an alternative to civic responsibility. It’s what makes long-term responsibility possible.

Not everyone has the same capacity at the same moment—and that’s OK. Democracy needs sprinters, walkers, note-takers, and people who keep the lights on.

One reason I started building resources like Plainly, Garbl was to help people do more than yell at their TVs.

Anger is understandable. What’s happening deserves a response. But outrage without direction just drains people. I wanted to help channel that energy into something that matters.

That’s why so much of Plainly, Garbl focuses on advocacy group resources, government tools, and practical ways to engage, not just commentary. The writing is part of the project, but it was never the point by itself.

The point is action.

If my work here does its job, it doesn’t just validate frustration. It moves people toward tools that turn frustration into pressure.

Pressure.

What “pressure” looks like (before the 2026 midterms)

This doesn’t require heroics. It requires consistency.

1. Pressure on institutions
Elected officials notice patterns, not isolated actions.

Calls. Letters. Organized public demonstrations. Public comments. Oversight demands. Support for organizations that file lawsuits, force disclosures, and slow reckless actions. None of this is glamorous. All of it matters.

Silence doesn’t calm chaos. It trains it.

2. Pressure on the narrative
This is where writers, readers, and ordinary citizens still have power.

Correct the record. Call out normalized lies. Share credible reporting. Refuse to let outrageous behavior become background noise.

Memory is a form of resistance.

3. Pressure through early, strategic electoral work
Yes, vote.
But also organize before the campaign season becomes a media circus.

Many of us live in states or districts where our preferred candidates are safe. That doesn’t mean we’re sidelined. It means we’re free to help where the margin is thin.

I recently attended a meeting of the local Indivisible in Port Townsend, Washington. A guest speaker described how his organization coordinates postcard-writing campaigns nationwide and other targeted efforts to support candidates in competitive districts and states.

That’s not symbolic. That’s math.

Midterms aren’t won in October. They’re won when vulnerable incumbents realize early that people are paying attention and that challengers have support.

I’m all in on that work this year. Not someday. Not “after things settle down.” Now.

Why waiting is risky

The idea that we can simply endure the present and fix everything at the ballot box later ignores a hard truth: Unchecked power rarely waits patiently for elections.

The damage done before the midterms will shape what’s possible after 2026—legally, institutionally, and culturally. Pressure now limits how far things can slide.

Voting is the fire extinguisher. Pressure is the fire alarm. We need both, or the building burns before Election Day.

Plainly put

Early action doesn’t require constant worry. In fact, it often reduces it. When people take small, concrete steps—supporting candidates who need help, writing postcards, joining coordinated efforts—they regain a sense of agency. That steadies the mind more than avoidance ever does.

This isn’t about staying angry. It’s about staying engaged without burning out.

I don’t believe we need to choose between enjoying life and defending democracy. We need to do both, imperfectly, sustainably, and together.

Where to put this energy

If you’re looking for ways to turn frustration into pressure, here are a few places to start—whether you want to act locally, nationally, or both:

• Indivisible—Local and national organizing, including calls, postcards, and public demonstrations

• MoveOn—Coordinated campaigns that translate public concern into sustained action

• ACLU—Legal pressure and defense of constitutional rights

• RepresentUs—Structural reform and accountability

• Supporting Liberal, Progressive, Democratic Officeholders & Candidates—A guide at Plainly, Garbl to groups that help strengthen Democratic power and candidates who need it most

Also at Plainly, Garbl, I’ve gathered a Library of Advocacy Resources with other organizations, government guides, and action tools for readers who want to go deeper.

Vote!

Support candidates who need help, even if they’re not in your district.
Apply steady pressure to elected officials, the media, and each other.

Democracy isn’t maintained by hope alone. It’s maintained by people who don’t look away just because the calendar says the election is months off.

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Immigration has become one of the clearest stress tests of American democracy.

When people can be detained without due process, removed without fair hearings, or targeted by executive decree, the issue is no longer just immigration policy. It’s whether the rule of law still applies equally or only when convenient.

