It was a balmy suburban afternoon when the Democrats gathered for one of their peculiar rituals—“Bring a smile and remember, don’t rile. Positivity only. No Swearing!” Like a PTA meeting dipped in patchouli and glitter glue, these are not warriors. These are the soft-bellied remnants of Woodstock’s third cousin, strung together by Facebook invites and iced chai. I saw them, standing on the sidewalk with their “BE KIND” signs and their smiles calibrated for selfies, faces glazed with sunscreen and self-importance.
This wasn’t protest. It was performance art – bad, high-school-theatre-level performance art. Hashtag activism for folks who believe the revolution begins and ends at brunch. These are the same folks who demand change without confrontation, who whisper “love wins” while ignoring the burning house down the street.
They are fossilized in 2008, clutching Obama-era optimism like it’s a rosary. Meanwhile, the machine keeps chewing through civil rights, healthcare, and the scraps of democracy with industrial efficiency. But here come the Democrats, armed with foam-board and friendliness, certain that “good vibes” will dismantle fascism.
They believe in their own smoke and mirrors—the worst sin of all. They mistake optics for substance, retweets for policy, a gentle nod from MSNBC for actual change. It’s a cosplay revolution, safe inside the white picket fences of small-town America where they still think NPR is edgy and “Hope” is a plan.
We are not doomed because our enemies are strong. We are doomed because our allies are polite.