Author: Brutus X (Page 4 of 4)

“CONGESTION PRICING IS DEAD. Manhattan, and all of New York, is SAVED. LONG LIVE THE KING!”

Donald TruMP, February 19, 2025

When I launched Defy the Crown in February 2025, the “crown” was meant as an allegory—a symbol of unchecked power, whether from the left, center, or right. I never expected to hear President Trump declare himself a king—even if, as he’ll now insist, it was just a joke.

What’s more disturbing is how casually his supporters are laughing it off—dismissing the comment, rolling their eyes at any suggestion of danger, and treating it like just another of Trump’s neuron misfires that he thinks is clever.

This time, though, it’s different. The Trump administration intervened to halt New York’s congestion pricing plan—exercising federal overreach to benefit his base—and then dropped the “king” line like a closing argument. If that wasn’t enough, the White House doubled down, amplifying the monarchical imagery by posting an image of Trump adorned with a crown alongside the phrase “Long Live the King.”

This is more than just Trump being Trump. This is a deliberate flirtation with autocratic symbolism in a country founded on the rejection of monarchy.

Caesars, Kings, and Emperors: When Leaders Claim the Crown

The United States was founded in direct opposition to monarchy. Make no mistake: the Declaration of Independence wasn’t just a strongly worded complaint—it was a declaration of war. The American Revolution wasn’t a polite request for better representation—it was a violent overthrow of a king’s rule.

The Founders rejected even the appearance of kingship, recognizing that once a leader starts seeing himself as above the people, democracy is in trouble. Yet, history is filled with leaders who toyed with royal imagery on their way to consolidating power—often justifying it with promises of national greatness (again, perhaps).

1. Julius Caesar (44 BCE) – The Republic’s Last Breath

Rome’s republic lasted nearly 500 years, fiercely resisting anything resembling a monarchy. Then came Julius Caesar—who, in 44 BCE, declared himself “Dictator for Life.”

He never officially took the title of “king,” but wielded absolute power and even let Mark Antony publicly offer him a crown. At that point, the symbolic rejection of monarchy no longer mattered—Rome was already a dictatorship.

His assassination did nothing to save the Republic. Instead, it led to civil war, ending in the rise of the Roman Empire under Augustus. Rome learned the hard way: once a leader places himself above the system, democracy doesn’t just snap back into place.

2. Napoleon Bonaparte (1804) – From Republic to Empire

After the French Revolution toppled the monarchy, France became a republic. Enter Napoleon Bonaparte, who rose to power promising to protect democracy—then, in 1804, crowned himself Emperor. He didn’t even let the Pope do it. He placed the crown on his own head in an unsubtle display of, I am the State.

Napoleon justified his power grab as necessary for stability, waged war across Europe, and ultimately led France into chaos and ruin. His empire collapsed, he was exiled, and France spent decades recovering from his reign.

3. Trump (2025) – A Crown for the Taking?

Trump isn’t Caesar or Napoleon—but he knows the power of spectacle. From gold-plated elevators to Bible photo-ops, his political playbook thrives on grandiosity. And now, he’s leaning into monarchical imagery.

Like Caesar, Trump has worked to erode institutional checks on executive power, casting himself as the only true defender of the republic.
Like Napoleon, he wraps himself in grandeur, presenting himself as a historic leader destined to reshape the nation.
Like King George III, he views legal challenges and opposition as personal insults rather than necessary features of democracy.

This isn’t just about Trump. It’s about where American democracy is heading. History warns that when leaders flirt with monarchical rhetoric, it’s rarely just bluster—it’s a test. A test of whether citizens will push back or get comfortable with the idea that their leaders are above the law.

The Modern Implications of Trump’s “King” Remark

If history holds, Trump’s self-coronation may actually backfire. Public resistance to blatant power grabs has, in the past, galvanized movements against authoritarianism. The American and French Revolutions didn’t happen because rulers declared themselves kings—they happened because people refused to accept them.

The best-case scenario? This sparks a renewed commitment to democratic principles, forcing leaders of all parties to reaffirm that no one in America rules by divine right.

The worst-case scenario? We dismiss it. We shrug it off. We normalize the idea that presidents can casually float monarchy as a possibility without consequences. That’s how symbolic monarchy becomes real autocracy.

Rome thought it was immune to dictatorship. Then it got emperors for centuries.

The Republic—If We Can Keep It

Benjamin Franklin, when asked what kind of government America had created, famously responded, “A republic—if you can keep it.” Republics don’t collapse in a day. They erode. Each rhetorical step toward monarchy makes the next one easier.

Trump’s “king” remark is not dangerous because he suddenly transformed into a monarch overnight.
It’s dangerous because it tests the waters—to see if Americans will accept a leader who believes himself above the law.

The real question isn’t whether Trump thinks he’s a king.

It’s whether the American people will act as subjects—or as citizens.