That’s why immigration rights matter far beyond the border. They reveal how power is exercised, how rights are protected (or bypassed), and how quickly legal norms can erode when fear and politics take the wheel.

Why this matters right now

Immigration has increasingly been used as a proving ground for authoritarian tactics:

• Expanding executive authority

• Weakening due process protections

• Testing how much the courts, Congress, and the public will tolerate

What happens here rarely stays here. History shows that when legal shortcuts are normalized for one group, they don’t remain isolated for long.

This is where advocacy organizations become essential.

Why advocacy groups matter

Individual outrage, while justified, isn’t enough to counter concentrated government power. Immigration rights advocacy depends on organizations that can:

• Mount constitutional challenges

• Provide legal defense and rapid response

• Document abuses and protect evidence

• Coordinate national strategy while supporting local action

These groups defend process as much as people, and process is the backbone of democracy.

👉 Spotlight: Immigration Rights Advocacy Organizations

This spotlight revisits one of the first advocacy group resources posted at Plainly, Garbl.

🟥 Immigration Rights

The list highlights organizations working on the legal, constitutional, and human-rights front lines of immigration policy.

Together, they focus on due process, humane treatment, asylum protections, family unity, and accountability under U.S. and international law.

Whether your interest is legal defense, policy reform, court challenges, or direct support, this resource offers clear paths for learning, engagement, and action.

How to use this resource

You don’t need to do everything. Start with one step:

• Learn which organizations operate nationally and which work in your state.

• Support legal defense work if you can.

• Share the list with someone who thinks immigration is “just politics.”

Immigration rights aren’t a niche concern. They’re one of the places where democracy either holds or quietly gives way.

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Like many Americans, I hadn’t thought much about Greenland until recently.

Spending several weeks this fall in Canada’s Maritime provinces sharpened my curiosity. They’re surrounded by reminders of how closely geography, history, and security are linked in the North Atlantic. And Greenland continued to show up in the news, especially with renewed talk of U.S. annexation.

That talk makes little sense. To see why, here’s what I’ve learned to help understand who lives in Greenland, how it got to its current political status, and why global attention has suddenly intensified.

Greenland was never empty

Greenland is often described as vast, remote, or sparsely populated—language that subtly suggests vacancy. It never was.

Inuit ancestors of today’s Kalaallit people arrived in Greenland more than 4,000 years ago. Over centuries, they developed cultures adapted to extreme Arctic conditions: sea-ice travel, hunting, navigation, and deep ecological knowledge. Survival depended on cooperation, restraint, and respect for land and sea—values that continue to shape Greenlandic society.

This Indigenous presence is not a historical footnote. It is the foundation of modern Greenland.

European arrival—temporary and incomplete

Around 985 CE, Norse settlers led by Erik the Red established small farming communities in southern Greenland. Those settlements lasted several centuries, then disappeared, likely due to climate cooling, isolation, and failure to adapt.

Inuit societies endured.

That contrast matters. Greenland’s history is not a simple story of European discovery followed by continuous control. It is a much longer Indigenous story, briefly interrupted by European settlement that did not last.

From Danish rule to self-government

Denmark reasserted control over Greenland in the 1700s and eventually governed it as a colony. That relationship changed dramatically in the 20th century.

Key milestones tell the story:

• In 1953, Greenland became part of the Kingdom of Denmark.

• In 1979, it gained Home Rule.

• In 2009, the Self-Government Act transferred authority over nearly all internal affairs—including natural resources—to Greenland.

Today, Greenland governs itself. Denmark remains responsible for defense and foreign policy, and Greenlanders are Danish citizens. At the same time, national identity is overwhelmingly Inuit, and discussions about eventual independence remain active.

This is not colonial stasis. It is decolonization in progress.

The United States and Greenland: cooperation, not control

The U.S. relationship with Greenland grew out of World War II, when the U.S. helped defend the island after Nazi Germany occupied Denmark. During the Cold War, Greenland became strategically important for early warning systems and North Atlantic security.

