Defy The Crown

There was a time when the United States at least pretended to stand for something. Now? Now, we watch as a nation we swore to support is battered, bombed, and bled dry, and Washington’s response is a pathetic shrug. The same politicians who draped themselves in Ukrainian flags two years ago now act as if Kyiv is a burden, as if Russia’s invasion is Ukraine’s problem, not ours. Aid is stalled, weapons shipments are delayed, and behind closed doors, the unspoken policy is clear: Let them die. Because that’s what abandonment is. That’s what cowardice looks like. And as Ukraine fights for its survival, America—once the so-called arsenal of democracy—can’t even be bothered to reload the guns.

For two years, Ukraine has defied expectations. Outnumbered, outgunned, and facing an adversary with nuclear weapons, they fought like hell. They held the line. They pushed Russia back. They became a symbol of resistance against tyranny. And they did so with the backing—financial and military—of the United States and its allies. But now, as Ukraine reaches a critical moment in the war, that support is wavering. The same leaders who once draped themselves in the Ukrainian flag are turning their backs, and their message is clear: You’re on your own now.

And if the betrayal wasn’t enough, we now have U.S. politicians demanding gratitude for the scraps we’ve given. JD Vance, with all the smugness of a man who has never had to fight for his life, whined that Zelenskyy should be more grateful for America’s support, as if Ukraine is some ungrateful beggar instead of a country fighting and dying on the front lines of democracy. As if the thousands of Ukrainian soldiers who have been maimed, tortured, and executed by Russian forces owe him a personal thank-you card. The arrogance is breathtaking—Ukraine is bleeding out, and Vance wants them to pause and say, “Gee, thanks, Senator.”

And then there’s Trump, who, in his usual display of historical illiteracy, claimed that without U.S. intervention, the war would have ended in “two weeks at most.” Ended how, exactly? Oh, that’s right—with Ukraine flattened, its government executed, and Russia absorbing yet another nation while the world watched. This isn’t just cowardice—it’s complicity. It’s the kind of rhetoric that gives Putin exactly what he wants—an America too divided, too cynical, and too self-obsessed to see that if we let Ukraine fall, we are next.

From “We Stand With Ukraine” to “Not Our Problem”

It wasn’t long ago that both Republicans and Democrats agreed: helping Ukraine resist Russian aggression was a vital U.S. interest. The argument was simple—if Russia could invade Ukraine with impunity, why wouldn’t they keep going? Why wouldn’t China see an opening in Taiwan? Why wouldn’t Iran or North Korea feel emboldened?

Supporting Ukraine wasn’t just about Ukraine. It was about showing the world that aggression has consequences.

But now, that principle seems to have been abandoned. What started as bipartisan support has disintegrated into partisan paralysis. Ukraine aid bills sit stalled in Congress, tangled in domestic political games. Some Republican lawmakers openly declare that funding Ukraine is a waste of resources, parroting Russian propaganda about the war being “unwinnable.” Meanwhile, President Biden, despite calling Ukraine’s defense “critical,” seems unwilling to fight for continued support, more focused on his own political battles than ensuring that Ukraine doesn’t collapse.

The shift is staggering. The message from Washington to Kyiv is no longer “We stand with you”—it’s “Figure it out yourselves.”

The Myth of “We’ve Done Enough”

One of the most infuriating justifications for cutting Ukraine off is the idea that the U.S. has “done enough.” That we’ve already given them too much, that it’s time for Europe to step up, that our resources are better spent elsewhere.

Let’s break this down:

• How much have we actually given? Since the war began, the U.S. has committed around $75 billion in aid to Ukraine—a lot of money, no doubt, but still a fraction of the $886 billion annual U.S. defense budget.

• Where is that money going? Much of it is being used to buy weapons from American manufacturers—meaning it’s not just helping Ukraine, it’s also keeping our own defense industry strong.

• Who benefits if we stop? Cutting aid to Ukraine doesn’t save us money in the long run. It just means Russia wins faster—and then the U.S. will have to spend far more responding to a strengthened, emboldened Moscow.