The ruling class has always found ways to silence dissent. Sometimes, they send in the riot police. Other times, they wrap their repression in a bow, using calls for civility to neuter rebellion before it begins. Demands for “respectful discourse” and “polite debate” don’t exist to foster productive conversations—they exist to protect power. When those in charge set the rules of engagement, they ensure their critics remain unheard, dismissed as hysterical, irrational, or simply too rude to be taken seriously.

From Aristocratic Etiquette to Colonial Subjugation

Before the French Revolution, aristocrats maintained a rigid etiquette code dictating how one could air grievances—assuming they dared. If a nobleman had a problem with the monarchy, he had to phrase it delicately, dressing his complaints in elaborate courtesy. Anything too direct was vulgar at best, treasonous at worst.

Take the Estates-General of 1789, where citizens were invited to submit grievances. Among them, the crushing weight of taxation was a prime concern. But outright demands for relief? Unthinkable. Instead, complaints came wrapped in obsequious groveling:

“His Majesty, whose paternal heart is ever inclined toward justice, will surely see fit to relieve his most faithful and devoted subjects…”

Translation: Please, dear King, we adore you—if it’s not too much trouble, might we have slightly fewer crushing taxes?

Meanwhile, those too poor for powdered wigs and flowery petitions—the ones without the “proper breeding” for refined discourse—were dismissed as crude, unworthy of political consideration. Yet when revolution finally came, it wasn’t the polite reformers who tore down the monarchy. It was the angry masses.

Fast forward to the Civil Rights Movement, and the same strategy was at play. Martin Luther King Jr.—now sanitized as the gold standard for “respectable” activism—was relentlessly criticized in his time for being too disruptive. In his Letter from Birmingham Jail, he took aim at these critics:

“I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is […] the white moderate who is more devoted to ‘order’ than to ‘justice.’”

Civility, in other words, wasn’t being used to facilitate dialogue—it was being used to delay justice indefinitely.

The Modern Weaponization of Civility

Today, the expectation of politeness remains a powerful tool of suppression. Calls for “civil discourse” are routinely used not to engage ideas, but to erase them.

Take social media, where civility rules seem to be enforced selectively. Figures who challenge corporate power, state overreach, or elite interests often find themselves de-platformed for “violating community standards,” while those reinforcing the status quo roam free. The ever-shifting moderation policies of platforms like Facebook, X, and YouTube reveal a simple truth: civility is often just a flimsy pretext for censorship.

In politics, we see the same pattern. Whistleblowers and dissidents—Chelsea Manning, Edward Snowden, Julian Assange—aren’t just attacked for breaking the law. They’re vilified as unpatriotic, reckless, and disrespectful. Meanwhile, politicians and corporate elites—who commit far greater crimes—are protected by their polished speeches and expensive suits.

This dynamic plays out in activism as well. Take Black Lives Matter. The outrage wasn’t just about the movement’s message—it was about the tone of the protests.

• BLM protesters disrupted rallies—and were scolded for being disrespectful to political discourse.
• They blocked highways—and were told they were inconveniencing hard-working Americans.
• They staged “die-ins” in shopping malls—and were accused of disrupting business.

The focus was never on why they were protesting, only on how inconvenient it was for everyone else. People claimed they weren’t against the message, just the “methods”—which conveniently meant they could ignore both. BLM became a laughingstock to some, a menace to others, but for many, it was never allowed to be taken seriously.

When Civility Is a Leash

To be clear, civility isn’t always bad. A society that completely abandons respectful discourse risks descending into chaos (or, at the very least, into Elon Musk’s version of social media). But when civility is selectively enforced—used to muzzle the powerless while allowing the powerful to operate unchecked—it stops being a virtue and becomes a leash.

Those who demand politeness from the oppressed while tolerating brutality from the elite aren’t defenders of order. They are enforcers of injustice.

History has made one thing clear: real change doesn’t come from those who play by the rules of “respectable” conversation. It comes from those who refuse to be polite in the face of oppression.

In 1938, African American writer J. Saunders Redding told of a Black laborer warning a companion to “stay woke”—a call for vigilance against racial injustice. The phrase carried weight, urging awareness of oppression. It echoed through the Civil Rights Movement, in Lead Belly’s warning about the Scottsboro Boys—nine Black teenagers falsely accused of rape. It lived in whispered reminders that injustice lurked in courthouses, police stops, and voter rolls.

How fortunate we are that our rulers possess infinite wisdom, impeccable morals, and an unwavering dedication to the public good. Imagine, if you dare, a world where they were instead driven by greed, folly, or hypocrisy—what an absurd spectacle that would be! Picture, if you can, leaders who preach restraint while hoarding fortunes, speak of liberty while forging new chains, and profess peace while reveling in the thunder of war. But let us not indulge in such scandalous fantasies.

A Most Reasonable Proposal

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a society unburdened by disease is a danger to itself. We stand at the edge of catastrophe, staring into a world where illnesses once celebrated for their vital role in population control are vanishing. Polio, measles, smallpox—these noble afflictions, once culling the weak and fortifying the strong, have been rudely eradicated by the relentless march of science. Is this truly the world we want? A world where childhood lacks struggle, where preventable illness no longer reminds us of our mortality?