That cooperation continues today. The U.S. operates Pituffik Space Base under long-standing agreements with Denmark, with Greenland’s involvement. The base supports missile early-warning, space surveillance, and Arctic monitoring.

The distinction matters: The U.S. operates in Greenland not because it owns the territory but because it was invited to do so. Modern security depends on agreements and alliances, not annexation.

A reality check on annexation: why this time is different

Talk of U.S. annexation of Greenland has surfaced occasionally in the past and was often brushed aside as unserious. This time, it is different.

What once sounded like an offhand remark has hardened into something more explicit: a public suggestion framed as leverage or demand. That shift has made the issue urgent, not hypothetical, and has prompted unusually direct responses from Greenlandic leaders, Denmark, and other NATO partners.

Annexation ignores Greenland’s Indigenous population, its self-governing authority, and Denmark’s sovereignty. It also misunderstands how modern security works. The U.S. already has what it needs in Greenland through cooperation, consent, and NATO partnerships.

Why annexation fails and why speaking out matters

Annexation would not simplify anything. It would undermine trust, destabilize alliances, and revive a colonial mindset that treats Indigenous homelands as strategic blank spaces. In the Arctic, where cooperation matters more than force, that approach would weaken U.S. credibility, not strengthen it.

What happens next will depend less on rhetoric from the White House than on response elsewhere. Greenlandic leaders have already rejected annexation outright. Denmark has been unambiguous.

And within NATO, annexation cuts directly against the alliance’s core principles of sovereignty and consent.

In systems built on alliances rather than empires, boundaries are enforced when citizens, elected officials, and partners speak clearly and early. Silence is what turns trial balloons into precedents.

Why the Arctic suddenly matters so much

What has changed is not Greenland. It is the world around it.

Climate change is reshaping the Arctic faster than almost anywhere else on Earth. Sea ice is retreating, making new shipping routes more viable. Russia has expanded its Arctic military footprint. China, calling itself a “near-Arctic state,” is seeking influence through investment and diplomacy.

Greenland sits near critical North Atlantic sea lanes and plays a central role in Arctic monitoring. It is also on the front lines of climate impacts that the rest of the world is only beginning to confront.

That combination—geography, security, and climate—explains the surge of attention. It does not justify reckless ideas about ownership.

The bottom line

Greenland is not a prize to be claimed. It is a homeland, a self-governing society, and a partner in Arctic stability.

The U.S. interest in Greenland is legitimate when it is grounded in respect for Indigenous people, support for self-determination, and cooperation through Denmark and NATO. Annexation talk is not strategy. It is noise, and it distracts from the serious work the Arctic demands.

Whether that distinction holds will depend on whether people inside the U.S., as well as across the alliance, continue to treat boundaries as real rather than abstractions.

Learn more about Greenland

For readers who want to explore Greenland beyond the headlines, these accessible sources offer helpful starting points.

Visit Greenland—Articles on Culture & Society
An official Greenlandic source with accessible articles on history, culture, language, and daily life.

Council on Foreign Relations—Arctic
Plain-language analysis of Greenland’s strategic role and Arctic geopolitics.

The Arctic Institute
Independent analysis focused on Arctic governance, Indigenous perspectives, and international cooperation.

Greenland within the Kingdom of Denmark—Prime Minister’s Office
An official overview of Greenland’s political status and self-governing authority.

Greenland—Wikipedia
A comprehensive overview of Greenland’s history, culture, governance, and global role. Useful as a starting point alongside official and analytical sources.

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When I first saw headlines about the United States seizing a Russian tanker carrying Venezuelan oil, my reaction was blunt and emotional. It felt like another example of Donald Trump acting unilaterally—strong-arming other countries, pushing boundaries, daring the world to stop him. It sounded less like foreign policy and more like an authoritarian impulse.

And I still worry about that.

But after digging into how sanctions work, I remembered that presidents of both parties, including Joe Biden, have relied on sanctions, particularly after Russia invaded Ukraine.

I also realized something uncomfortable: Sanctions themselves are not automatically reckless or evil. In fact, they’ve become one of the most common tools the U.S. uses instead of war.

