Blame it on Rio

There’s a moment in every democracy when the fringe stops being the fringe. It’s not when an extremist gains followers online, or when their rhetoric briefly trends on social media. It happens when institutions that once stood as gatekeepers begin to open the door. That’s why the growing embrace of Nick Fuentes by groups like the Heritage Foundation isn’t just a warning light—it’s a klaxon.

Fuentes is not coy about his worldview. He has praised authoritarianism, advanced a self-described “Christian nationalist” vision for America, and repeatedly promoted white nationalist ideas. He has denied or minimized the Holocaust, praised segregation, and openly admired Adolf Hitler—infamously claiming that Hitler was “cool” and insisting the regime “wasn’t that bad” compared to modern America (sources: Southern Poverty Law Center; ADL; Fuentes livestream archives). He has positioned LGBTQ+ Americans as enemies of the nation and called for the eradication of what he considers “degenerate” culture.

For years, these positions were dismissed as the rantings of someone sealed inside the darker corners of the internet. But something has shifted. When a major policy institution like the Heritage Foundation—long considered a pillar of mainstream conservatism—begins to entertain, wink at, or amplify the themes that animate Fuentes’s movement, the line between conservatism and extremism doesn’t blur. It moves.

This isn’t about partisan identity. Republicans and Democrats alike should care when a political ecosystem starts warming to ideas once recognized as dangerous. The American right has always had its ideological range—from libertarians to evangelicals to national security conservatives—but it has also had boundaries. Those boundaries are now eroding.

The danger isn’t that Fuentes himself becomes a figure of mass appeal. The danger is that his ideas—anti-gay, authoritarian, ethno-nationalist, historically revisionist—start to seep into the bloodstream of institutions with real influence on policy and culture. That’s how extremism becomes normalized: not with a bang, but with an invitation.

Democracies don’t collapse because a single extremist rises. They collapse when ordinary people stop recognizing extremism for what it is.

There’s a moment in every democracy when the fringe stops being the fringe. It’s not when an extremist gains followers online, or when their rhetoric briefly trends on social media. It happens when institutions that once stood as gatekeepers begin to open the door. That’s why the growing embrace of Nick Fuentes by groups like the Heritage Foundation isn’t just a warning light—it’s a klaxon.

Fuentes is not coy about his worldview. He has praised authoritarianism, advanced a self-described “Christian nationalist” vision for America, and repeatedly promoted white nationalist ideas. He has denied or minimized the Holocaust, praised segregation, and openly admired Adolf Hitler—infamously claiming that Hitler was “cool” and insisting the regime “wasn’t that bad” compared to modern America (sources: Southern Poverty Law Center; ADL; Fuentes livestream archives). He has positioned LGBTQ+ Americans as enemies of the nation and called for the eradication of what he considers “degenerate” culture.

For years, these positions were dismissed as the rantings of someone sealed inside the darker corners of the internet. But something has shifted. When a major policy institution like the Heritage Foundation—long considered a pillar of mainstream conservatism—begins to entertain, wink at, or amplify the themes that animate Fuentes’s movement, the line between conservatism and extremism doesn’t blur. It moves.

This isn’t about partisan identity. Republicans and Democrats alike should care when a political ecosystem starts warming to ideas once recognized as dangerous. The American right has always had its ideological range—from libertarians to evangelicals to national security conservatives—but it has also had boundaries. Those boundaries are now eroding.

The danger isn’t that Fuentes himself becomes a figure of mass appeal. The danger is that his ideas—anti-gay, authoritarian, ethno-nationalist, historically revisionist—start to seep into the bloodstream of institutions with real influence on policy and culture. That’s how extremism becomes normalized: not with a bang, but with an invitation.

Democracies don’t collapse because a single extremist rises. They collapse when ordinary people stop recognizing extremism for what it is.

We can debate tax policy, education reform, and foreign aid. But we should not be debating whether America should revisit its stance on Hitler, rewrite the Holocaust, or resurrect the idea of a nation defined by race or religion. If organizations like Heritage want to maintain their place as serious contributors to public life, they cannot treat this ideology as just another voice in the marketplace of ideas.

Some ideas are not part of the marketplace. They are the fire.
And we should know better than to play with it.

Some ideas are not part of the marketplace. They are the fire.
And we should know better than to play with it.

I love walking my dog, Rosie.

The first walk usually happens around 8:30 in the morning. By then, I’ve already braved the long commute from my bedroom to the kitchen for coffee—my daily fuel—to my desk so I can put in a few hours of work before the day’s demands drag me down any number of unexpected rabbit holes. Our morning walks give me a chance to clear my head and prepare for whatever the day has in store.

Our evening walks, on the other hand, often take place just before sunset. By that point, most of my neurons have been fried beyond recognition. The constant multitasking and digital demands of the day have usually reduced me to something close to drooling. That twilight walk offers more than just the chance to stretch my legs; it’s a separation ritual—a way to step away from the screen and into the fading light. Sometimes the sky even puts on a technicolor show, a quiet reminder that beauty still exists beyond the browser window.

I should mention that I live in a fairly idyllic place for dog walking. Our townhome community sits tucked in the woods beside a river and a county park. For us humans, it’s wonderfully quiet, except for the occasional birdsong or the honking of Canadian geese. For Rosie and her canine friends, there are plenty of in-scent-ives—a rich network of smells demanding frequent stops and careful deposits.

