In recent weeks, American politics have stopped resembling a democracy and started looking more like a Manson family group chat, with a flag emoji right next to the “pile of poo” emoji in our bio.
First it was the Young Republicans (you know, the nerds who used to wear ill-fitting sports jackets and drone on about budgets) who were caught on Telegram saying things such as “I love Hitler,” calling Black people “watermelon people,” and joking about gas chambers and rape. Hilarious, right?
Then came Paul Ingrassia, Trump’s now-aborted nominee to head the Office of Special Counsel, who texted that he has “a Nazi streak” and that Martin Luther King Jr. Day belongs in “the seventh circle of hell.”
But the moral rot isn’t exclusive to Republicans. Not to be outdone, Democrat Jay Jones (who is currently running for attorney general in Virginia) was caught with texts from 2022 saying another Virginia lawmaker should get “two bullets to the head,” and that he wished the man’s children would “die in their mother’s arms.”
Charming.
Meanwhile, in Maine’s race for the U.S. Senate, old posts on Reddit reveal that Democrat Graham Platner — oysterman, veteran and self-described communist — said that if people “expect to fight fascism without a good semi-automatic rifle, they ought to do some reading of history.”
What we are witnessing is a trend: Bipartisan moral collapse. Finally, something the two parties can agree on!
Keep in mind, these are not randos typing away in their parents’ basements. These are ambitious young politicos. Candidates. Operatives. The ones who are supposed to know better.
So what’s going on? I have a few theories.
One: Nothing has really changed. Political insiders have always done and said stupid, racist and cruel things — the difference is that privacy doesn’t exist anymore. Every joke is public, and every opinion is archived.
It might be hard for older generations to understand, but this theory says these people are merely guilty of using the kind of dark-web humor that’s supposed to stay on, well, the dark web. What happened to them is the equivalent of thinking you’re with friends at a karaoke bar, when you’re actually on C-SPAN.
For those of us trying to discern the difference, the problem is that the line between joking and confession has gotten so blurry that we can’t tell who’s trolling and who’s armed.
Two: Blame Trump. He destroyed norms and mainstreamed vulgarity and violent rhetoric. And since he’s been the dominant political force for a decade, it’s only logical that his style would trickle down and corrupt a whole generation of politically engaged Americans (Republicans who want to be like him and Democrats who want to fight fire with fire).
Three (and this is the scary one): Maybe the culture really has changed, and these violent and racist comments are revelatory of changing hearts and worldviews. Maybe younger generations have radicalized, and violence is increasingly viewed as a necessary tool for political change. Maybe their words are sincere.
Indeed, several recent surveys have demonstrated that members of Gen Z are more open to the use of political violence than previous generations.
According to a survey conducted by the group FIRE, only 1 in 3 college students now say it is unacceptable to use violence to stop a speaker. And according to the 2025 Edelman Trust Barometer, “53 percent of those aged 18-34 – approve of one or more forms of hostile activism to bring about change.” This includes “threatening or committing violence, and damaging public or private property.”
Of course, it’s possible (and probably likely) that some combination of these theories has conspired to create this trend. And it comes on the heels of other trends, too, including the loss of trust in institutions that began somewhere around the Nixon administration and never reversed.
Put it all together, and we’ve arrived at a point where we don’t believe in democracy, we don’t believe in leaders, and we barely believe in each other. And once you lose trust, all that’s left is anger, memes and a primal will to power.
Worse, we’ve become numb. Every new scandal shocks us for approximately 15 minutes. Then we scroll to another cat video and get used to it.
Remember the Charlie Kirk assassination? You know, the gruesome murder that freaked us all out and led to a national discussion about political violence and violent rhetoric? Yeah, that was just last month. Feels like it was back in the Eisenhower administration.
We’re basically frogs in a pot of boiling political sewage. And the scariest part? We’re starting to call it room temperature.
Bettina Aptheker was a 20-year-old sophomore at UC Berkeley when she climbed on top of a police car, barefoot so she wouldn’t damage it, and helped start the Free Speech Movement.
“Power concedes nothing without a demand,” she told a crowd gathered in Sproul Plaza on that October Thursday in 1964, quoting abolitionist Frederick Douglass.
She was blinded by the lights of the television cameras, but the students roared back approval, and “their energy just sort of went through my whole body,” she told me.