That doesn’t make them harmless. It makes them complicated.

What sanctions really are

Sanctions are not international law handed down by some neutral referee. They are U.S. law, enforced beyond U.S. borders through economic power. Presidents impose them through executive orders under statutes passed by Congress—often after declaring a national emergency tied to national security, foreign aggression, or human rights abuses.

Once imposed, sanctions can freeze assets, block transactions, punish companies that do business with targeted countries—and, in some cases, seize ships or cargo if they pass through U.S. jurisdiction.

That last part is what makes headlines and raises alarms. What unsettles me is how flexible “U.S. jurisdiction” can become; sometimes tied to clear borders and ports, other times to financial systems or personnel far from home.

Why they’re used instead of war

Sanctions function as a “middle ground” between diplomacy and military force. They’re meant to apply pressure without dropping bombs. History shows presidents of both parties have used them that way—against apartheid-era South Africa, Iran’s nuclear program, and Russia after it invaded Ukraine. Other cases—such as Iraq in the 1990s or Cuba over decades—show how sanctions can punish populations without changing regimes.

The appeal is obvious. Sanctions are cheaper than war, easier to scale, and politically safer at home. They signal seriousness without sending troops.

But they’re not bloodless. They can damage civilian economies, entrench authoritarian leaders, and create resentment that lasts longer than the policy itself.

When sanctions start to look like acts of war

This is where my skepticism kicks in.

When sanctions escalate to seizures, blockades, or aggressive enforcement against third parties, they begin to resemble economic warfare. They may not involve bullets, but they can still provoke retaliation, miscalculation, or escalation, especially when imposed by an already dominant power.

That’s why sanctions can feel like a first step toward conflict, even when sold as a way to prevent one.

Economic power cuts both ways—but not equally

Sanctions are not something only the United States uses. Other countries and blocs impose sanctions on the U.S. or its companies from time to time. The European Union has done so. China does so selectively.

But most countries lack the leverage the U.S. has because they don’t control the world’s primary reserve currency or the dominant global financial system.

That imbalance is why U.S. sanctions tend to bite harder—and why they are often viewed as coercive rather than cooperative. It raises a harder question about their purpose.

When sanctions are used primarily to advance U.S. economic interests or protect favored industries, they blur the line between legitimate security policy and economic overreach. The same imbalance appears with tariffs.

Both tools rely on economic pressure, both raise costs, and both often affect ordinary people more than political leaders, sometimes with consequences that last longer than the policy itself.

I explored a similar dynamic in an earlier commentary on tariffs, another economic tool that often carries unintended consequences.

Where this leaves us

I don’t think sanctions should be dismissed outright. Compared to war, they can be a restraint. Used narrowly, transparently, and in coordination with allies, they may slow down aggression or deter worse outcomes.

But they deserve skepticism, especially when imposed by a president who shows little respect for norms, institutions, or consequences.

For citizens, the takeaway isn’t to cheer or condemn reflexively. It’s to stay alert, ask who benefits, who pays, and what comes next. Sanctions are power exercised at a distance. Like all power, they can prevent harm or create it.

The difference lies not in the tool but in how and why it’s used.

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The Doomsday Clock is now 89 seconds to midnight.

Source: Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists

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The U.S. system of government is often described as complex. At its core, however, its structure rests on a straightforward idea: Power should restrain power.

Three coequal branches—executive, legislative, and judicial—are meant to limit and restrain one another. Not through constant conflict but through mutual respect for boundaries set by the Constitution. The system works not because any one branch is dominant but because none is supposed to be.

That balance depends on restraint:

• Lawmakers willing to use their constitutional powers rather than surrender them.

• Courts willing to enforce limits rather than bend to pressure.

• Executives willing to govern within the law rather than test how far power can be stretched.

And it depends on a shared understanding that the Constitution is not an inconvenience. It is the framework that gives each branch and our government legitimacy.

When that restraint is abandoned, the system does not collapse all at once. It still looks familiar. The structures remain. The language persists. But the balance begins to fail. And the signs become visible to journalists, to institutions, and to citizens paying attention.

