An opinion by Larry Kirchoff, appeared in The City Pulse April 29, 2026

The Gospel According to the Golden Calf (All The Presidents Men 2026) Lo, my flock, in this age of “fake news,” a single voice has been anointed above all others—unyielding, unquestioned and forever echoing. All who speak against it ar branded heretics, their words cast into the wilderness, unheard and unseen. For truth is no longer something we seek, but something we are told—and told again and again—until even doubt begins to feel like sin.

Brothers and sisters, gather closer still—tight enough that doubt cannot slip between you. Today, we dispense with reverence entirely. Today we testify in the Church of Brazen Absurdity, where the wine is cheap, the symbolism is loud and the hypocrisy is served neat.

Can I get an amen?

And lo, Donald Trump stood before the congregation once more, robed not in humility but in confidence so thick it required no evidence. Now it came to pass that Donald Trump stood before the congregation and proclaimed unto them, “Behold, I am a doctor.” And lo, the people marveled—not at the claim, but at the image he had posted. For it was revealed that what he meant was not “doctor” but “doctored”. Yet the faithful did not stumble. And thus a new sacrament was born: the Holy Misstatement, where words need not mean what they say, only what they feel like they might have meant if interpreted generously enough.

And so he raised his sacred chalice—a sweating, sanctified Diet Coke—and drank deeply, proclaiming it a cure-all, a tonic, a miracle elixir capable of warding off all known ailments and perhaps even a few imaginary ones.

“Drink,” he said, “and thou shalt be spared.”

Amen?

Meanwhile, in the smoky backrooms of power—lit not by candlelight but by the flicker of screens and the glow of bad decisions—Kash Patel and Pete Hegseth raised their glasses.

Old fashioneds. Strong. Careless. They clinked ice like bells of reckoning and laughed—not the laughter of joy, but the hollow, echoing cackle of men mistaking recklessness for strength.

They partied like frat kings in a house built on borrowed legitimacy—hazing their own, chest-bumping through briefings, turning the machinery of state into a tailgate of testosterone and terrible ideas.

“Chug!” one shouted, though whether it was the drink or the consequences, no one could quite tell.

And between sips, Pete Hegseth once again reached for the sacred script of Pulp Fiction, delivering lines with theatrical concern—massaging the words just enough to sound like empathy without ever committing the sin of actually meaning it.

“I care about the troops,” he insisted, as if saying it often enough might make it measurable.

And those not in the room where it happened roared their approval.

Amen?

Behold previous warnings—thunderous, urgent, impossible to ignore.

“Nuclear threat!” they cried, voices rising like a choir of contradiction.

Though not long before, they had assured the same congregation that such threats had been obliterated……..neutralized, vaporized, turned to ash and memory. But consistency, as we know, is heresy here. And so Donald Trump spoke again, musing about the end of a civilization—as one might discuss casually canceling a dinner reservation.

Total destruction. Absolute devastation. The kind of language that should freeze the room.

But it didn’t.

“For strength,” the faithful whispered, “is the willingness to say the unthinkable without blinking.”

Amen?

Meanwhile, the collection plates were passed—digitally, of course. And the faithful gave generously, though their cupboards grew bare and their bills grew larger.

And while the faithful tightened their belts—while grocery bills climbed like insurmountable mountains and wages crawled like weary pilgrims—the offering plates grew heavier. And the coffers of the chosen few overflowed. Billions gathered like blessings, flowing upward in a reverse tithe—where the many give, and the powerful receive.

“It is prosperity,” they said, “if we say it is.”

Even as they paid more for less, they testified louder than ever: “We have never had it better.”

Amen?

Back in the revelry, Kash Patel and Pete Hegseth toasted again—another round, another roar—posturing like alpha prophets in a house of mirrors, unaware or unconcerned that beyond the walls, the world was watching with a mixture of disbelief and uneasy laughter.

Behind closed doors, whispers echoed. Not from the congregation—but from those who remembered what competence once looked like. From those who had seen these roles filled by steady hands rather than performative fists.

But such memories are inconvenient. And inconvenience is the first thing sacrificed at the altar of allegiance.

But that time, like so many inconvenient truths, has been declared reverently irrelevant.

Amen?

And finally, brothers and sisters, we come to the sacred scrolls that once burned in the public imagination—the files, the names, the unanswered questions. The things thatmattered deeply… until they didn’t.