In the end, we both get what we need from our walks. I get the peace and quiet to sort through the day’s twists and turns, and Rosie gets to check in on her friends who’ve left her messages along the way.

This past Thursday, though, had been particularly challenging. I hadn’t slept well—which isn’t unusual, but it’s always draining. A work project was moving as fast as it could, though not as fast as I wanted it to. And for reasons known only to Verizon and God, my internet connection had decided to operate at a glacial pace.

Still, those are the usual daily nuisances—irritations that dissolve after a few minutes in the cool evening air, walking beneath the setting sun. What truly bothered me that night was reading that the Republican Party had decided to use SNAP benefits as a bargaining chip in budget negotiations—negotiations that would raise healthcare costs by over 100% for 44 million Americans. It made no sense. Starve 42 million people so you can make healthcare unaffordable to 17% of U.S. citizens.

Rosie, meanwhile, had discovered a scent so exquisite to her canine senses that she was rolling in it with complete abandon. Behind her, the sun—deep yellow, fringed with orange—hung low above the trees.

Her ecstasy reminded me of something I had read after adopting my first dog, Yankee. I wanted to be a good pet owner, to make sure I was doing right by him. A Google search led me to an article on what it meant to be a good Jewish pet owner. I’m not religious, but I was curious. The article said feeding your pet before yourself was not only moral—it was a duty. Animals depend on us; they can’t tell us when they’re hungry. Letting them suffer while we indulge ourselves is wrong.

Aren’t the people who rely on SNAP benefits also dependent on us? Why should they suffer because a man who’s never known hunger wants to give billionaires and millionaires, most of whom have never known hunger, a tax break?

By now Rosie had moved on, nose to the ground, searching for one of the many rabbits that populate our little corner of suburbia. As she pulled me along, I tried to remember what other obligations my faith of origin asked of us. In preparation for my bar mitzvah, I had learned that visiting the sick was a mitzvah—a good deed. But Rabbi Bial reminded us that God’s compassion wasn’t to be admired from afar; it was to be emulated. Feeding the hungry wasn’t optional. It was a duty.

I’d fallen down one of the metaphorical rabbit holes I try to avoid on our evening walks. So I sat down on a bench at the crest of a small hill. The sunset had turned neon orange, the clouds lit up for their nightly curtain call. I pulled out my phone and wondered what other faiths said about caring for the sick and the hungry.

Here’s what I found in those few minutes on the bench:

• Islam: The Prophet Muhammad said, “Feed the hungry, visit the sick, and free the captive.” Feeding the hungry is among the highest forms of charity.
• Catholicism: Feeding the hungry is the first corporeal act of mercy; caring for the sick is another—both acts of God’s love made tangible.
• Evangelical Christianity: Feeding the hungry and healing the sick are living expressions of faith, following Christ’s example of compassion.

By then the sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving the world brushed in burnt orange and mauve—the days reminder of what had been.

Rosie and I resumed our walk as the streetlights flickered on. Rosie was no longer interested in rabbits. Some other scent, perhaps a fox, a deer or her boyfriend Duke, a very large Rottweiler, had caught her interest. But I was still trapped in my rabbit hole.

My memory and sentiments were shaped by the members of the greatest generation and their parents. They had searing memories of the great depression and the world that was left behind after World War 2. Hunger and the hungry were a part of their life experience. The words of Franklin Roosevelt “True individual freedom cannot exist without economic security and independence. People who are hungry and out of a job are the stuff of which dictatorships are made.”

Their stories, their guidance formed an indelible belief that to preserve the freedoms and liberty we have it is essential that we feed the hungry, we take care of the sick and we give a hand to those whom need to be lifted up. This not woke. It is being kind in the way that religions ask us to be. It is also smart. The chain that holds are democracy is only as strong as its weakest link and right now Donald Trump, Speaker Johnson and MAGA Republicans are doing there best to destroy those bonds.

By the time Rosie and I made it home to our home it was fully dark. A crescent moon shown brightly in southeastern sky.

Normally when I return from these walks, the stress and pressure that has built doing my day have been released. Not today. I had made the mistake of going down that rabbit hole and it had made my mood almost as dark as the evening sky because I can’t see an end to the MAGA madness.

But my father came home from the Second World War with an expression: “Illegitimus non carborundum.” It’s soldier Latin for “Don’t let the bastards get you down.” I’ve always taken it as a call to action — a reminder not to let others grind down your resolve or your sense of purpose. That choice is always yours.

So the first thing I did, after reminding Rosie what a good dog she is, was go to my computer and make a $50 donation to the Community FoodBank of New Jersey. And on Tuesday, I’m going to vote my conscience — and click every lever on the Democratic side.

I hope you do the same.

I like walking in Washington, D.C.

Not the modern kind of walking, where people are glued to their phones, but the old-fashioned, head-on-a-swivel kind. D.C. is full of history, and if you don’t pay attention, you’ll miss something important — something you’ll probably regret later.

I was standing on Pennsylvania Avenue near 16th Street NW, just outside the White House, when I saw a crowd pressed against the iron fence that keeps the uninvited from dropping in on the President. Everyone knew what they were watching. You’d have to be living on another planet — one with bad cell coverage — not to know that *The Great Destructor* had turned his attention to the East Wing. He’d once claimed he only wanted to build a grand ballroom worthy of the United States, promising construction nearby that wouldn’t touch the structure itself. Now it was clear: that had been just another lie. The East Wing was coming down.