Berkeley, as Aptheker describes it, was still caught in the tail end of the McCarthyism of the 1950s, when the 1st Amendment was almost felled by fear of government reprisals. Days earlier, administrators had passed rules that cracked down on political speech on campus.
Aptheker and other students had planned a peaceful protest, only to have police roll up and arrest a graduate student named Jack Weinberg, a lanky guy with floppy hair and a mustache who had spent the summer working for the civil rights movement.
Well-versed in those non-violent methods that were finally winning a bit of equality for Black Americans, hundreds of students sat down around the cruiser, remaining there more than 30 hours — while hecklers threw eggs and cigarette butts and police massed at the periphery — before the protesters successfully negotiated with the university to restore free speech on campus.
History was made, and the Free Speech Movement born through the most American of traits — courage, passion and the invincibility of youth.
“You can’t imagine something like that happening today,” Aptheker said of their success. “It was a different time period, but it feels very similar to the kind of repression that’s going on now.”
Under the standards President Trump is pushing on the University of Southern California and eight other institutions, Aptheker would likely be arrested, using “lawful force if necessary,” as his 10-page “compact for academic excellence” requires. And the protest of the students would crushed by policies that would demand “civility” over freedom.
If you somehow missed his latest attack on higher education, the Trump administration sent this compact to USC and eight other institutions Thursday, asking them to acquiesce to a list of demands in return for the carrot of front-of-the-line access to federal grants and benefits.
While voluntary, the agreement threatens strongman-style, that institutions of higher education are “free to develop models and values other than those below, if the institution elects to forgo federal benefits.”
That’s the stick, the loss of federal funding. UCLA, Berkeley and California’s other public universities can tell you what it feels like to get thumped with it.
“It’s intended to roll back any of the gains we’ve made,” Aptheker said of Trump’s policies. “No university should make any kind of deal with him.”
The greatest problem with this nefarious pact is that much of it sounds on the surface to be reasonable, if not desirable. My favorite part: A demand that the sky-high tuition of signatory universities be frozen for five years.
USC tuition currently comes in at close to $70,000 a year without housing. What normal parent thinks that sounds doable?
Even the parts about protests sound, on the surface, no big deal.
“Truth-seeking is a core function of institutions of higher education. Fulfilling this mission requires maintaining a vibrant marketplace of ideas where different views can be explored, debated, and challenged,” the document reads. “Signatories acknowledge that the freedom to debate requires conditions of civility.”
Civility like taking your shoes off before climbing on a police car, right?
As with all things Trump, though, the devil isn’t even in the details. It’s right there in black and white. The agreement requires civility, Trump style. That includes abolishing anything that could “delay or disrupt class instruction,” which is pretty much every protest, with or without footwear.
Any university that signs on also would be agreeing to “transforming or abolishing institutional units that purposefully punish, belittle, and even spark violence against conservative ideas.”
So no more talking bad about far-right ideas, folks. That’s belittling to our racists, misogynists, Christian nationalists and conservative snowflakes of all persuasions. Take, for example, the increasingly popular conservative idea that slavery was actually good for Black people, or at least not that bad.
Or what about an environmental science class that teaches accurately that climate change denial is unscientific, and that it was at best anti-intellectual when Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth recently referred to efforts to save the planet as “crap”? Would that be uncivil and belittling to conservatives?
Belittle is a tiny word with big reach. I worry that entire academic departments could be felled by it, and certainly professors of certain persuasions.
Aptheker, now 81, went on to become just the sort of professor Trump would likely loathe, teaching about freedom and inclusivity at UC Santa Cruz for decades. It was there that I first heard her lecture. I was a mixed-race kid who had been the target of more than one racial slur growing up, but I had never heard my personal experiences put into the larger context of being a person of color or a woman.
Listening to Aptheker and professors like her, I learned not only how to see my life within the broader fabric of society, but learned how collective action has improved conditions for the most vulnerable among us, decade after decade.
It is ultimately this knowledge that Trump wants to crush — that while power concedes nothing without a demand, collective demands work because they are a power of their own.
Even more than silencing students or smashing protests, Trump’s compact seeks to purge this truth, and those who hold it, from the system. Signing this so-called deal isn’t just a betrayal of students, it’s a betrayal of the mission of every university worth its tuition, and a betrayal of the values that uphold our democracy.