“The Jeffrey Epstein files are no longer important,” they said.

And just like that, they weren’t.

For what is truth, if not a thing that can be reassigned? What is outrage, if not a faucet to be turned on and off at will?

The congregation nodded, relieved. No reckoning. No curiosity. Just a collective shrug wrapped in practiced indifference.

“For to remember is hard,” they said. “And to forget is divine.”

Amen?

So go now, my congregation of convenient belief. Go forth into the world armed with contradiction, fortified by spectacle, and comforted by the soft embrace of selective outrage. A toast is in order. And as the glasses were raised—some filled with old fashioneds, others with something more… medicinal—there emerged a new authority, an anointed expert by volume alone: Joe Rogan.

Not summoned by peer-reviewed data, nor tempered by discipline, but ushered in by audience size and algorithmic grace. And there he stood, shoulder to shoulder with Donald Trump, as the pen prepared to rewrite reality.

An executive order, they called it—a sanctification of speculation. A quiet suggestion that harm is merely a matter of opinion, that risk can be dissolved with enough confidence and a well-timed signature.

“For what is evidence,” they asked, “when conviction feels so much stronger?” And somewhere beneath the applause, buried deep where inconvenient truths are laid to rest, lingered the knowledge—at least one life already lost, not hypothetical, not debated, but real.

A cost of doing business in the marketplace of certainty without proof.

But the congregation did not stir.

“For the body is temporary,” they whispered, “but belief is eternal.”

Drink deeply from the well of convenient narratives. Sing loudly from the hymnal of half-truths.

“For anecdote is stronger than evidence,” they said. “And vibes shall set us free.” And above all, never let consistency stand in the way of devotion.

Can I get an amen?

Drink deeply. Question lightly. And above all, never let consistency stand in the way of devotion.

Can I get an amen?

Please email me at lansingallstar@gmail.com

My father-in-law was the epitome of the man, the myth, the legend. This Christmas marked the second without him, and his absence still feels unreal. For more than 25 years, he was the gravitational force behind some of the best moments of our lives: legendary Fourth of July gatherings, unforgettable Halloweens and Christmas Eves. He was the magnet that held us all together. I don’t think he enjoyed anything more than being surrounded by his people, and everything seemed lighter when he was around. He was a large, looming presence—someone who commanded respect the moment he entered a room. But anyone who truly knew him understood how misleading that  First impression could be. Beneath the stature and the seriousness was a man who was warm, welcoming and endlessly human.

If you didn’t know him well, you might have been a little tentative at  First—until he cracked a joke or  ashed one of his trademark smiles, the kind that instantly dissolved any barrier between the two of you. He had a gift for making people feel seen. He could give you a nickname and somehow make it stick in a way that felt meaningful, almost ceremonial. For me, it was “Lawrence.” My entire life, I’d never allowed anyone to call me anything but Larry—certainly not Lawrence. Yet from the very  rst time he said it, it felt natural, affectionate and earned.

After he passed, his brother picked it up where he left off , and somehow that name carries even more weight now. It’s a small thing, but it means everything. You can imagine the magnitude of losing someone like him. My wife’s life has been irrevocably altered. There is a hole that will never be  filled, and pretending otherwise would be dishonest. He was the anchor of her family—the steady presence everyone orbited around. He set a standard, not through speeches or grand gestures, but through consistency, integrity and showing up. He is the example I can only hope to live up to for my own children. 

I wish we all had more time with him. That wish never really goes away. But I am profoundly grateful that I had any time at all—that I was welcomed into his life, into his family, and into something I didn’t even realize I was missing. I came from a misfit, dysfunctional family. I never truly learned what family was supposed to mean, nor did I understand the depth of loss that comes when something solid disappears. I also didn’t know how to show up for others in that way. Being part of his family taught me those things. It showed me the quiet power of stability, support and unconditional presence. It made me realize how rare—and how valuable—that kind of security is. My children are growing up with something I never had: the knowledge that they are held, supported and safe. Not everyone is born into that, and I don’t take it for granted. I don’t fault my family for what they couldn’t give; many factors shape the circumstances we’re born into. In an imperfect society that rewards abundance and exploits scarcity, some outcomes are tragic but unsurprising. Still, that doesn’t diminish the gratitude I feel for what my kids now have. 