I decided I needed to see it. I wanted to witness the metaphoric embodiment of the current administration’s policies. The fence was lined with people, but I spotted an opening and stepped forward.

It was a horrible sight. The destruction of historic buildings often is. The heavy excavators, with claw-like attachments tearing at the structure, reminded me of vultures feeding on the newly dead — one of those scenes you want to look away from but can’t, out of respect for what’s being sacrificed.

“You know, they used to call it the People’s House,” a man standing beside me offered.

Still transfixed by the destruction before me, I replied without looking, “Yes, and just look at it now.”

He continued, “Do you know when they started calling it that? John Adams was the first resident, and Jefferson carried on the tradition. They wanted the country to understand that while they lived there, it was a rental — that the landlord was ‘We the People.’”

His words resonated with me. It was the symbolism of the White House I’d grown up believing in — the history geek in me felt that deeply. I turned and saw a well-dressed man of average height with a solid, athletic build — barrel-chested, a thick, well-groomed mustache, and round wire-rim glasses that couldn’t hide alert blue-gray eyes. He radiated energy.

I extended my hand. “My name’s Paul.”

He grinned. “You can call me Ted.” (As if I didn’t know.)

“Well, Ted,” I said, “what else do you know?”

He replied, “Did you know that both the East and West Wings were built during the first Roosevelt administration? He wanted the residence to be a true home for his children, so he built the West Wing to house the presidential staff and his office, and the East Wing to welcome visitors to the White House.”

“So this guy is literally tearing down the part of the White House designed to be open to the people — to build a ballroom he wants to name after himself.”

Ted sighed. “That’s right. Just to build a ballroom for state dinners that happen about three times a year.”

I shook my head. “What gets me is that he was supposed to get approval from Congress, the National Park Service, and other agencies before making changes to the White House — and he didn’t. He lied, said it wouldn’t touch the original structure. And now look. He just did it, knowing there’d be no blowback from Congress.”

A woman to our right, overhearing, chimed in. “Well, at least we’re not paying for it. He says the funds for the new East Wing are all coming from private donors.”

Annoyed, I blurted out, “Aren’t we, though? Have you seen the list of donors for this monument to bad taste and kitschy architecture? Amazon, Google, Meta, Lockheed, Palantir, Altria, Blackstone, and the Adelson Family Trust — all have a vested interest in keeping the President on their side. And those are just the ones we know about. There’s no public list, no transparency. It’s better than bribery — same return, zero risk of prison.”

The woman retorted, “Well, didn’t Teddy Roosevelt do the same thing when he built the East Wing? Didn’t he do it without approval from Congress or anyone else?”

I resisted the urge to tell her that Fox News shouldn’t count as a primary source and said instead, “Not even close. Roosevelt used money from an existing budget to renovate the White House, and he did it to preserve the idea of the People’s House — so citizens could visit the Executive Mansion without interfering with the work of government. This isn’t preservation. It’s a vainglorious waste of money, time, and resources.”

Glancing back at Ted, then returning my gaze to the woman, I added, “If anything, Trump seems determined to destroy as much of TR’s legacy as possible. Teddy was a conservationist. Trump wants to drill in wildlife preserves and calls climate change a hoax, despite overwhelming evidence it’s an existential threat. TR created the precursors to the FTC and the FDA — he made sure our food was safe and our medicines didn’t kill us. He believed corporations could pursue profit but not at the public’s expense. Trump doesn’t care about any of that. He believes businesses should operate without regulation — to make as much money as possible, regardless of who gets hurt.

“Teddy championed, funded, and built the Panama Canal — arguably one of the most important pieces of infrastructure in history. This guy can’t even finish a wall.”

I took a breath, then continued, “And while we’re at it — Teddy Roosevelt was everything this guy isn’t. He reportedly read one to three books a day, while the current occupant hasn’t read one since *Dick and Jane.* TR authored 38 books and published over 150 articles. The current occupant can barely string together a coherent sentence. Roosevelt earned the Nobel Peace Prize for mediating the Russo-Japanese War and creating the framework for the Treaty of Portsmouth. Trump thinks he deserves one because he claims he can end wars with a tweet.

“Roosevelt received the Medal of Honor for his heroism at San Juan Hill. He felt an obligation to fight for his country, while this guy paid a doctor to say he had heel spurs.”

I paused, looked the woman on the right in the eye, and added, “When Teddy Roosevelt left office, he was celebrated as a hero in nearly every country he visited. When this guy leaves office, the world will just breathe a sigh of relief.”

A hand landed on my shoulder. I turned to see Teddy smiling.

“Bully,” he said.

I smiled back and unable to resist, add. “Yes. He is that too.”

“No,” he said, laughing. “I meant it the other way — first-rate job.”

I grinned. “I know.”

The waiting room outside HR only has two people in it.

Sitting opposite each other both are busily avoiding making eye contact with each other by paying far more attention to their cell phones than was required. The one of the Bespeckled with round tortoise shell frames and off the rack suit white shirt and rep tie the one he had the look and the insincere smile of a moderately successful real estate agent who had not sold a house in a while.

The one of the far right looks like a former goth who has tried to go mainstream and forgotten to remove his eyeliner and mascara. His closely cropped beard originally grown to project confidence and  cover up an insincere chin and baby face misses the mark on all of them. If you saw him hanging outside a 7/11 at night wearing a hoodie you would get into your car as quickly as possible.