Gov. Gavin Newsom has rightfully threatened to withhold state funding from any California university that signs, writing on social media that the Golden State “will not bankroll schools that sell out their students, professors, researchers, and surrender academic freedom.”
Of course, some universities will sign it willingly. University of Texas called it an “honor” to be asked. There will always be those who collaborate in their own demise.
But authoritarians live with the constant fear that people like Aptheker will teach a new generation their hard-won lessons, will open their minds to bold ideas and will question old realities that are not as unbreakable as they might appear. Universities, far from assuaging that constant fear, should fight to make it a reality.
Anything less belittles the very point of a university education.
By Walter Mosley Mulholland: 336 pages, $29 If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from Bookshop.org, whose fees support independent bookstores.
Walter Mosley has penned more than 60 novels in the course of about four decades, but the Easy Rawlins mysteries are arguably his most readily recognized body of work. After writing about Easy, Raymond “Mouse” Alexander and other memorable characters in the series since their 1990 debut in “Devil in a Blue Dress,” the Los Angeles native is certainly entitled to sit back and enjoy the significant milestone in Easy’s history. But neither the success, the accolades nor the 35-year anniversary matter to Mosley as much as the work itself.
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“It’s funny,” he muses over Zoom from his sun-drenched apartment in Santa Monica where he’s working one August afternoon. “Everyone has a career. Bricklayer, politician, artist, whatever. But what you think of as a career, for me it’s … I just love writing.”
It’s a good thing that he does. In the 17 mysteries in the series, Easy has given readers a front-row seat to Mosley’s vision of L.A.’s evolution from a post-World War II boom town proscribed by race and class to the tumultuous ’70s, with seismic social shifts for Black Americans, women and the nuclear family. These are the long-term changes that Easy must navigate in “Gray Dawn,” out Sept. 16.
The year is 1971 and Easy, now 50, is beset by memories of his hardscrabble Southern youth and first loves before he enlisted to serve in World War II in Europe and Africa. And while coming to L.A. after the war meant opportunity, real estate investments and success as “one of the few colored detectives in Southern California,” Easy has not lost his empathy for the underdog. So when he’s approached by the rough-hewn Santangelo Burris to find his auntie, Lutisha James, Easy leans in to help, even after he learns Lutisha is more dangerous than he suspected and brings with her an unexpected tie to his past. Then his adopted son, Jesus, and daughter-in-law run afoul of the feds and Easy must also figure out a way to save them from a certain prison sentence. Add assorted killers, business tycoons, Black militants and crooked law enforcement to the mix, all of whom underestimate Easy’s grit and outspoken determination to protect himself and his chosen family, and the recipe is set for another memorable tale.
Given Easy’s maturity and the world as it was in 1971, Mosley felt the need, for the first time, to write a note to readers to put Easy and his times into context. “When I was writing this book, I realized that, in 2025, there are some readers who may not understand where Easy’s coming from.”
Mosley’s introduction provides that frame, calling the combined tales “a twentieth century memoir” and linking them to the fight for liberation and equality. “Black people, people during the Great Enslavement,” Mosley writes, “weren’t considered wholly human, and, even after emancipation, were only promoted to the status of second-class citizenship. They were denied access to toilets, libraries, equal rights, and the totality of the American dream, which had often been deemed a nightmare.” But Easy, with his passion for community and love for the underdog, is always there to help. “He speaks for the voiceless and tried his best to come up with answers to problems that seem unanswerable.”
Despite these conditions, Mosley explains to me, the series’ recurring characters — Mouse, Jackson Blue, Fearless Jones, among others — who serve as Easy’s family of choice have prospered since the beginning of the series, Easy most of all. “Easy is a successful licensed PI, living on top of a mountain with his adopted daughter, plus his son and his family are around too. So for readers who pick up the series at this point, everything seems great. But then, Easy walks into a place [in the novel] and he’s confronted by some white guy who says, ‘Well, do you belong here?’ Before, when I had written something like that, I assumed that people are going to understand how those kinds of verbal challenges are fueled by the racism of the time. But this time I thought there are readers who may not understand it, even though it’s speaking to something about their lives or their world, even today.”
Easy Rawlins also speaks to other writers, who read the mysteries as a beacon of hope, a crack in the wall through which other voices can be heard.