But the real issue isn’t even the money. It’s the moral cowardice of pretending this war isn’t our problem anymore.

The Consequences of Abandonment

Let’s be very clear: if the U.S. cuts off Ukraine, Ukraine will lose. Not immediately, not overnight, but slowly, painfully, and inevitably.

• Russia has far greater manpower and can keep throwing bodies at the front.

• Without Western weapons, Ukraine will run out of artillery shells, missiles, and drones.

• Without financial support, Ukraine’s economy will collapse under the weight of war.

And when that happens, Russia won’t stop with Ukraine. If Putin successfully absorbs Ukraine, what stops him from testing NATO’s resolve in the Baltics? What stops China from assuming the U.S. will fold on Taiwan?

The cost of supporting Ukraine now is nothing compared to the cost of fighting a larger war later. But Washington doesn’t seem to care.

“Let Them Die” Isn’t a Policy—It’s a Surrender

The United States has always positioned itself as a defender of democracy. But what does it mean when, at a critical moment, we decide that defending democracy is just too much effort?

Because that’s what this is. This isn’t a strategic withdrawal. This isn’t smart policymaking. This is surrender. Surrender to Russian aggression. Surrender to domestic political dysfunction. Surrender to the idea that America’s word means nothing anymore.

Washington can dress it up however they like. They can talk about “fiscal responsibility,” about “avoiding forever wars,” about “focusing on domestic issues.” But what they are really saying is “Let them die.”

Let Ukraine’s soldiers die, outnumbered and outgunned, in trenches that were supposed to be supplied with American artillery.

Let Ukraine’s civilians die, bombed in their homes because the air defense systems they were promised never arrived.

Let democracy die, because defending it is no longer politically convenient.

So let’s drop the pretense. The United States is selling Ukraine out. Not because we can’t afford to help, not because it isn’t in our interest, but because cowards in Washington have decided that betrayal is easier than commitment. Because they would rather cozy up to isolationist slogans and Putin-apologist nonsense than actually take a stand. Because they don’t see a war—they see a political inconvenience. And in the meantime, Ukrainians will keep dying, fighting with whatever scraps we let trickle in, while our leaders sit back and pretend this isn’t our problem. Well, it is. And when history judges this moment, it won’t be kind to those who abandoned a nation fighting for its survival. It won’t be kind to the weak, spineless opportunists who decided that democracy was expendable, that defending an ally was optional, and that America’s word meant nothing. Ukraine is still fighting. The question is whether we will stand with them—or let them die.

In August 2021, Americans and the world watched in horror as Afghanistan collapsed almost overnight. After two decades of U.S. involvement, the Taliban swept back into power, and desperate Afghans clung to departing aircraft—some falling to their deaths in a final, haunting image of America’s retreat.

President Joe Biden’s chaotic withdrawal was met with fury—condemned as reckless, incompetent, and, in some corners, outright treasonous.

Now, barely three years later, history threatens to repeat itself in Ukraine. With whispers of withdrawing support for Kyiv, President Donald Trump stands at the precipice of another American abandonment—one that could hand victory to an adversary even more dangerous than the Taliban.

Afghanistan: A Retreat Turned Rout

Biden’s withdrawal from Afghanistan was meant to end America’s longest war, but instead, it became a global humiliation. The Taliban overran the country in days, U.S. military equipment fell into enemy hands, and thousands of Afghans who worked alongside American forces were left behind to face near-certain retribution.

The worst part? Biden had months to prepare—and still botched the exit.

Critics across the political spectrum called it a betrayal. Some, including Republican lawmakers, went further—accusing Biden of treason.

Senator Josh Hawley declared:

“Biden’s retreat from Afghanistan is the worst foreign policy disaster in a generation. He abandoned allies, betrayed American servicemen, and handed the Taliban victory. This is disgraceful and treasonous.”

Trump himself slammed Biden, insisting that his own withdrawal plan was far more structured—prioritizing:

1. Evacuating American civilians and diplomats first.
2. Extracting Afghan collaborators and military equipment.
3. Removing U.S. troops last.