The door opens and a kindly looking woman in her mid-forties and wearing a neutral colored, well cut pant suit emerges. She beckons both them into her office. They make themselves comfortable in midcentury modern chairs whose burnt orange upholstery looks as if it has been visited by a few too many backsides in recent months. She sits behind her desk, which solid build would look at home in any mid-level bureaucrat’s office in Washington. Behind her is large window, which from her third floor office depicts Pennsylvania Avenue with hundreds of thousands of demonstrators holding placards and banners that even from this distance you can see say “No Kings.”

The woman gives the men a few moments to look out the woman in the hopes that they will add more gravitas to their meeting. But both men assiduously avoid what is going on outside and busy themselves with an examination of their professional manicures. Sighing she says “Gentlemen, let me introduce myself. My name is Carmen Decenci and I am the head of Human Resources. Do you know why I have called you in today.”

“Jesus, I hope its not about any of that DEI BS. You know how much the boss hates that stuff.” said the former goth and potential 7/11 parking lot stalker.

“Mr. Vance let me disabuse you of a couple of things. First, DEI is not BS. It is system that ensures that we find the most qualified candidates regardless of whether or not you played Lacrosse with them in high school or belong to same country club. It makes sures that the upper mobility that is the cornerstone of our democracy functions the way it should.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Let me continue. The person you are referring to is not the boss. He is the President. He serves the people. Not himself. Or at least that is the way the constitution sees the job. Look what is going on outside the window. Those people are the real bosses and their the ones who demanded I ask you to my office.”

Vance looks down and mumbles. “Whatever. He still won’t like it.”

Ms. Decenci continues “But today we are not talking about DEI. We have a couple of other issues that are demanding our attention today.” Shifting her attention to the bespeckled man who has been amusing himself with his favorite activity, twiddling his thumbs she says “Mr. Johnson, didn’t Arizona just elect a new member of Congress.”

“Yes, but…”

“I am not finished yet. So the people of Arizona have expressed their wishes yet you have not seen fit to swear this person in yet. Why is that?”

Johnson adjust his glasses and responds “The House is not in session.”

Sharing a look she normally reserved for her children when they are trying to avoid responsibility for something they have done she says “I know that. But aren’t you the guy who calls the House into session.”

“Well….”

“And isn’t the reason you have not called the House into session because despite having a majority you cannot seem to pass a bill that keeps the country running.”

“But the Democrats won’t pass the continuing resolution we want.”

“Yes. I know. But isn’t that how democracy is supposed to work. Both sides can’t what they want, so they compromise and find a middle ground both can live with? And by keeping the house closed no compromise is even possible. How is that responsible government?”

“But…”

“Rhetorical question. What I have heard “pointing a thumb out the window indicating the loud crowd outside “Is the reason that you can’t compromise is the Dems want to make sure millions of people don’t lose their health care and millions more premiums become so high they won’t be able afford it. Don’t you think everyone deserves healthcare in this country. Not just the rich, the fortunate and members of congress?”

“I don’t see…”

“Again, not a question. You can hem and haw all you like but my obligation as head of HR is to remind that your job as Speaker of the House is to serve everyone. Rich, poor, democrats, republicans. And right now you are not coming close to doing that. You won’t even swear in a duly elected member because you are frightened you might lose your job.. Your job is to do your job. Not cower in fear.”

Vance looking at his watch interrupts “Pardon me. Is this going to be much longer. The boss invited me to watch him play golf and he promised me I could wash his balls this time  and I don’t want to be late.”

Carmen Decenci shares a sardonic smile with Vance and says “I was just getting to you. I want to talk to you about that group of “Young Republicans group chat. You know the one where they said “I love Hitler,” “You can’t expect Jews to be honest.” “Rape is epic,”  referred to African American’s as “monkeys” people from India don’t bathe often and referred to the neurodiverse as retards.”

Vance sighs and says “C’mon. It was just a bunch kids telling stupid jokes. It is what kids do especially young boys. They tell offensive jokes. I am sure there are college group chats that are far worse. People need to grow up and not be offended so easily.”

“Which demonstrates exactly why you are here. As a leader you have an obligation to stamp out hate speech, wherever it comes from, not excuse it. By saying boys will be boys you are giving permission to anyone who wants to engage in antisemitic, racist and sexist language. What makes it worse is that these “young Republicans” are not so young. Most of them were in the thirties and forties. There were many in the group who are your age. But instead of taking the opportunity to instruct and correct you gave these miscreants cover.

Vance opened his mouth to say something and Camren Decenci held up hand signaling him to be quiet and then said in the ice cold tone of someone who has gone past and into the furious and says “You failed as a leader. Your failed as a human.”  Then addressing both of them says “ I wish there was someway that I could insist of both of you changing your behavior. Unfortunately, I don’t have that power but “again pointing out the window at the people gathered below “Those people do. And when you are going to be reporting to the unemployment office not HR.

Outside, the chants swell louder—No Kings, No Cowards, No Compromise Carmen leans back, folds her hands, and says quietly, “History has a flawless HR department, gentlemen. It always conducts its exit interviews, sometimes with ballots, sometimes with bullhorns, but always on time. Now get of my office before I have to throw you out.”

Normally when I write this blog, I let emotion drive the words. I write about what I feel—my anger, frustration, or joy—at what’s happening in the world around me. Without getting too bookish or nerdy, it’s my own soliloquy from Hamlet:

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.”