The year 2025 has been particularly difficult. There’s no way around that. But as it comes to a close, I  find myself ending it with renewed purpose. I’ve never been one for New Year’s resolutions. When I was younger, I lived in survival mode and felt invincible—or at least pretended to be. Over the past couple of decades, and especially the last several years, I’ve learned the truth: I’m not invincible. Security is  eeting. Time is  finite. 

That realization has sharpened my focus. There are things I’ve allowed to drift, priorities I need to reclaim. I want to be more diligent, more intentional—about growth, peace and about showing up fully. I want to create more space to focus on my work, to better serve those who trust me, and to build on what we’ve already achieved. I want to be a model for what a business should be: principled, reliable and human. Busy is a double-edged sword, but it’s better than the alternative, and I don’t take your calls for granted. Navigating the calls is a challenge that I will continue to focus on with new tools and strategies that scale with our growth without sacri cing responsiveness. 

The past month was a struggle. But I won’t rest on my laurels. I owe that to my family, to my kids, and to the example set by a man whose legacy isn’t measured in years, but in the lives he anchored. And in that way, he’s still holding us together. 

Please email me at lansingallstar@gmail.com. 

This appeared in the December 2 issue of the Lansing City Pulse. You can find All Star Mechanical in the Lansing City Pulse regularly.

I remember the days when I could reasonably envision my future. Most of us could. We grew up with a quiet cofidence that if we worked hard and made decent choices, the road ahead — while never guaranteed —would at least make sense. We believed that raising a family wouldn’t
require a financial acrobatics routine. We trusted that our neighborsweren’t sizing us up as enemies.We assumed our children would inherit a world where they could imagine a future of their own, instead of
feeling powerless inside a capitalistic hellscape designed to extract everything from them while giving as little as possible in return.

That feeling — of predictability, of stability, of a functioning socialcontract — has evaporated. And nobody seems willing to say it out loud:

What is going on?
What is going on when we hear talk of closing the skies over Venezuela, as if the United States is inching toward yet another military escalation masquerading as righteousness? We’re told missiles are being launched at “suspected drug smugglers.” As though a few dozen extrajudicial killings — people vaporized without names, trials, or evidence — will somehow improve the lives of average Americans. We’re not safer. We’re not stronger. We’re not in the know. We’re being sold a narrative — and worse: We’re expected to swallow it without question. Because questioning the storyline is now treated as disloyalty. What is going on when the MAHA movement — MAGA’s even-less-informed cousin — keeps spiraling into conspiratorial nonsense every time the topic of public health comes up? How did we go from bipartisan trust in basic medicine to people loudly claiming Tylenol causes autism or whispering about bird  flu outbreaks that “they”are refusing to report? The irony is that the people sounding the alarm about government incompetence are the same people undermining the very systems that would help us in a crisis. We are as unprepared as we’ve ever been to handle any outbreak, not because the science isn’t there, but because the public conversation has been hijacked by opportunists who see fear as a business model.

And then there’s the economy — this supposedly “robust” miracle the administration keeps celebrating. They beam in front of cameras and proclaim historic success, while quietly withholding the basic economic data that every administration for decades released like clockwork. Jobs reports postponed. Inflation metrics missing. GDP numbers scheduled for public release on October 30 held back without explanation. They call themselves the most transparent administration in history. They act like a corporation shredding documents in a locked basement.

Transparency shouldn’t require binoculars and a prayer. I used to believe that if things went sideways, if the country hit turbulence, I could still protect my family. I had faith — maybe naïve, maybe conditioned — that the institutions built over generations would hold. That the people in charge, regardless of party, would be adults in the room. That America’s government, despite its  flaws, would remain tethered to credibility. But today? I  find myself feeling the country is closer to uncontrollable collapse than anything resembling stability. Not because of one crisis, but because of a sprawling pattern of dysfunction, denial, secrecy, and corruption. A pattern enabled by millions of people who’ve convinced themselves that loyalty to a brand or a movement is more important than loyalty to the truth.

Never did I think I would watch the legitimacy of the United States government dissolve so quickly, or so quietly. But here we are. The enabling of this administration —its lies, contempt for accountability,
bizarre obsession with theatrics — has been astonishing to watch. And it’s not happening because Americans suddenly stopped caring. It’s happening because many have been groomed to believe that any contradiction to the leader’s narrative is an attack on their identity.