What we are witnessing now is not ordinary disagreement or healthy tension among branches of government. It is the erosion of checks and balances by one party and one ideology, acting in concert across all three branches.

Power is no longer checked; it is consolidated. Limits are no longer enforced; they are treated as obstacles rather than obligations.

In moments like this, democratic systems weaken not all at once but through steady distortion. When mutual restraint gives way to loyalty, the system tilts.

Balance is not automatic. It must be respected.

And when it is abandoned, the consequences are not abstract. They are structural.

Events of the past few days underscore how quickly abandoned restraint becomes action.

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The United States has no authority or right to be attacking Venezuela by land, sea, or air.

I support Venezuela in doing whatever it can to defend itself, consistent with international law. I realize it’s a small country with a much smaller military facing a powerful nation. But I don’t want it to roll over and accept what the U.S. bully is doing to it.

In recent statements, Trump has claimed that U.S. forces struck or disabled a coastal loading site connected to drug trafficking inside Venezuela. At the same time, the White House, Pentagon, and CIA have declined to publicly confirm details or provide evidence.

Major news outlets have reported the claim but also note that key facts are still unverified. Congress, the news media, and the public must demand clear legal reasons, evidence, and oversight.

International law: the simple rule, and the narrow exceptions.

I also want the United Nations and other international bodies to condemn the U.S. and Donald Trump for breaking international law by attacking a sovereign country.

The U.N. Charter prohibits member states from using military force against another country’s territory or political independence. There are only two narrow exceptions:

• Self-defense after an armed attack

• Explicit authorization from the U.N. Security Council

Drug trafficking is a serious crime, but by itself it does not qualify as either exception.

There is no public evidence that Venezuela launched an armed attack on the U.S., and the U.N. has not authorized military action. “We don’t like your government” is not a legal exception. Neither is “we want your oil.”

U.S. law: why Congress matters even with a commander in chief

I know the president has the power of commander in chief and other constitutional powers and legislative authority for international relations. But I believe his actions toward Venezuela are an overreach.

The Constitution does not give the president a blank check for a new conflict. It divides war powers on purpose. While the president is the commander in chief (Article II, Section 2), Congress alone has the authority “to declare War” and authorize new hostilities (Article I, Section 8).

The War Powers Resolution requires the president to let Congress know within 48 hours of introducing U.S. forces into hostilities and limits such actions unless Congress explicitly approves them.

If U.S. forces are operating within or against Venezuela, Congress has not yet held a full public debate or vote authorizing that use of force.

War powers precedents

U.S. history offers repeated warnings about unchecked war powers. A few widely recognized examples illustrate the pattern:

• Vietnam War (1960s–1973)—Presidents Lyndon B. Johnson and Richard Nixon:
  Years of escalating military involvement without a formal declaration of war led Congress to pass the War Powers Resolution in 1973. It explicitly reclaimed the constitutional authority of Congress.

• Cambodia bombings (1970–71)—President Richard Nixon:
  The administration secretly bombed Cambodia while denying it publicly. The actions were later exposed through the Pentagon Papers, underscoring the dangers of executive secrecy and the critical role of a free press.

• Kosovo air war (1999)—President Bill Clinton:
  U.S. forces joined NATO airstrikes in the former Yugoslavia without explicit congressional authorization. When members of Congress sued, the courts declined to intervene, reinforcing that war-powers disputes are mainly political, not judicial.

• Iraq War authorization (2002)—President George W. Bush:
  Congress authorized military action based on intelligence claims later shown to be flawed. That revelation led many lawmakers to acknowledge that oversight and evidence-testing failed before the war began. Many citizens protested loudly.

• Libya intervention (2011)—President Barack Obama:
  The administration argued that U.S. military action did not constitute “hostilities” under the War Powers Resolution, a claim widely disputed in Congress, highlighting how easily executive interpretations can stretch legal limits.

The pattern is consistent: Courts rarely step in. Presidents test boundaries. And meaningful limits depend on Congress asserting its authority before conflicts escalate.