I emote, but I rarely get personal—not in judging individuals or describing my own life. This week, though, I’m breaking that rule. I’m getting a little more personal, opening my emotional kimono wider than usual.

Why now? Because this week I attended a significant high school reunion. I won’t tell you which one, but let’s just say the number was higher than our parents’ ages when we graduated.

It’s a cliché to say that high school is a transformative—and often traumatic—time. We’re larvae just trying to survive long enough to build the chrysalis that will protect us while we transform into whatever final form awaits. My high school years were no different. But I believe I was luckier than many. Our class of nearly 400 students was, at least from my perspective, particularly close. Sure, there were rivalries and petty differences—probably some bullies and other unpleasant folks—but time has sandblasted most of those memories away.

What I’ve carried with me all these years is the sense that if I were to unexpectedly meet any of my Summit High School classmates on the street, I’d be genuinely happy to see them—eager to learn where life’s journey had taken them and hopeful the years had brought them joy.

So why was I so nervous about attending this reunion?

Other than the usual pre-game jitters, much of my anxiety stemmed from my outspokenness about what our feckless leader Delta Tango and his toadies are doing to this country. I’m not shy about my opinions. I believe that if we don’t speak out now, we may lose the opportunity to speak at all. But classmates warned me that not everyone shares my point of view and that I should tread carefully.

My worrying was a waste of time.

From the minute I entered the Broadway Diner (we’re from New Jersey, after all), I felt the warmth one feels upon seeing an old friend after a long time apart. There’s no single English word for this emotion, so let’s make one up: reunionglow.

One of the first sparks of reunionglow came when I realized my memory hadn’t failed me. Despite the evolution from feckless teenagers to senior citizens, I could still recognize people by name—without relying on name tags featuring our yearbook photos. These days, when the neurons deliver information in real time, it feels like a major accomplishment.

Another source of reunionglow was hearing the arcs our lives had taken. It was like picking up a book I’d once loved, set aside, and was now resuming. No one I spoke with had lived in a straight line. Everyone’s path had zigged and zagged, hit potholes, and carried on. There was the woman who began as a lounge singer, went through a few detours, then entered medical school at fifty and is now a board-certified obstetrician. The friend who, despite five arterial stents, still generates more energy than a small nuclear plant. Even the girl who once would’ve been voted “Most Likely to Party” is now a devoted grandmother. I loved hearing it all.

That night, when I got home, I could barely fall asleep. I hadn’t felt that overstimulated since… high school.

The next day we met at our alma mater. Since moving back to my hometown over a decade ago to care for aging parents, I pass it almost every day. To me, it’s a familiar sight that—despite several additions—looks much the same. Looks deceive. The mid-century building has transformed into a modern learning facility that resembles a small junior college more than a modest small-town high school. That’s both good—and a little horrifying.

The good: the school is fully equipped to prepare students for the century ahead. From STEAM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Mathematics) labs and production facilities to courses in entrepreneurship, Mandarin, financial literacy, and the culinary arts, it embodies a well-rounded liberal-arts education.

The horrifying: the extensive preparations for active shooters, bomb threats, and other horrors of our times. I’m glad they’re prepared, but devastated that our world has sunk so low that such readiness is necessary. My generation let this happen—it’s a stain on whatever legacy we claim.

Two things I saw that day gave me hope. First, four large black-and-white portraits in the cafeteria—Einstein, John Lennon, Mother Teresa, and Beethoven—reminded me that today’s youth are encouraged to identify with dreamers who enriched the world with kindness, brilliance, and music.

The second was a poster that read: “Hanna Weschler: We hold your promise. Never forget.” Beneath the image of a woman holding her daughter’s hand was the caption:
“Depicted above are Hanna and her mother walking together in Kraków, Poland, following World War II. Both are survivors of Auschwitz and the Holocaust. Adopt a Survivor Project: Fall 2021.”

As the son of a survivor—and the relative of many who did not—seeing that poster gave me hope. Despite our current political turmoil, this generation will not forget.

The penultimate moment of reunionglow came at a party held in a mansion that serves as headquarters for an old-school women’s charitable organization in our town called The Junior Fortnightly Club. It’s a throwback to a time when families didn’t need two incomes to survive—when women busied themselves with charitable work and men took the train into the city, self-medicating in the bar cars on the way home. Walking into that mansion from a past that shares little with today’s realities, I couldn’t help but feel that we, too, were relics.

Inside was a roaring party—rooms full of people getting reacquainted, sharing stories, reminiscing about the days when our world consisted of this town and these very people. The energy was palpable; it could have overwhelmed even the most hardened cynic.

Three distinct emotions defined that night for me.

The first came as I posed for a photo with classmates I’d known since elementary school. Looking at those faces—people I’ve known since the world was young and still dewy—I realized I could see them as they are now, burnished with time, and as they were then. It wasn’t Einstein’s space-time continuum so much as Gabriel García Márquez’s magical realism: a blending of past and present that felt wondrous and unique.

The second emotion was hope. Many at the party had seen my outspoken political posts. Several sought me out to share their own thoughts on the maelstrom we’re living through. It gave me optimism that all is not lost—that we’ll emerge scarred but better for the struggle.

The last emotion came as I stood before a poster titled “In Loving Memory” honoring classmates who had passed. Second column from the left, third from the bottom, was my best friend, Rich. Seeing his name gave me pause—not only because I miss him every day, but because I could imagine our conversation about the reunion. He’d have refused to come, insisting that if you hadn’t maintained a friendship through the years, there was no reason to reconnect now.