S.A. Cosby, bestselling author of “Blacktop Wasteland” and “All the Sinners Bleed” and an L.A. Times Book Prize winner, clearly remembers his introduction to Easy’s world. “Reading ‘Devil in a Blue Dress’ was like being shown a path in the darkness. It spoke to me as a writer, as a Southerner and as a Black person,” he said in an email. “In some ways, it gave me ‘permission’ to write about the people I love.”
Easy also offers a unique lens through which to view L.A. Steph Cha, Times Book Prize winner for “Your House Will Pay,” discovered “Devil in a Blue Dress” as a freshman in college. “I was totally thunderstruck,” she said in an email. “This was before I had the context and vocabulary to articulate its importance in the broader literary landscape, but I knew I loved Easy Rawlins and his eye on Los Angeles. Walter was one of my primary influences when I started writing fiction. I even named a character Daphne in my second book after the missing woman in ‘Devil.’”
“‘Toes in the soil beneath my feet.’ That’s what a detective has to have. She has to know the city, its peoples, dialects, and languages. Its neighborhoods and histories. Everything you could see and touch. A detective’s mind has to be right there in front of her. Your city was your whole world.”
But why does the series endure? Cha credits the quality of the man himself: “Easy’s been through so much over 35 years, but he’s still the same guy, a man who will go anywhere, talk to anybody and bear anything, while still giving the feeling he bleeds as much as the rest of us.”
But Easy’s also thinking about the future, which in “Gray Dawn” means helping Niska, a young Black woman in his office, develop into a detective. Along the way, he shares his creed and his hope for what she will become one day: “‘Toes in the soil beneath my feet.’ That’s what a detective has to have. She has to know the city, its peoples, dialects, and languages. Its neighborhoods and histories. Everything you could see and touch. A detective’s mind has to be right there in front of her. Your city was your whole world.”
Back on our Zoom call, I ask Mosley whether he was thinking of Raymond Chandler’s seminal 1944 essay “The Simple Art of Murder” and the oft-quoted line “Down these mean streets…” when writing that passage. Not consciously, but he liked the comparison because “Easy in many ways is the opposite of Philip Marlowe.”
Not the least of which is his willingness to help a woman become a detective. “Even though Easy is skeptical about a woman being a detective,” he explains, “he recognizes it’s the 1970s and, with the women’s movement, he’s willing to help her if that’s what she wants.”
As the song goes, the times they are a-changin’, and Easy with them. What does Mosley hope readers take away from “Gray Dawn,” Easy’s midlife novel? “I want them to see how Easy has developed and changed over the years. And that family, even though Easy’s doesn’t look like the nuclear family, is what America has always been about.”
“I love being a writer so much that even if I had much less success, or even none, I would still be doing it,” Walter Mosley says.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
Mosley’s also experienced enough to know that what writers hope readers understand and what readers actually see in their writing can be very different. And while he appreciates comments from writers like Cosby and Cha, he puts it all in perspective. “As a writer, I think it’s important for you to remember not to judge your success by what other writers have said about your work. Because writers more than anybody in literature are confused about what literature actually is. Writers will say, ‘I did this, and I did that, and I wrote this, and this was my intention, and I started here, and I moved it there.’ But the truth is you’ve written a book, you’ve created the best thing you could have written, and all these people have read it. And for every person who has read it, it’s a different book.”
Mosley is also a talented screenwriter, having served as an executive producer and writer on the FX drama “Snowfall.” Most recently, he shared a writing credit (with director Nadia Latif) for the screenplay of the upcoming film “The Man in My Basement” — an adaptation of his 2004 standalone novel — starring Willem Dafoe and Corey Hawkins. Mosley is particularly cognizant of how book-to-film translations can have different meanings for their creators.
“With very few exceptions, books and the films that they spawn are very different,” he explains. “And they have to be because books come to life in the mind of readers, who imagine the characters and places the writer describes. And books are language, and your understanding through language as a reader is a part of the process. But a film is all projected images. So when somebody says they’re writing a book, you tell them, ‘Show. Don’t tell.’ When you produce or direct a movie, they just say, ‘Show.’”
Mosley praises Latif, who, in her directorial debut, leaned into certain aspects of his novel. “She’s very interested in the genre of horror and uses certain elements of it in the film,” he notes. “But I don’t think she could do that without those elements already being there in the novel.”