Yet the bottom line remains: America walked away from Afghanistan, and its ally fell.

Ukraine: The Next Great Abandonment?

Now, Trump faces the same test—this time in Ukraine.

With U.S. aid packages stalled in Congress and Republicans growing skeptical of supporting Kyiv, America’s commitment to Ukraine is faltering. In fact, the GOP’s official stance refuses to acknowledge that Russia is the aggressor—a stunning departure from basic historical reality.

Let’s be crystal clear:

• Russia violated international law by invading Ukraine in 2022.
• U.N. Resolutions in 2022 and 2023 demanded Russia’s withdrawal.
• Putin ignored them.

Any doublespeak from the Trump administration that tries to shift blame onto Ukraine is a pathetic attempt to rewrite history.

The stakes are even higher than in Afghanistan. Russia isn’t a ragtag insurgency—it’s a nuclear-armed superpower with territorial ambitions beyond Ukraine. If the U.S. abandons Kyiv, the war won’t just end—it will expand.

And yet, the same voices that blasted Biden for leaving Afghanistan now push for abandoning Ukraine:

• Trump, who excoriated Biden for “surrendering,” now questions if America should support Ukraine at all.
• House Republicans, who raged against the Afghanistan withdrawal, now actively block aid to Kyiv.
• Conservative media figures, who called Biden weak, now demand Trump pull out of Ukraine completely as a show of strength.

The hypocrisy is staggering.

If abandoning Afghanistan was treason, why is abandoning Ukraine “pragmatic”?

If Biden was a traitor for one retreat, how is Trump a hero for another?

Trump’s Own Betrayals—And the Lack of Outrage

For all the fury over Biden’s handling of Afghanistan, let’s not forget:

Trump himself has a long track record of betraying U.S. allies.

1. The Abandonment of the Kurds (2019)

In 2019, Trump withdrew U.S. troops from northern Syria, abandoning Kurdish fighters who had been America’s most reliable partners against ISIS.

The result?

• Turkey launched an immediate invasion, displacing thousands of Kurds.
• ISIS prisoners escaped from detention camps, reviving the terrorist threat.
• Even Republicans condemned Trump, with Senator Lindsey Graham calling it “the biggest mistake of his presidency.”

Yes, Trump was criticized—but the backlash was a whisper compared to the fury Biden faced over Afghanistan.

No mainstream voices called Trump treasonous.

No congressional hearings branded him a national security threat.

His betrayal was excused as an ‘America First’ policy.

2. The Taliban Deal (2020)

Before Biden even took office, Trump cut a deal with the Taliban, signing an agreement in February 2020 that:

• Excluded the Afghan government from negotiations, undercutting U.S. allies.
• Freed 5,000 Taliban prisoners, many of whom returned to the battlefield.
• Set the stage for the rapid Taliban takeover the moment U.S. troops left.

And yet, Trump faced no lasting political damage.

When Biden followed through on the withdrawal Trump had set in motion, only Biden bore the blame.

America’s Foreign Policy: A Double Standard

America’s commitment to its allies is not based on principle.

It is based on political convenience.

• When a Democratic president withdraws, it’s treason.
• When a Republican president abandons allies, it’s America First.
• When Biden left Afghanistan, it was weakness.
• When Trump wants to leave Ukraine, it’s common sense.

This hypocrisy does more than expose partisan double standards—it damages U.S. credibility.

• If allies believe American support is fleeting, why should they risk survival by trusting Washington?
• If Ukraine is abandoned, what message does that send to Taiwan? NATO? Every nation relying on U.S. security guarantees?

It tells them America is a fair-weather friend.

The United States can either stand by its allies or prove to the world that American loyalty is conditional—offered when convenient, rescinded when difficult.

If abandoning Afghanistan was a disaster, abandoning Ukraine will be a catastrophe.

And those who cheered for one and condemned the other deserve to be called out and remembered for their hypocrisy.