The fact that past presidents have pushed or ignored congressional war powers does not make it lawful or acceptable when this president does the same.

Precedents and court reality: why lawsuits are complicated (but politics isn’t)

Of course, I want my U.S. Sens. Patty Murray and Maria Cantwell and U.S. Rep. Emily Randall to also condemn the Trump administration. And I want my state Attorney General Nick Brown to join with others to sue the administration for what it’s doing.

Courts have often been reluctant to referee war-powers disputes between Congress and the president, citing procedural limits. But lawsuits by state attorneys general can still be powerful. Especially when paired with congressional oversight, they can force disclosures, challenge unlawful spending, and increase political and legal pressure.

Comparison: ‘Venezuela vs. U.S.’ and ‘Ukraine vs. Russia’

The legal and moral principle is the same whether the aggressor is Russia or the U.S.: Powerful nations do not get to use force against sovereign countries without lawful justification. Different excuses do not change the underlying rule.

If we reject Russia’s invasion of Ukraine because it violates sovereignty and international law, we must apply the same standard to ourselves.

Venezuela has the same sovereignty protections as any U.N. member and a right to self-defense consistent with the U.N. Charter. The priority should be preventing escalation and protecting civilians.

Summary of talking points

• If the U.S. is striking inside Venezuela, the administration must show a lawful basis under both U.S. law and the U.N. Charter.

• Drug trafficking is a crime. It’s not a standing permission slip to use military force on another country’s territory.

• Congress is not a spectator. War Powers limitations exist precisely to prevent unilateral, open-ended conflicts.

• Courts often won’t settle this. That makes congressional votes, oversight, and funding limits even more important.

• If the facts are classified, the legal logic can’t be. A democracy can’t run a mystery war.

What to demand from Congress

Ask our senators and representatives to:

• Demand a formal War Powers vote on any U.S. hostilities within or against Venezuela.

• Require the administration to publicly show the legal authority it claims for these actions.

• Hold oversight hearings to examine evidence, targeting decisions, and risks of escalation.

• Block funding for military action against Venezuela unless Congress explicitly authorizes it.

What to demand internationally

• Call for U.N. debate and formal scrutiny of the legality of cross-border force claims. Enforcement is hard; veto politics is real. But it’s still worth pushing for the record and pressure.

• Encourage regional bodies, such as the Organization of American States, to press for de-escalation.

Resources for taking action

🏛️ Contact Information: Washington’s U.S. Senators & Representatives

🧰 Suggested Text for Writing Email Messages to Elected Officials

🧰 Online Guides for Writing Letters to the Editor

🧰 Tools for Action: Events, Rallies & Organizing Platforms

🌍 International & Regional Bodies

• United Nations

• U.N. Human Rights Council

• Organization of American States (OAS)

• Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (IACHR)

🟪 Peace, Defense Spending & Nuclear Arms Control—A ranked guide to advocacy groups fighting nuclear weapons, bloated budgets, and endless wars.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about the current debate in Congress over Affordable Care Act subsidies: why Democrats want to extend and expand them, and why most Republicans don’t. On the surface, the argument is about subsidies themselves. But the more I thought about it, the more the debate felt oddly narrow.

Subsidies don’t exist in a vacuum. They rise because premiums rise. And premiums rise because health care costs keep climbing.

I’m not a health economist. I’m a longtime writer, former journalist, activist, and citizen who’s been watching health care debates play out for decades, often with more heat than clarity. So I started by stepping back and asking what I thought I already understood and whether that understanding really held up.

A few assumptions stood out:

• That private insurance companies often add cost rather than reduce it

• That publicly financed systems in other countries manage to cover everyone at a lower overall cost

• That standardized billing and predictable payment rates, like those used in Medicare and other public systems, are not radical ideas but established ones

Those assumptions mostly held up. But looking at them more closely also helped clarify something important: ACA subsidies aren’t driving rising health care costs. They’re responding to them.

