Beyond the Narrative

The Structural Dangers of Our Moment

In his recent piece that referenced my analysis of our current economic dilemma,

Michael D. Sellers

made a sobering observation. He admitted that he had been “waiting—patiently, quietly, with a touch of guilt—for the moment when economic accountability would break the Trump fever.” He had held out hope that when the tariffs, market volatility, and global isolationism finally caused widespread economic pain, it would “act like a cold slap in the face—a shock strong enough to shake people loose from the cultish haze and remind them that reality still matters.”

Sellers then confronted the uncomfortable truth that this hope might be misplaced. As he put it, “Donald Trump has spent the last decade building something powerful and dangerous: a complete psychological firewall against blame.”

Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And the rabbit hole goes much deeper than even Sellers suggests.

When economic hardship arrives—as it inevitably will from these policies—it won't be experienced as a policy failure but as confirmation that America is being treated unfairly by the world. Each retaliatory measure by trading partners, each market decline, each job loss becomes not evidence that tariffs were misguided, but proof that foreign powers are punishing America for standing up for itself.

This creates a dangerous feedback loop where economic pain leads not to policy reconsideration but to doubling down, which triggers more retaliation, which creates more pain, which further reinforces the narrative of victimhood. The worse things get, the more justified extreme measures seem.

But here's what keeps me awake at night: Even if the narrative shield were to crack and majority discontent were to grow, the consolidation of control over key institutions creates mechanisms to suppress that discontent and render majority opinion increasingly irrelevant to governance.

With control of what we might call the “power ministries” (Justice, Homeland Security, Defense), even a minority base of support could effectively suppress the discontent of a majority of Americans.

We're already seeing this dynamic in action. Consider the case of Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia, a man with no criminal record who was illegally deported to El Salvador and imprisoned in a “terrorism confinement center” in violation of a court order. The government acknowledged this was an “administrative error” but then argued that U.S. courts lack the power to remedy the situation once someone has been deported.

As Justice Sotomayor noted in a recent Supreme Court order, this position implies that the government “could deport and incarcerate any person, including U.S. citizens, without legal consequence, so long as it does so before a court can intervene.” The government is openly acknowledging it violated the law yet arguing courts lack the power to provide a remedy. This represents a fundamental challenge to the rule of law and separation of powers.

This isn't just a narrative problem; it's a power problem.

The structural reality we face creates a dangerous asymmetry: The minority base doesn't need to convince the majority; they just need to provide enough social legitimacy for the use of state power to suppress dissent. Historical precedents from various authoritarian transitions show that popular support of just 30-40% can be sufficient to maintain control if that support is fervent enough to justify increasingly severe measures against opposition.

Control of law enforcement and security apparatuses allows for selective enforcement against critics and protection of allies. Control of immigration enforcement creates mechanisms for targeting vulnerable populations and creating a climate of fear. Loyalists placed throughout the bureaucracy can obstruct normal accountability processes. Courts packed with ideological allies can provide legal justification for previously unthinkable actions.

What makes this particularly dangerous is that economic hardship often increases, rather than decreases, support for authoritarian measures among the base. The worse things get, the more justified extreme actions seem to restore order or punish perceived enemies.

The traditional assumption that bad economic outcomes would naturally lead to electoral consequences assumes functioning democratic mechanisms that are precisely what's being dismantled. When those who control the levers of power also control the narrative about why things are failing, economic pain becomes a catalyst for further power consolidation rather than a check on it.

This connects to a deeper philosophical insight about the nature of coherence itself. I've come to understand that coherence is not emergent but ontological—it precedes our systems rather than arising from them. The coherence that holds democratic systems together isn't being corrected by reality; it's being replaced by a different coherence with internal logic that justifies increasingly extreme measures.

When a society loses connection with the underlying coherence that makes democratic governance possible—the recognition that power must be constrained, that no one is above the law, that truth exists independent of authority—it doesn't simply self-correct. Instead, it can reorganize around a different pattern that may be internally consistent yet fundamentally hostile to democratic principles.

This raises the troubling question: Is there a breaking point where economic pain could still break through—not by changing the narrative but by making the structural mechanisms of control unsustainable? History suggests that authoritarian systems can maintain control through extraordinary economic hardship if the mechanisms of repression remain intact and the base of support remains fervent.

The Romania of Nicolae Ceaușescu imposed brutal austerity measures for years before collapse. Venezuela under Maduro has endured economic catastrophe while maintaining control. These systems didn't fall because citizens rationally evaluated economic outcomes and withdrew support; they continued until the mechanisms of control themselves became unsustainable.

Sellers suggests focusing on human stories rather than abstract economic arguments—connecting to the concrete experiences of real people affected by these policies might reach people at an emotional level where pure analysis cannot. This approach has merit, but it assumes that narrative breakthrough alone can reverse our trajectory.

The reality is that we need to focus not just on narrative battles but on defending the structural foundations of democratic accountability while they still exist. The time for primarily rhetorical responses has passed; the moment demands structural resistance.

This isn't about partisan advantage or scoring political points. It's about recognizing that the mechanisms that translate majority opinion into political outcomes—the very foundation of democratic governance—are being systematically dismantled. When a government can openly acknowledge breaking the law yet argue courts lack the power to remedy the situation, we've entered dangerous territory.

The challenge now is to defend the institutional guardrails that remain, to support the civil servants trying to maintain rule of law from within the system, to strengthen the civic organizations that can mobilize effective resistance, and to build the cross-ideological coalitions necessary to prevent further erosion of democratic foundations.

We face a moment where the economic pain many hoped would break the fever might instead accelerate the disease. Where the worse things get, the more justified extreme measures will seem to those already primed to see economic hardship as evidence of persecution rather than policy failure.

As I contemplate this sobering reality, I keep returning to John Mellencamp's “Pink Houses”—a song that captures the tension between American aspiration and American reality. It speaks to those caught between genuine patriotism and profound disillusionment, celebrating the country and its people while mourning what's happening to them.

Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And the rabbit hole goes much deeper than we want to admit.

The center must be held—not because it is easy, but because it is ours to hold.

“Oh but ain't that America, for you and me. Ain't that America, something to see baby. Ain't that America, home of the free. Little pink houses for you and me.” — John Mellencamp