For over two centuries, the United States has functioned without a federally declared official language. This is not an oversight, but a deliberate choice. The founders, wary of central authority, left language policy to the states, where governance was supposed to be closest to the people. Now, a new movement seeks to impose a federal mandate making English the official language of the United States. It is a curious crusade, championed by many of the same voices who claim to despise federal overreach, yet now clamor for Washington to dictate language policy from above.

This is not about preserving English—English is in no danger. This is about power, control, and the age-old hypocrisy of those who rail against federal authority only to embrace it when it suits their agenda.

The United States has functioned just fine without a federally designated official language. English has been the dominant tongue not because of government fiat but because of practicality, history, and cultural momentum. Immigrants, regardless of origin, have historically recognized that learning English is key to economic and social mobility, and they have done so without the federal government demanding it.

More importantly, language policy has traditionally been left to the states—consistent with the long-standing American tradition of local governance. Some states have chosen to recognize English officially, while others have adopted multilingual policies to reflect their diverse populations. The Constitution does not give the federal government the power to dictate a national language, which has been respected for well over 200 years.

Until February 28, 2025. 

Historical Takes on a National Language

If the Founding Fathers believed an official national language was necessary, they would have declared one in the Constitution. They did not. Why? Because they recognized that America was already a linguistically diverse nation. In the early republic, German, Dutch, and French were spoken widely alongside English. The idea of federalizing language would have been anathema to them.

Thomas Jefferson, the great advocate of limited government, specifically opposed federal control over education and culture. He believed such matters should be left to local communities. Yet today’s self-proclaimed Jeffersonians want to use federal power in a way that Jefferson himself would have condemned.

To be fair, there have certainly been cases where the subject of English as a standard language for the United States has been discussed. John Adams sent a letter to the President of Congress on September 5, 1780, in which he proposed the creation of an institution dedicated to refining and standardizing the English language:

“The Honour of forming the first public Institution for refining, correcting, improving and ascertaining the English Language, I hope is reserved for Congress.”

However, nowhere in this letter does Adams indicate he is interested in making English the mandated official language of the country. What Adams was speaking about was that English, like Latin previously, appeared largely to become the “language of the world” and should be cared for accordingly. He was not saying no other languages should be spoken or respected and he certainly was not advocating a homogenous language order from on high. 

At any rate, Congress declined to act upon Adams’ proposal, and no official language was designated at the federal level. Congress instead recognized the nation’s linguistic diversity and was reluctant to impose a singular language, allowing for a more inclusive approach to the country’s multicultural fabric.

In 1907, Theodore Roosevelt also pushed for a national language of English, believing it would lead to national cohesion. Respectable goal, but cohesion at the expense of the diverse cultural makeup our country was built on and has flourished with. As a result, this effort met with significant opposition and was ultimately shot down.

State Sovereignty…or Not

The same people pushing for this federal English mandate are, in many cases, the same self-proclaimed heroes who champion states’ rights. This is ideological opportunism, not principle. It reveals the truth that many so-called “small government” advocates don’t honestly oppose federal power—they just want it wielded in their favor.

• When the federal government enforces environmental protections? Overreach!
• When the federal government protects voting rights? Tyranny!
• When the federal government mandates English as the official language? Well, that’s just common sense!

The irony is even richer considering the conservative outcry over Quebec’s Charter of the French Language, which mandates the use of French in various public and private sectors. Many Americans, especially those advocating for minimal government intervention, view these regulations as excessive and contrary to the principles of personal freedom. 

So What’s This Really About?

So again, let’s be clear that English is not in any way endangered. It is the dominant language of government, business, and media. The overwhelming majority of Americans, including immigrants, already speak it. If any country ever had a de facto official language, English is just that for the United States.

So why the sudden urgency of an executive order? 

Because this isn’t about language—it’s about identity politics and cultural control. 

This is not about ensuring English remains the common tongue. It already is. 

This is about using the federal government to enforce cultural conformity. It is about more separation and yet another attack on any form of diversity.

Declaring English the official language is a way to signal opposition to multiculturalism. It is a thinly veiled attempt to exclude non-English speakers from political and social participation, reinforcing the false idea that linguistic diversity is a threat rather than a strength. It is a carefully constructed, legal approach to segregation at best, outright bigotry at worst.