That is the grift. That is the trap. And it’s working. People scoff at the word “propaganda” because it feels too dramatic, too foreign. But propaganda doesn’t need marching bands or giant posters.
Sometimes it looks like selective press access. Sometimes it looks like strategic silence. Sometimes it looks like one more missing report, one more unasked question, one more manufactured crisis used to distract from the rot happening in plain sight.

And it’s that rot that keeps me up at night. Because the collapse of trust isn’t theoretical — it’s already here. When a government stops telling the truth, the fabric of society frays. When people stop believing they have a future, they stop investing in it. When families feel unsafe, economically or socially, they retreat into survival mode. That’s not patriotism. That’s not prosperity. That’s not stability. That’s decay.
Maybe what scares me most is how ordinary everything still looks on the surface. The denial is so strong, the distractions so constant, that you almost forget the ground is shifting beneath you. People run errands, take their kids to school, go to work, scroll endlessly through their chosen echo chambers, and pretend everything is normal. But the air feels different. The future feels less like a promise and more like a dare.

And we all know it, even if we’re afraid to say it.

So again I ask: What is going on? It’s not one thing. It’s not even ten things. It’s a corrosive mix of
incompetence, disinformation, and greed wrapped in a  flag and sold as patriotism. It’s a public manipulated into embracing nonsense. It’s a government that has learned it can get away with o ering nothing but slogans, secrecy, and manufactured enemies. It’s a political culture where outrage is currency and truth is collateral damage. And in the middle of all that, ordinary people — people like me, people like you — are left wondering how the hell we’re supposed to protect our families in a world where the people in charge treat reality like an inconvenience.

This is what happens when people love power and money more than they love the truth, more than they love their country, and certainly more than they love the people they swore to serve.

Email me at lansingallstar@gmail.com

There was a time when the news didn’t come screaming at you from every glowing screen. You waited for it — in print, in black and white, in the morning. You trusted, at least a little, that the people telling the story cared about the truth more than the clicks.

Of course, bias has always been part of the deal. Even in the days of Emmett Till, when the country was still pretending that Black suffering was a matter of debate, we watched the machinery of lies churn. A white woman pointed a finger, said a boy whistled at her, and that was all it took to end his life. Her story unraveled decades later, but by then, the damage was irreversible — as it always is when truth arrives too late.

Then came television. The faces on the screen became our storytellers, our priests, our moral compass — or so we thought. But when Rodney King’s beating was caught on camera, some people still managed to see the violence and wonder what he did wrong. Seeing, it turned out, didn’t mean understanding.

Cable television didn’t just erode our faith in institutions — it eroded our attention spans.

Suddenly, the country that once prided itself on hard work and reason was binge-watching chaos: “The Jerry Springer Show,” Jenny Jones, Maury. We turned humiliation into a spectator sport. Capitalism, ever the opportunist, understood exactly what it was doing: giving the restless masses a distraction, something to make them feel superior for thirtyminutes at a time.

Then came the smartphone — the Pandora’s box ofmodern civilization. Now the entire world is in ourpocket, and so is every lie. People with no journalistic training, no ethical guardrails, and no sense of proportion found their audience. Algorithms took care of the rest. We’re now living in a custom-built hallucination, where every scroll reaffirms our worst instincts. Everyone has their own “truth,” their own “facts,” their own war to fight against imaginary enemies.

We’ve entered a kind of national cosplay, where citizens play soldier for causes they barely understand, armed with memes instead of muskets fighting shadowy conspiracies that only exist online. And all the while, the real problems — climate change, inequality, education, science — sit neglected, like unwanted children at the edge of a crowded room.

How do we escape this loop without surrendering to pseudoscience and magical thinking? There’s only one reality that matters, and it’s the one based in facts. But facts don’t trend. They don’t flatter our biases or soothe our fears. They demand effort, patience, humility — three things modern America seems to have misplaced.

I can’t shake the feeling that something is coming. A crash, a reckoning, a moment when all this digital noise meets the hard wall of reality. And when it does, too many innocent people will pay the price. We are our own worst enemy. Not because we lack intelligence, but because we traded curiosity for comfort. We could be devoting our collective brilliance to curing disease, saving the planet, or lifting people out of poverty. Instead, we’re trapped in the narcissism of grievance, worshipping a populist who mistakes his personal vendettas for patriotism.