I know what I’d have told him: “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

And I can hear his answer: “You go, and you can tell me later.”

Which, I suppose, is what I’ve just done.

I was just rolling over in bed for the first time when my phone rang.

I despise when my phone rings early in the morning. Not only does it rob me of that first cup of coffee and those few peaceful moments when the world still seems at ease with itself, but at that hour it’s almost always bad news. You know that saying, “Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.” Its corollary should be, “There’s no such thing as a positive phone call before 7 a.m.”

I glanced at the screen. It read “The Ecru House”—the independent-living condo association where Uncle Trump lives. Perhaps this was good news. I know, that’s a terrible thing to think, but lately I’ve been waking up half-hoping to see the news that he’d passed peacefully during the night. Don’t get me wrong: I mourn any death. But he’s become such a burden that his release from the mortal coil wouldn’t exactly draw tears from me.

I answered with reluctant anticipation. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. It was Linda Landsman, the community association manager at Ecru House.

“Mr. Damroche, I’m sorry to call you so early,” she said, “but we’re having some serious issues with your Uncle Trump, and we need to talk to someone in the family.”

“I’m not sure why you’re calling me,” I replied. “Have you tried his children—Mike or John? They’re supposed to handle emergencies.”

“We’ve tried, but they don’t answer. Your cousin Mike did send us an offensive meme of someone wearing a sombrero, though.”

“Can’t this wait until they return your call?”

She sighed. “We’ve been trying for days. It’s almost as if they’re afraid of him. And the problems are getting out of hand. We hate to burden you, but could you come down and talk to us?”

I really didn’t want to. I had my Saturday planned, and a trip to Ecru House to discuss my uncle’s bad behavior was not on the agenda.

“Can you give me some examples of what’s going on?”

“Honestly, I don’t know where to start,” she said, exasperated. “Did your uncle tell you about the duck pond incident?”

“No.”

“He complained about some Canada Geese in the pond—said they were an invasive species taking resources from the Mallards. I explained they’ve been nesting here for thousands of years. He got angry, called me ugly names, and stormed off. The next day, a company called ICE Wildlife Management showed up, attacking the geese with German Shepherds and pyrotechnics. They started rounding up the rest to take to an ‘undisclosed location.’”

“Were you able to stop them?”

“Eventually, but it took some doing. Apparently, your uncle promised them a bonus if they finished quickly.”

“Okay, that’s awful, but it’s under control now, right?”

“If only. Has anyone told you what he did in the clubhouse?”

I hesitated. “No… what now?”

“He went around taping up copies of the Ten Commandments—thirty-point font—on every door. When staff told him that violated the condo rules about religious postings, he launched into a long, rambling monologue about how this is a Christian country, that we’re violating his free-speech rights. When we started taking the posters down, he stormed off. The next morning, we were served with a $100 million lawsuit.”

“What did your lawyers say?”

“They said it’s a nuisance suit and we’ll likely win—but it’ll cost time, energy, and money. The board might just settle to avoid the headache.”

“Wouldn’t that set a bad precedent?”

“No doubt, but they’re worried a drawn-out lawsuit will hurt property values.”

“Oh.”

“And that’s not even the latest incident.”

“Should I ask?”

“You shouldn’t—but in for a penny, in for a pound. Yesterday your uncle was golfing on the condo course. His group was painfully slow—multiple tee shots, endless mulligans, lining up every putt. Foursomes were stacked up behind him, missing their tee times. We sent a marshal to speed him up and asked him to let others play through. He refused. When a couple of players confronted him, he became so abusive that he was asked to leave the course.”

“That sounds awful.”

“I’m not done.”

“Shit.”

“Last night, several golfers from that group had their doorbells rung around midnight. When they opened the door, your uncle was standing there—dressed as the Grim Reaper, scythe and all—pointing at them with a bruised hand, saying, ‘I am the Reaper, and you will pay for your sins.’”

I was speechless. “I’ll come down and talk to him,” I said finally.

When I arrived that afternoon, my uncle greeted me in golf clothes three sizes too small, revealing far more of his girth than anyone needed to see, topped with a bright red baseball cap that read, “I’m Right About Everything.”

“Oh good, you’re here,” he said. “You have to see what I built.”

He led me to the dining room. On the white tablecloth sat a series of Lego buildings labeled with the names of Ecru House facilities. Surrounding them was a phalanx of toy soldiers, rifles aimed at the miniature condos.

“What is all this?” I asked.

“The people aren’t listening,” he said tersely. “It’s time to send in the troops.”

Pointing to a collection of toy soldiers in a pile off to the side I ask “What are those soldiers.”

“Oh they were the generals. They wouldn’t laugh at my jokes so I fired them.”

Flabbergasted I responded “Maybe instead of sending in the troops,” I suggested, “you should listen to what people are saying.”

He pointed to his hat. “No. There’s no conversation to be had. The time for talking is over. Now we act.”

“But have you actually tried talking?”

“Why bother? They’re too stupid and too crooked to understand the truth.”

“The staff ran a poll,” I said carefully, “and they say most residents are angry about what you’re doing. Don’t you think it makes sense to change course before things get ugly?”

He glared. “Only a very evil person would ask a question like that.”

A few minutes later, I was in Administrator Landsman’s office.

“Well?” she asked.