It is also an excuse to cut government services in other languages, including translation for immigrants, public health materials, and bilingual education. This would not just inconvenience non-English speakers—it would actively harm communities, particularly in emergency situations where language access can mean the difference between life and death.

A federal mandate declaring English the official language is a solution to a problem that does not exist, proposed by people who claim to oppose federal overreach—except when it serves their interests. It is yet another political maneuver designed to drive a wedge between us, not to unify.

If English is truly as common as its advocates claim, it does not need federal protection. If states’ rights are truly as sacred as these lawmakers argue, they should not be undermined by Washington’s interference. And if the United States is truly a land of liberty, then its people should be free to speak and conduct their lives without the heavy hand of the federal government telling them how to do so.

Hypocrisy may be the official language of Washington, D.C, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us have to speak it.

¡Desafía la corona!

Киньте виклик короні!

ताज की अवहेलना करो!

My Sons,

There’s been a lot of talk lately about what it means to be a man—what’s expected, what’s allowed, what’s supposedly under attack. Some would have you believe that manhood is a fixed point, a rigid thing with clear rules and boundaries, that to be a man means to follow a script written long ago. But I want you to understand something that too many people refuse to see: manhood is not a cage, it’s a spectrum, a living thing that grows with you, that evolves with time and experience.

You will hear people—especially those who crave power—tell you that masculinity is being attacked. That’s a lie. What’s being questioned, rightfully so, are the narrow, outdated ideas of what men must be: unfeeling, aggressive, dominant, stoic to the point of silence. These are not strengths; they are chains. You do not need to measure your worth by them.

Instead, I want you to see manhood not as something you must fit into, but as something you shape. You are not just inheritors of masculinity; you are creators of it. And like anything worth creating, it requires thought, care, and the courage to challenge what doesn’t serve you or those around you.

There is nothing wrong with being strong. There is nothing wrong with resilience, or with standing up for what you believe in. There is nothing wrong with “telling jokes” or “having a beer.” But there is a vast difference between true strength and toxic masculinity, which confuses dominance with power and silence with control.

A man who lifts others up is strong, a man who crushes others to feel taller is weak.

A man who faces his fears is strong, a man who denies he has any is fragile.

A man who protects the vulnerable is strong, a man who preys on the weak is cowardly.

There will be people who tell you that expressing kindness, compassion, or emotion makes you less of a man. That’s nonsense. A man who cannot express love is not strong—he is stunted. A man who cannot say “I’m sorry” or “I was wrong” is not tough—he is afraid.

You do not need to fear your emotions. The world does not need more men who bottle up their pain until it curdles into violence or bitterness. The world does not need more men who believe tears are only for women or children. The world needs men who understand that strength without vulnerability is hollow.

There was a time when being a man meant swinging a sword or plowing a field. A time when it meant never questioning authority, never showing fear, never crying over loss. But the world has changed, and so must we.

Your male ancestors were, of course, men of their times. Some of what they believed was admirable—hard work, duty, resilience. Some of what they believed was toxic—silence as a virtue, anger as the only acceptable emotion, love expressed only through sacrifice rather than words. Their strengths should be remembered, their mistakes should be learned from, and their limitations should not be yours.

Manhood should not be a hand-me-down suit you are forced to wear—it should be something tailored to fit who you truly are.

You do not need to only be a warrior to be a man. You do not only need to be wealthy. You do not only need to be a leader.

You only need to be you.

I hope you become men who are strong enough to be gentle. Men who can fight for what’s right without needing to fight for the sake of it. Men who can say “I don’t know” and seek answers instead of pretending they already have them. Men who respect others—not because it makes them look honorable, but because respect is the foundation of real strength. Men who do not confuse cruelty for power. Men who know that masculinity is not one thing, but many things, and that your manhood is yours to define.

I will not tell you what kind of man you must be. That’s for you to decide. But I will tell you this: the world is full of people who will try to fit you into a mold that serves them rather than you. Don’t let them. You don’t need permission to be the kind of man you want to be.