Beyond “Gray Dawn” and the forthcoming film, Mosley’s collaborating with playwright, singer and actor Eisa Davis on a musical stage adaptation of “Devil,” as well as working on a monograph about why reading is essential to living a full life. But regardless of the medium, Mosley’s purpose is crystal clear. “For me, it’s about the writing itself,” he says, leaning in to make his point. “I love being a writer so much that even if I had much less success, or even none, I would still be doing it.”
WASHINGTON — Slightly less than half of U.S. adults believe that Black people face “a great deal” or “quite a bit” of discrimination in the United States, according to a poll. That’s a decline from the solid majority, 60%, who thought Black Americans faced high levels of discrimination in the spring of 2021, months after racial reckoning protests in response to the police killing of George Floyd.
Significant numbers of Americans also think diversity, equity and inclusion efforts, also known as DEI, are backfiring against the groups they’re intended to help, according to the survey from The Associated Press-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research, including many people who belong to those groups.
The findings suggest Americans’ views on racial discrimination have shifted substantially since four years ago, when many companies launched efforts to promote diversity within their workforces and the products they sold.
Since then, many of those companies have reversed themselves and retreated from their diversity practices, a trend that’s accelerated this year under pressure from President Trump, a Republican who has sought to withhold federal money from schools and companies that promote DEI.
Now, it’s clear that views are changing as well as company policies.
Claudine Brider, a 48-year-old Black Democrat in Compton, California, says the concept of DEI has made the workplace difficult for Black people and women in new ways.
“Anytime they’re in a space that they’re not expected to be, like seeing a Black girl in an engineering course … they are seen as only getting there because of those factors,” Brider said. “It’s all negated by someone saying, ‘You’re only here to meet a quota.’”
Reversal in views of racial discrimination
The poll finds 45% of U.S. adults think Black people face high levels of discrimination, down from 60% in the spring of 2021. There was a similar drop in views about the prevalence of serious discrimination against Asian people, which fell from 45% in the 2021 poll — conducted a month after the Atlanta spa shootings, which killed eight people, including six women of Asian descent — to 32% in the current survey.
There’s no question the country has backtracked from its “so-called racial reckoning” and the experiences of particular groups such as Black people are being downplayed, said Phillipe Copeland, a professor at Boston University School of Social Work.
Americans’ views about discrimination haven’t shifted when it comes to all groups, though. Just under half of U.S. adults, 44%, now say Hispanic people face at least “quite a bit of discrimination,” and only 15% say this about white people. Both numbers are similar to when the question was last asked in April 2021.
Divisions on the impact of DEI on Black and Hispanic people
The poll indicates that less than half of Americans think DEI has a benefit for the people it’s intended to help.
About 4 in 10 U.S. adults say DEI reduces discrimination against Black people, while about one-third say this about Hispanic people, women and Asian people. Many — between 33% and 41% — don’t think DEI makes a difference either way. About one-quarter of U.S. adults believe that DEI actually increases discrimination against these groups.
Black and Hispanic people are more likely than white people to think DEI efforts end up increasing discrimination against people like them.
About 4 in 10 Black adults and about one-third of Hispanic adults say DEI increases discrimination against Black people, compared with about one-quarter of white adults. There is a similar split between white adults and Black and Hispanic adults on assessments of discrimination against Hispanic people.
Among white people, it’s mostly Democrats who think DEI efforts reduce discrimination against Black and Hispanic people. Only about one-quarter of white independents and Republicans say the same.
Pete Parra, a 59-year-old resident of Gilbert, Ariz., thinks that DEI is making things harder for racial minorities now. He worries about how his two adult Hispanic sons will be treated when they apply for work.
“I’m not saying automatically just give it to my sons,” said Parra, who leans toward the Democratic Party. But he’s concerned that now factors other than merit may take priority.
“If they get passed over for something,” he said, “they’re not going to know (why).”
About 3 in 10 say DEI increases discrimination against white people
The poll shows that Americans aren’t any more likely to think white people face discrimination than they were in 2021. And more than half think DEI doesn’t make a difference when it comes to white people or men.
But a substantial minority — about 3 in 10 U.S. adults — think DEI increases discrimination against white people. Even more white adults, 39%, hold that view, compared with 21% of Hispanic adults and 13% of Black adults.
The recent political focus on DEI has included the idea that white people are more often overlooked for career and educational opportunities because of their race.