America once dreamed big. Now it doom-scrolls. And if history has a sense of humor — and it always does — the last sound we’ll hear before it all collapses won’t be a warning siren or a speech. It’ll be the gentle ping of a notification reminding us to update our settings. Email me at lansingallstar@gmail.com

Welcome to the Silent Burning: Free Speech in a Flammable America

By Larry Kirchhoff, Owner of All Star Mechanical

Once upon a time in America, a business could run a commercial for a furnace or an air conditioner and feel good knowing the only controversy involved was whether to offer 0% APR or a $500 rebate.

But not anymore. Today, you can sell climate control — just don’t try to control the political climate.

I recently produced two television commercials for my HVAC business, which also happens to proudly promote progressive values. As someone who believes in conscious capitalism — the idea that your spending is your vote — I thought, What better way to connect with like-minded customers than with some creative, slightly satirical, but painfully accurate commercials about where we are in America today?

Here’s what happened.

Two local stations approved my scripts in advance, I then spent $13,500 of my small business budget producing the spots. But once they saw the finished product, something changed. One station ran them for a day, then pulled them. The other got cold feet before even hitting “play.”

The reason? Too hot to handle.

Mind you, these stations regularly air content that would make George Orwell sweat — propaganda disguised as news, rage-bait political ads, and reality TV that’s anything but real. But my commercials? Somehow they crossed a line. Why? Because they held up a mirror.

Commercial #1 parodied the infamous Michigan militia trial — you know, the one where a group of grown men plotted to “hog-tie” the governor? We thought it might be time to laugh, cry, and wince at the absurdity of it all. Spoiler alert: no actual books were burned in the making of the ad.

Commercial #2 depicted a Black man peeking through his blinds to see red-hatted radicals chanting and prepping a cross for burning in his yard. A throwback? Yes. A fever dream? Not really. Just ask Charlottesville.

The ads were bold. Satirical. Honest. And maybe that’s the problem.

See, I’m not the CEO of ExxonMobil or a political PAC with dark money to spend. I’m a guy who fixes furnaces in the winter and installs air conditioners in the summer. I’m a small business owner who believes my community deserves to know that the dollars they spend with me don’t fund hate, bigotry, or insurrection.

But apparently, that’s too controversial.

It wasn’t the public that objected — we didn’t even get that far. It was the gatekeepers. The executives, the lawyers, the shadowy figures who say things like, “We’re just not comfortable,” or “We’re worried about liability,” or “We’re not sure this aligns with our brand.”

You know what else used to not “align with the brand”? Desegregation. Gay marriage. Women’s rights.

What’s happening here isn’t just censorship — it’s corporate cowardice masquerading as neutrality. And neutrality, in the face of rising fascism, is complicity.

We are now in an America where satire is scarier than sedition, and where a small business owner using humor to call out extremism is treated like a threat to the Republic, while actual extremists run for office.

Public airwaves, it turns out, aren’t so public. They belong to the highest bidder with the safest narrative. And satire that offends the wrong people? That doesn’t sell.

But here’s the rub: if we don’t push back, this will become the new normal. This is how authoritarianism wins — not with a bang, but with a polite email from Standards & Practices.

So I’ll keep speaking. I’ll keep fixing furnaces. And I’ll keep reminding people that your dollars have power — and so does your voice.

Because if a commercial for a furnace can shake the pillars of power, maybe it’s time to turn up the heat.

You can find these ads on our website at lansingallstar.com where it will redirect you to our YouTube channel, but while you are at our website, you can see what matters to this business. 

Interview with Larry Kirchoff, All Star Mechanical

Larry Kirchoff, owner of Lansing’s All Star Mechanical is no stranger to speaking out for racial and social justice issues. His semi-famous City Pulse ads, calling attention to the racial and social inequities both here in Lansing and nationally, have earned him a spot as one of the most outspoken social justice small business owners in our community. In the latest series of video ads, All Star Mechanical tackles white supremacy and the plot to kidnap Michigan’s governor, all while poking fun at the perpetrators of these acts. 

Q: What were the reasons you wanted to tackle these serious issues in these funny ads?

I guess I can’t get over the fact that there are still so many people out there who either support this, or act like this is normal, and I want to keep the spotlight on it and let people know that they are not alone and while putting these ads out there may not change the minds of those who support this, it is important to keep resisting.

Q: In the spot entitled “Gravy Seals”, a group of men hiding in their basement wearing tactical gear plot to kidnap the governor and end up burning books to stay warm. When the lights turn on by the lady of the house, they’re all middle-aged guys in tropical print shirts standing around hand-drawn map drinking beers. Tell us about this spot?