In other words, ACA subsidies are growing because private health care costs keep rising. And they keep rising because no one with real pricing power is allowed to control them. Subsidies don’t cause the problem; they compensate for it.

At bottom, the goal of health care financing shouldn’t be complicated. People should be able to get the care they need, when they need it, without fear of financial ruin. Cost control matters—not to protect profits or ideology but to make that basic promise sustainable and fair for everyone who pays into the system.

With that goal in mind, it’s worth asking a more fundamental question: What’s actually driving health care costs higher—and why subsidies have become such a political flashpoint?

It’s mostly prices, not use

Health policy researchers have long noted that Americans do not use significantly more health care than people in other wealthy countries. But what we do pay is far higher—for the same hospital stays, procedures, tests, and drugs—compared with other wealthy countries.

Prices in the U.S. are higher because they are negotiated mainly behind closed doors between private insurers and increasingly consolidated hospital systems. In many regions, hospital systems have little real competition, which gives them enormous pricing power.

That’s not a free market working well. It’s a market failing.

Administrative complexity adds real costs

The ACA expanded coverage, but it did not simplify the system. We still rely on the “pre-existing conditions” of multiple private insurers, each with its own rules, networks, billing codes, and approval processes.

Studies consistently show that hospitals and doctors must maintain large administrative staffs just to navigate this complexity. Those costs don’t disappear. They are passed along in higher charges, higher premiums, and higher out-of-pocket costs.

Profits are extracted at many points

It’s not just insurance companies. Over the past two decades, private equity and corporate ownership have expanded into hospitals, physician practices, emergency medicine, nursing homes, and specialty care.

These entities are often under pressure to generate returns, which can mean higher prices, aggressive billing, and less tolerance for unprofitable services. Again, those costs don’t vanish; they show up in premiums.

Inflation matters, but it’s not the main story

General inflation and rising labor costs have played a role, especially since the pandemic. But health care costs were rising faster than inflation long before COVID. Inflation may accelerate the trend, but it didn’t start it.

What about government involvement?

This is where the argument often flips backward—and where the facts may surprise some people and annoy critics.

As Medicare’s experience shows, when the government sets prices, cost growth has been slower, administrative costs are lower, and providers still function. Where government is barred from setting prices, as in much of the private insurance market and prescription drug pricing until recently, costs have risen faster.

In other words, the absence of public price-setting has contributed to higher costs, not restrained them.

Why subsidies still matter

Given all this, allowing ACA subsidies to expire would not “fix” health care costs. It would simply shift those costs onto individuals and families — through higher premiums, higher deductibles, medical debt, or loss of coverage altogether.

Subsidies are a stopgap. They make a flawed system survivable for millions of people. Ending them without addressing the underlying cost drivers would make the system harsher, not more efficient.

What’s striking isn’t simply that many Republicans oppose the Affordable Care Act today. It’s that they oppose a system they once promoted, including in Massachusetts under Gov. Mitt Romney. The ACA was a compromise built around private insurance companies, individual mandates, and market-based exchanges — rather than a publicly financed and managed system.

Opposition hardened only after a Democratic president proposed and enacted the law, underscoring how political identity, not policy design, often drives the debate.

The larger lesson

The ongoing subsidy debate highlights a deeper reality: As long as the U.S. relies on a fragmented, profit-driven insurance system to finance basic health care, public dollars will be needed to offset its failures.

That doesn’t make subsidies wasteful. It makes them necessary—until we confront the structure that makes them necessary in the first place.

Does opposition to subsidies reflect concern about cost control—or opposition to any meaningful public role in making health care affordable at all?

If you want to go deeper

If this issue matters to you, here are advocacy resources at Plainly, Garbl that help explain health care policy and offer ways to engage constructively:

Health & Care

• Health Care Access & Public Health

• Mental Health Services & Crisis Care

• Social Security, Medicare & Medicaid

Economic Security

• Economic Equity & Stability

• Social Safety Net & Economic Security

Take Action

• Contact Information: Washington’s U.S. Senators & Representatives

• Contacting Washington State Officials & Key Departments

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