John Bartus, a 66-year-old registered Republican in Twin Falls, Idaho, says that DEI might have been “a good thing for all races of people, but it seems like it’s gone far left.” It’s his impression that DEI compels companies to hire people based on their race or if they identify as LGBTQ+.
“The most qualified person ought to get a job based on their merit or based on their educational status,” Bartus said.
Brider, the Black California resident, objects to the notion that white people face the same level of discrimination as Black people. But while she thinks the aims of DEI are admirable, she also sees the reality as flawed.
“I do think there needs to be something that ensures that there is a good cross-section of people in the workplace,” Brider said. “I just don’t know what that would look like, to be honest.”
Tang and Thomson-Deveaux write for the Associated Press. The AP-NORC poll of 1,437 adults was conducted July 10-14, using a sample drawn from NORC’s probability-based AmeriSpeak Panel, which is designed to be representative of the U.S. population. The margin of sampling error for adults overall is plus or minus 3.6 percentage points.
Since the start of President Trump’s second term, the Department of Homeland Security’s social media team has published a stream of content worthy of a meme-slinging basement dweller on 4chan.
Grainy, distorted mug shots of immigrants. Links to butt-kissing Fox News stories about MAGA anything. Whiny slams against politicians who call out lamigra for treating the Constitution like a pee pad. Paeans to “heritage” and “homeland” worthy of Goebbels. A Thomas Kinkade painting of 1950s-era white picket fence suburbia straight out of “Leave It to Beaver,” with the caption “Protect the Homeland.”
All of this is gag-inducing, but it has a purpose — it’s revealing the racist id of this administration in real time, in case anyone was still doubtful.
In June, DHS shared a poster, originally created by the white-power scene, of a grim-faced Uncle Sam urging Americans to “report all foreign invaders” by calling Immigration and Customs Enforcement. On July 14, the DHS X account featured a painting of a young white couple cradling a baby in a covered wagon on the Great Plains with the caption, “Remember your Homeland’s Heritage.”
When my colleague Hailey Branson-Potts asked about the pioneer painting and the Trump administration’s trollish social media strategy, a White House spokesperson asked her to “explain how deporting illegal aliens is racist,” adding that haters should “stay mad.”
A blond white woman robed in — yep — white, with a gold star just above her forehead, floats in the center. She holds a book in her right hand and a loop of telegraph wire that her left hand trails across poles. Below her on the right side are miners, hunters, farmers, loggers, a stagecoach and trains. They rush westward, illuminated by puffy clouds and the soft glow of dawn.
The angelic woman is Columbia, the historic female personification of the United States. She seems to be guiding everyone forward, toward Native Americans — bare breasted women, headdress-bedecked warriors — who are fleeing in terror along with a herd of bison and a bear with its mouth agape. It’s too late, though: Covered wagon trains and a teamster wielding a whip have already encroached on their land.
The white settlers are literally in the light-bathed side of the painting, while the Native Americans are shrouded in the dusky, murky side.
It ain’t subtle, folks!
“A Heritage to be proud of, a Homeland worth Defending,” DHS wrote as a caption for “American Progress” — a mantra you may soon find printed on the $20 bill, the way this administration is going.
Gast finished his painting in 1872, when the U.S. was in the last stages of conquest. The Civil War was done. White Americans were moving into the Southwest in large numbers, dispossessing the Mexican Americans who had been there for generations through the courts, squatting or outright murder. The Army was ramping up to defeat Native Americans once and for all. In the eyes of politicians, a new menace was emerging from the Pacific: mass Asian migration, especially Chinese.
Scholars have long interpreted Gast’s infamous work as an allegory about Manifest Destiny — that the U.S. had a God-given right to seize as much of the American continent as it could. John L. O’Sullivan, the newspaperman who coined the term in 1845, openly tied this country’s expansion to white supremacy, expressing the hope that pushing Black people into Latin America, a region “already of mixed and confused blood,” would lead to “the ultimate disappearance of the negro race from our borders.”
O’Sullivan also salivated at the idea of California leaving “imbecile and distracted” Mexico and joining the U.S., adding, “The Anglo-Saxon foot is already on its borders. Already the advance guard of the irresistible army of Anglo-Saxon emigration has begun to pour down upon it, armed with the plough and the rifle.”
This is the heritage the Trump administration thinks is worth promoting.