I feel like this story should scare the hell out of everyone because these guys could be your neighbors. While many trolls do hide out in their basements cosplaying their fantasy’s, all too often, they have the means to attempt to carry out these types of plots. I am just thankful they weren’t the brightest bunch, and they were caught before they could hurt anyone.

Q: In this spot “tired of burning books to heat your home? Call All Star Mechanical today” as the call to action, which is funny. Tell us why you chose this angle to poke at the absurdity of these characters in the ad?

Honestly, I was just trying to find a way to make an ad that would stick out. I reached out to my followers on social media, and that was one of the ideas from someone in my circle. Once I heard it, I knew it needed to be turned into something amazing, and now it is. Myself and the guys from Biddle City Project invited people to collaborate to come up with a story line that fits, and what you see as the final product is from months of discussion.

Q. In the spot entitled “MAGAT Neighbors”, the next door neighbors are celebrating Trump’s win with obvious white nationalist language, garb and gear, while the African American neighbor looks in on the action through the blinds. When they raise a white cross, we get the idea. Tell us about this spot?

Originally, I had it in my head that we would have one spot that would say “Tired of burning books and crosses to heat your home?” but through brainstorming, we decided that it would actually make it more suitable to create two ads, one for summer HVAC marketing, and one for winter HVAC marketing. The story line just evolved quite easily, as I think it depicts a large portion of Trump’s base.

In this, it’s “too hot outside? Call All Star Mechanical” as the call to action in this spot. Tell us more about this spot and its message.

People who aren’t seen as the default in the United States are certainly going to be impacted by the policies of this administration. I wanted it to have a sense of reality. Particularly, African Americans have had to deal with these types of MAGATS, and frankly, the response of the actor is pretty spot on, as if to say “here we go again, pack your bags honey, time to go”.

Q: You’re not afraid to call attention to these very serious issues but in a humorous way. How have your clients responded to your ads (a previous series with a similar angle)?

As far as the filmed ads, this is the most direct we have been yet. I love it. I am more of a writer, but I am so pleased to work with these guys to create these, and I do think our customers love it too.

You can see these ads by clicking the links above to visit the All Star Mechanical YouTube channel or watch them below:

The Juneteenth Issue of City Pulse comes out today. Here is my submission.

Stars, Stripes, and Selective Memory: Why Juneteenth Deserves More Than a Hashtag and a Target Sale

I’m a 54-year-old cis white guy, born in the golden era of grilled cheese sandwiches, Saturday morning cartoons, and the kind of oblivious American freedom that felt like a birthright, not a construct. For the first 40 years of my life, I mistook privilege for normalcy. It wasn’t malice—it was just… America, the whitewashed edition.

Then came Trayvon Martin. A 17-year-old kid shot dead for the crime of walking while Black—and suddenly the land of the free had a different contour. I watched in disbelief as people twisted themselves into moral pretzels to justify his murder, while George Zimmerman was elevated to some kind of neighborhood-watch Batman. Colin Kaepernick takes a knee and America responded by throwing a tantrum with the energy of a toddler who just found out bedtime is real. The cartoonish double standards I’d be blind to for so long.

Fast forward past the outrage cycle, past Kaepernick’s knee (and America’s collective neck craning away), we’ve got folks fighting tooth and nail to keep Juneteenth in the discount bin, all while polishing their flagpoles for July 4th. Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion efforts are being axed like they were some radical Marxist spell cast upon HR departments. School curriculums? Scrubbed clean of anything that might give little Johnny the impression that America has ever done anything wrong. And let’s not forget the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture—the literal repository of truth—being forced to remove items. Because apparently, it’s easier to erase history than to teach it. DEI programs are being axed like they were caught teaching kids to read Karl Marx in drag. School boards are banning books faster than they can spell “inclusion.” DEI offices are getting gutted like someone found empathy hiding in the budget, as if saying “Black Lives Matter” is more offensive than, you know, erasing actual Black lives from the American narrative. Black leaders’ names disappear from government buildings like someone’s trying to win a game of DEI Bingo in reverse. First one to wipe out all cultural memory gets a flag pin and a podcast deal. What are we doing? Deleting names from buildings, deleting facts from textbooks, deleting history like it’s a Netflix show that tested poorly in focus groups. All while clutching pearls about “erasing history” whenever someone suggests maybe Robert E. Lee doesn’t deserve his own zip code. And the irony? It’s thick enough to slice with a butter knife. These are often the same people who will chest-thump about “preserving American heritage,” while actively deleting the heritage of Black Americans who, let’s be honest, built the damn country—for free.