And if someone tells you that you are “not man enough” because you cry, or because you love openly, or because you refuse to follow the old scripts—then know this: they are the ones who are afraid. Afraid that masculinity can be more than what they comprehend. Afraid that it can be something richer, deeper, and more human than the brittle, narrow thing they have built their identities around.

Be strong. Be kind. Be wise enough to know the difference between confidence and arrogance, between power and cruelty, between tradition and chains. Be the kind of man who builds, not the kind who destroys.

To the world I am Brutus.

To both of you I will always be proud to be just Dad

I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to take a moment to engage with you on a topic that has, in recent years, become one of the most contentious issues in our cultural and political discourse: transgender identity. I know that for many conservatives, the growing visibility of transgender individuals and the societal changes surrounding gender identity may feel unsettling, even threatening. My goal here is not to dismiss your concerns but to explore them honestly and to offer an alternative perspective—one rooted in both history and reality.

You may feel that the increasing recognition of transgender people represents a fundamental shift in our understanding of gender, a challenge to traditions that have guided civilization for millennia. This is a valid feeling; cultural change can be disorienting. However, history tells us that transgender and gender-nonconforming individuals have always existed, across all societies and eras. From the Hijras of South Asia to the Two-Spirit people of Indigenous North America, variations in gender expression are not new. What is new is our society’s willingness to acknowledge these identities and protect the rights of those who hold them.

One of the central concerns I often hear from conservatives is the belief that acknowledging transgender identities erodes the concept of biological reality. But science itself does not support a rigid binary view of gender. Biological sex is complex, influenced by chromosomes, hormones, and brain development, and there are naturally occurring variations beyond male and female. Recognizing this does not mean denying biology but rather acknowledging its complexity. The American Medical Association, the American Psychological Association, and countless other medical bodies recognize that gender identity is a deeply ingrained aspect of human experience, and for some, it does not align neatly with the sex they were assigned at birth.

Another major concern seems to be the fear that acknowledging transgender people somehow threatens traditional values, family structures, or even the rights of others. But in reality, transgender individuals seeking recognition and equal treatment are not infringing on the rights of anyone else. They are not demanding that you change your beliefs, only that they be allowed to live their lives freely, just as you do. The existence of transgender people does not prevent you from raising your children with the values you hold dear, worshiping as you choose, or maintaining traditional gender roles in your own life. It simply allows others the same freedom.

The perception of a threat often comes from how the issue is framed in media and political discourse. When politicians or commentators argue that recognizing transgender rights means the collapse of civilization or the destruction of the family, they are not engaging with reality but rather stoking fear. Fear is a powerful political tool, and it is often used to rally people against change, even when that change is fundamentally about extending dignity and respect to others.

Perhaps the most charged aspect of this debate concerns children and gender identity. I understand why many conservatives worry about the well-being of children, and I share that concern. But the best available evidence suggests that affirming a child’s gender identity leads to better mental health outcomes. It is important to recognize that gender-affirming care does not mean rushing children into medical interventions but rather providing a supportive environment where they can explore their identity safely. The reality is that transgender youth exist, and ignoring or denying their identity does not make them disappear—it only increases their suffering.

Ultimately, I believe the core conservative principle of individual freedom should lead to a position of tolerance, if not outright support, for transgender people. If we value personal liberty, should that not extend to people making decisions about their own bodies and identities? If we believe in limited government, should we not resist laws that police how people express themselves? And if we champion the family, should we not support parents who choose to love and affirm their transgender children?

I am not asking you to abandon your beliefs, but I do ask that you consider the possibility that transgender people are not the enemy of civilization, tradition, or morality. They are simply people—people who, like everyone else, want to live freely, love openly, and be treated with dignity.

I appreciate you taking the time to read this letter, and I hope it fosters reflection, if not agreement. At the end of the day, we may not see eye to eye on everything, but if we can at least see each other as human beings rather than adversaries, that is a step toward a better, more understanding society.

With respect and sincerity,
Brutus X

“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.