Vice President JD Vance, center, speaks next to officials including, from left to right, HUD Regional Administrator William Spencer, U.S. Atty. for the Central District of California Bill Essayli, FBI Los Angeles Asst. Director Akil Davis, U.S. Border Patrol Sector Chief Gregory Bovino and ICE Field Office Director Ernie Santacruz at the Wilshire Federal Building in Los Angeles in June.
(Jae C. Hong / AP)
Administration officials act shocked and offended when critics accuse them of racism, but the Trump base knows exactly what’s going on.
“This is our country, and we can’t let the radical left make us ashamed of our heritage,” one X user commented on the “American Progress” post. “Manifest Destiny was an amazing thing!”
DHS seems to be vibing with the Heritage American movement, now bleeding into the conservative mainstream from its far-right beginnings. Its adherents maintain that Americans whose ancestors have been here for generations are more deserving of this nation’s riches than those whose families came over within living memory. Our values, proponents say, shouldn’t be based on antiquated concepts like liberty and equality but rather, the customs and traditions established by Anglo Protestants before mass immigration forever changed this country’s demographics.
In other words, if you’re white, you’re all right. If you’re brown or anything else, you’re probably not down.
Our own vice president, JD Vance, is espousing this pendejada. In a speech to the Claremont Institute earlier this month, Vance outlined his vision of what an American is.
“America is not just an idea,” Vance told the crowd. “We’re a particular place, with a particular people, and a particular set of beliefs and way of life.”
Weird — I learned in high school that people come here not because of how Americans live, but because they have the freedom to live however they want.
“If you stop importing millions of foreigners,” the vice president continued, “you allow social cohesion to form naturally.”
All those Southern and Eastern Europeans who came at the turn of the 20th century seem to have assimilated just fine, even as Appalachia’s Scots-Irish — Vance’s claimed ethnic affiliation — are, by his own admission, still a tribe apart after centuries of living here.
Trump, Vance added, is “ensur[ing] that the people we serve have a better life in the country their grandparents built.” I guess that excludes me, since my Mexican grandparents settled here in the autumn of their lives.
The irony of elevating so-called Heritage Americans is that many in Trumpworld would seem to be excluded.
First Lady Melania Trump was born in what’s now Slovenia. Secretary of State Marco Rubio is the child of Cuban immigrants. Vance’s wife’s parents came here from India. The Jewish immigrant ancestor of Trump’s deportation mastermind, Stephen Miller, wouldn’t be allowed in these days, after arriving at Ellis Island from czarist Russia with $8 to his name. Even Gast and O’Sullivan wouldn’t count as Heritage Americans by the strictest definition, since the former was Prussian and the latter was the son of Irish and English immigrants.
But that’s the evil genius of MAGA. Trump has proclaimed that he welcomes anyone, regardless of race, creed or sexual orientation (except for trans people), into his movement, as long as they’re committed to owning the libs.
Americans are so myopic about their own history, if not downright ignorant, that some minorities think they’re being welcomed into the Heritage Americans fold by Vance and his ilk. No wonder a record number of voters of color, especially Latinos, jumped on the Trump train in 2024.
“American Progress” might as well replace red hats as the ultimate MAGA symbol. To them, it’s not a shameful artifact; it’s a road map for Americans hell-bent on turning back the clock to the era of eradication.
Like I said, not a subtle message at all — if your eyes aren’t shut.
It has been five years since May 25, 2020, when George Floyd gasped for air beneath the knee of a Minneapolis police officer on the corner of 38th Street and Chicago Avenue. Five years since 17-year-old Darnella Frazier stood on the curb outside Cup Foods, raised her phone, and bore witness to nine minutes and 29 seconds that would galvanize a global movement against racial inequality.
Frazier’s video didn’t just show what happened. It insisted the world stop and see.
Today, that legacy lives on in the hands of a different community, facing different threats but wielding the same tools. Across the United States, Latino organizers are lifting their phones not to go viral but to go on record. They are livestreaming Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids, filming family separations, documenting protests outside detention centers. Their footage is not content. It is evidence. It is warning. It is resistance.
Here in Los Angeles, where I teach journalism, several images have seared themselves into public memory. One viral video shows a shackled father stepping into a white, unmarked van — his daughter sobbing behind the camera, pleading with him not to sign any official documents. He turns, gestures for her to calm down, then blows her a kiss. Across town, LAPD officers on horseback charged at peaceful protesters.