So let’s talk about Juneteenth. Not the corporate-sanctioned ice cream flavor or the obligatory tweet from that one senator who voted against making it a federal holiday. Let’s talk about why Juneteenth should be reverent, sobering, and, yes—uncomfortable. Ah yes—Juneteenth, the holiday that shows up on calendars now but still gets side-eyed by half the country like it wandered into the wrong cookout. It’s the day that commemorates when the last enslaved people in Galveston, Texas were told they were actually free—two and a half years after the Emancipation Proclamation. Basically, it’s America saying, “Oh right, we forgot to tell you… our bad!” You’d think a moment like that—the literal end of slavery—might command some reverence. Maybe even fireworks, parades, or a dramatic reading of actual history in classrooms. But no. Instead, Juneteenth gets a discount at Old Navy and maybe a soul food pop-up next to the company vending machines. Meanwhile, July 4th is treated like a national baptism—pure, perfect, unblemished patriotism. Never mind the whole “slavery was still going strong” thing when the Founders were high-fiving each other with quill pens. Juneteenth isn’t a side dish to America’s history—it is the main course. It is the moment the ideals of freedom were finally extended—however begrudgingly, however slowly—to the people who had been written out of the script from the beginning. It is a sacred marker that freedom in this country has never been free—and it has never been evenly distributed. So no, Juneteenth isn’t just another holiday. It’s not a theme day. It’s not a “Happy Juneteenth!” text with a fist emoji. It’s not an excuse to slap red, black, and green on a coffee cup, or t-shirt and call it progress. It’s a day to sit in the discomfort of America’s delayed justice. To acknowledge the centuries-long gap between what we say we are and what we’ve actually been. It’s a time to listen, to learn, to shut up and show up. Juneteenth makes a lot of white people nervous. Because it’s not a holiday you can fake your way through with a bald eagle shirt and a Lee Greenwood playlist. It’s a holiday that whispers, “Hey, America, maybe you’re not the hero in every story.” And America hates that.

This is what Juneteenth is up against: a country that loves the idea of freedom—as long as it doesn’t come with context, discomfort, or accountability. Fun fact, formerly enslaved people were promised 40 acres and a mule as reparations. In that time, that would have been a pathway to fundamentally change the trajectory of Black economic, social, and political life in America. But guess what? Andrew Johnson evicted freed people violently and rescinded the order for any reparations for formerly enslaved people. But guess who did get reparations? If you guessed Confederates who were pardoned and economically empowered through sharecropping and Jim Crow laws, you’re a winner baby.

And now, in 2025, we’re in the middle of what I can only call a Reverse Enlightenment.

And if you’re someone like me—who had the luxury of ignorance for far too long—Juneteenth is a day to reflect on the fact that freedom delayed is freedom denied, and silence is complicity dressed up as politeness. So go ahead, enjoy your fireworks on July 4th. But on June 19th, maybe don’t reach for the party poppers. Instead, reach for a book, a podcast, a conversation. Sit with history. Not the version written by the winners, but the one carried on the backs of the people who were never supposed to survive it.

And if you’re uncomfortable?

Good. You’re finally doing it right.

Think about the narrative you’re hearing about the National Guard being deployed in LA right now. Here we are again watching the beacon of democracy declare war on its own citizens, criminalizing dissent, and pretending the Constitution is more of a vibe than a binding document. It’s less “of the people, by the people, and for the people” and more of “the strongman, by executive order, here’s more freedom. Mind the tear gas, and rubber bullets.” I mean, he has a parade this week, so I guess that’s why he didn’t send the tanks in. LA is a test. Who’s next?

The White House is pushing Project 2025, a Heritage Foundation-backed fever dream that’s basically a blueprint for authoritarianism wrapped in a flag. It calls for purging federal agencies of so-called “woke” ideology (read: racial equity), dismantling civil rights protections like they’re graffiti on the Lincoln Memorial. Project 2025 isn’t just some bureaucratic restructuring plan—it’s a cultural purge. It’s a scalpel aimed directly at the already-faint pulse of justice in this country. It’s the kind of political necromancy that wants to drag us back to a time when “freedom” had an asterisk—

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