“Clearly he’s off his meds,” I said. “He was crazy before, but now he’s got a full-scale diorama on his dining table. Things are about to go from weird to ugly. Isn’t there anything you can do—call in a psych evaluation or something?”

“We can’t. Legally, only his sons, John and Mike, have that authority.”

“And they won’t do a thing. They won’t even answer the phone.”

“Yep.”

“Shit. We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

“Oh yeah.”

I Have a Very Kind and Loving and Much Younger Sister

A couple of days ago, I arrived at my much much younger sister’s home unannounced and uninvited. I do this from time to time—especially if, as in this case, I haven’t seen her in over a month. And, lest you think me rude, I came bearing gifts: a box of Brazilian chocolates with little pieces of banana embedded inside (they keep your mouth happy for hours afterward), and a box of Reese’s-flavored Oreos.

That last gift may sound odd. After all, my sister has written the definitive cookie cookbook—The Secret Life of Chocolate Chip Cookies (available now on Amazon)—but it’s our thing. Whenever I find a new Oreo flavor, I bring it to her, and together we make the definitive decision about whether it deserves a spot in the pantheon.

My much younger sister was just leaving the house when I showed up. She could easily have given me the stink eye and said, “Great, you just ruined my plans to escape to Paper Plane coffee shop to get some writing done.” But she didn’t. As I said, she’s the kind of sister who is loving and kind.

We walked inside, weaving between greetings from Norman Bates, her enthusiastic 60-pound puppy, and disdainful glares from her two cats, Clyde and Calvin. She noticed I was limping as I lowered myself uncomfortably onto one of her kitchen stools. I explained that since returning from Brazil I’d been suffering from sciatica, with semi-predictable, extraordinarily painful cramps in my left buttock.

As she broke open the Oreos, she asked all the right questions:
– When did this begin? (On the walk from our airplane in Miami to customs and border control.)
– What was I doing to relieve the pain? (Naproxen and McKenzie Method exercises.)
– Had I called the doctor? (Yes, I had an appointment with my physiatrist next week.)

The conversation paused while we tested Oreo’s newest flavor. (Two thumbs up, although we split on whether they should be dunked in plain milk or Fairlife Chocolate.) Then she said, “I’ve got a person. Her name is Sharon Miamiga. I’ll make you an appointment. You’ll feel totally different afterward.”

Two days later, I found myself sitting in the entryway of a late-nineteenth-century home-turned-medical practice, waiting for Ms. Miamiga to see me. The pain had only escalated. She greeted me warmly and ushered me into what was likely once the parlor. After a few preliminary questions and tests, she invited me to lie on the treatment table.

As she began to work the muscles of my lower back with acupressure, she asked when the trouble had started. I told her about my long flight home from Brazil, but also that the pain hadn’t appeared until I stumbled at border control when confronted by a portrait of the Great Leader.

She nodded. “Sometimes long flights can exacerbate incipient conditions.”

I shrugged. “Maybe, but I’ve taken this flight plenty of times and it never happened before.”

She pressed further: “When else do the attacks happen?”

“Well, the other day I was at the gym on the Stairmaster. Normally it doesn’t trigger attacks, but I made a mistake. I started my workout right as our Commander-in-Tweet was giving his address to the UN. Every TV was filled with his image—and worse, closed captioning. Despite my best efforts to ignore him, I heard him lecturing the UN on how immigration was ruining countries, how climate change was a con job, how he had solved all the world’s wars, and how Christianity was the most persecuted religion on earth. Finally, I had too much. I stepped off the machine, and my left cheek seized so badly I could barely walk.”

Shirin, now focused on my hamstrings, asked, “Any other times?”

“Yes. The other day I was at my desk when alerts popped up about Captain Combover’s big news conference. He claimed acetaminophen was a major cause of autism. It was horrifying—he couldn’t even pronounce the drug properly. The studies he cited were about correlation, not causation. By that logic, you could say pickles cause autism. Many pregnant women eat pickles, after all. Major studies around the world have debunked this link, but instead of funding real autism research, billions will now go toward nonsense that financially benefits RFK Jr. and Dr. Oz. By the time I got up from my desk, my buttock was spasming so badly I had to sit back down. .”

She started to massage my stomach to stimulate my lymph system. “And?”

“Well, on the drive here I made the mistake of listening to CNN. Hair Force One was announcing his new executive order on domestic terrorism. But it wasn’t about domestic terrorism. If it were, it would have focused on ultra-right-wing nationalist groups—the very ones the FBI (back when it wasn’t run by presidential toadies) identified as the chief domestic threat. Instead, it targeted Black Lives Matter, Antifa, and so-called George Soros projects. This wasn’t about terrorism. It was about suppressing opposition. And then, as if that weren’t enough, the report was followed by news that Secretary of War Hegseth had convened unprecedented secret meetings with all his generals and admirals. By the time I parked, I could hardly get out of my car.”

As she worked the rigid muscles of my neck, Sharon said, “Hmm. I think I know what the problem is.”

On my way home, I called my much younger, extraordinarily kind sister (whose cookbook The Secret Life of Chocolate Chip Cookies is also available at Barnes & Noble) to thank her for sending me to Shirin Irani.

She asked, “Did it help?”

“Yes. I feel much better. And she thinks she discovered the source of my problem.”

Curious, my sister said, “What does she think is causing it?”

Smiling, I replied, “She says Donald Trump is a pain in my ass.”

We had made it! 

By “made it,” I mean we were finally sitting in our seats on American Airlines Flight 1801 from Miami to Newark, NJ. Not the easiest task these days. First, we had to endure the eight-hour, fifty-five-minute flight from Rio to Miami in economy, in front of a very talkative Brazilian family who violated the unwritten “whisper only” rule on overnight flights. Then came the really stressful part: navigating Immigration control. 

Virtually every day in the Brazilian press, there’s another story about Brazilians caught up in Delta Tango’s misguided, brown-shirt-like tactics against undocumented immigrants. Like Luciano Draco, pulled over in Martha’s Vineyard and detained despite having legal documentation by ICE agents who failed to identify themselves. Or Marcelo Gomes da Silva, a high school student detained on his way to volleyball practice—though not a target—who was held for a week without a shower and forced to sleep on concrete floors. Or Caroline Dias Goncalves, a Utah nursing student pulled over by sheriffs, handed to ICE agents, and detained for fifteen days in Aurora, Colorado. 

Add to this the current administration’s overt hostility toward Brazil, largely because the Great Leader has a fondness for Jair Bolsonaro, the convicted felon and former president (sound familiar?). That hostility includes 50% tariffs on all Brazilian imports and visa restrictions against Brazil’s Supreme Court Chief Justices, their families, and allies—ironically for “free speech violations.” (The Brazilian constitution makes hate speech a crime… but that would never happen in the U.S., right? Stay tuned.) 

It was enough to make my wife ask me, for two weeks straight: *“My darlingo, do you think they will let me into the United States? Do you think they will arrest me?”* 

She was serious. I answered with a confidence I didn’t fully feel: *“Don’t worry. Those cases are outliers. You’ll be fine.”* 

Still, we were both nervous when we separated at Border Control—Elaine to the non-citizen line, me to Global Entry. (Trust me: worth every bit of the $75 fee and interview hassle.) She asked me to wait for her on the other side, and I promised I would. My Global Entry took less than a minute—facial recognition and a wave—and then I stood in the hallway, anxiously scanning every group of passengers for her. It felt like hours, though it was only twenty-five minutes. When I finally saw her, the relief was overwhelming, and the hug we shared had the strength usually reserved for long-lost relatives or when the doctor says the bump is nothing to worry about. 

Then came baggage claim (always stressful), customs, the baggage re-check line, and the even longer security line—each delay eating into our connection time. Finally, we faced the long walk from Gate D30 to Gate D4. For the uninitiated, that’s nearly a kilometer, fifteen to twenty minutes at pace. 

So yes, settling into seats 14E and 14F felt like a true accomplishment. I closed my eyes for a well-deserved nap as the flight attendants shut the doors. That’s when the pilot came on the PA. 

He started off wrong: *“Welcome to Flight 1801 from Miami to beautiful Newark, N.J.”* His tone dripped with the same snideness “Laugh-In” used for its “Beautiful Downtown Burbank” gag. I grew up in New Jersey. I live in New Jersey. Newark is many things, but “beautiful” isn’t usually how people describe it. Still, Mr. Captain, you don’t get to disparage my state. Not your city. Not your place. 

Then came the real gut punch: *“We are all aware of the terrible events of last week. Charlie Kirk was a patriot…”* 

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. 

Let’s start with basics. Airline pilots are bound by a code of conduct that limits PA announcements to operational information. (I checked: American Airlines strictly prohibits political commentary by captains.) In my 3.2 million miles on AA, I had never once heard a political pronouncement from the cockpit. Until now. 

Charlie Kirk was not a patriot. Not even close. 

Among other things, he said: *“One of the reasons we’re living through a constitutional crisis is that we no longer have a Christian nation, but we have a Christian form of government, and they’re incompatible.”* One cornerstone of our democracy is that it is secular. The Founders wrote extensively about the dangers of state religion, having seen the damage it wrought elsewhere. 

He also said: *“This is a Christian state. I’d like to see it stay that way.”* A patriot holds the Constitution sacred. Declaring the U.S. a “Christian state” undermines our founding principles and disqualifies you from that label. 

What Kirk was, is a Christian nationalist. That is not patriotism. Some might even call it a version of fascism. Despite his despicable death, he was a controversial political figure—not someone who should be eulogized over an airplane PA system. 

I sat in my seat and seethed. 

The fire was stoked by the fact that, just the day before, Jimmy Kimmel was suspended for saying: *“MAGA gang is desperately trying to characterize this kid who murdered Charlie Kirk as anything other than one of them, and doing everything they can to score political points from it.”* That was factually true. But ABC suspended him after the head of the FCC pressured networks, saying: *“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. These companies can find ways to change conduct … on Kimmel, or … there’s going to be additional work for the FCC ahead.”* He even said he wasn’t done yet in dealing with “perceived issues in the media ecosystem.” 

And this, from an FCC that said nothing when Brian Kilmeade suggested homeless people should be given involuntary lethal injections. To me, calling for the mass murder of the homeless in Nazi fashion is far worse than pointing out that MAGA was exploiting Kirk’s death. 

Somewhere over Delaware, I realized I was returning to a country I no longer recognized—a place where you can say anything you want as long as it aligns with MAGA principles. A country where you’re welcome only if you’re white and Christian. A place where empathy—dismissed by Kirk as a “made-up New Age term”—is reserved only for those who look and worship like you. 

It left me wondering why I came back at all.