In Spokane, Wash., residents formed a spontaneous human chain around their undocumented neighbors mid-raid, their bodies and cameras forming a barricade of defiance. In San Diego, white allies yelled “Shame!” as they chased a car of uniformed National Guard troops out of their neighborhood.
The impact of smartphone witnessing has been both immediate and unmistakable — visceral at street level, seismic in statehouses. On the ground, the videos have fueled the “No Kings” movement, which organized protests in all 50 states last weekend. Legislators are responding too — with sparks flying in the halls of the Capitol. As President Trump ramps up immigration enforcement, Democratic-led states are digging in, tightening state laws that limit cooperation with federal agents.
Local TV news coverage has incorporated witnesses’ smartphone video, helping it reach a wider audience.
What’s unfolding now is not new — it is newly visible. Latino organizers are drawing from a playbook sharpened in 2020, one rooted in a longer lineage of Black media survival strategies forged during slavery and Jim Crow.
In 2020, I wrote about how Black Americans have used various media formats to fight for racial and economic equality — from slave narratives to smartphones. I argued that Frederick Douglass and Ida B. Wells were doing the same work as Darnella Frazier: using journalism as a tool for witnessing and activism. In 2025, Latinos who are filming the state in moments of overreach — archiving injustice in real time — are adapting, extending and carrying forward Black witnesses’ work.
Moreover, Latinos are using smartphones for digital cartography much as Black people mapped freedom during the eras of slavery and Jim Crow. The People Over Papers map, for example, reflects an older lineage: the resistance tactics of Black Maroons — enslaved Africans who fled to swamps and borderlands, forming secret networks to evade capture and warn others.
These early communities shared intelligence, tracked patrols and mapped out covert paths to safety. People Over Papers channels that same logic — only now the hideouts are ICE-free zones, mutual aid hubs and sanctuary spaces. The map is crowdsourced. The borders are digital. The danger is still very real.
Likewise, the Stop ICE Raids Alerts Network revives a civil-rights-era blueprint. During the 1960s, activists used Wide Area Telephone Service lines and radio to share protest routes, police activity and safety updates. Black DJs often masked dispatches as traffic or weather reports — “congestion on the south side” meant police roadblocks, “storm warnings” signaled incoming violence. Today, that infrastructure lives again through WhatsApp chains, encrypted group texts and story posts. The platforms have changed. The mission has not.
Layered across both systems is the DNA of “The Negro Motorist Green Book,” the guide that once helped Black travelers navigate Jim Crow America by identifying safe towns, gas stations and lodging. People Over Papers and Stop ICE Raids are digital descendants of that legacy: survival through shared knowledge, protection through mapped resistance.
The Latino community’s use of smartphones in this moment is not for spectacle. It’s for self-defense. In cities like Chicago, Los Angeles and El Paso, what begins as a whisper — “ICE is in the neighborhood” — now races through Telegram, WhatsApp and Instagram. A knock becomes a livestream. A raid becomes a receipt. A video becomes a shield.
For undocumented families, the risk is real. To film is to expose oneself. To go live is to become a target. But many do it anyway. Because silence can be fatal. Because invisibility protects no one. Because if the story is not captured, it can be denied.
Five years after Floyd’s final breath, the burden of proof still falls heaviest on the most vulnerable. America demands footage before outrage. Tape before reform. Visual confirmation before compassion. And still, justice is never guaranteed.
But 2020 taught us that smartphones, in the right hands, can fracture the status quo. In 2025, that lesson is echoing again, this time through the lens of Latino mobile journalists. Their footage is unflinching. Urgent. Righteous. It connects the dots: between ICE raids and over-policing, between a border cage and a city jail, between a knee on a neck and a door kicked in at dawn.
These are not isolated events. They are chapters in the same story of government repression.
And because the cameras are still rolling — and people are still recording — those stories are being told anew.
Five years ago, we were forced to see the unbearable. Now, we are being shown the undeniable.
Allissa V. Richardson, an associate professor of journalism and communication at USC, is the author of “Bearing Witness While Black: African Americans, Smartphones, and the New Protest #Journalism.” This article was produced in partnership with the Conversation.
SAN ANSELMO, Calif. — It’s hard to miss Brian Colbert. It’s not just his burly 6-foot-4 frame, his clean-shaven head or the boldly patterned, brightly colored Hawaiian shirts he’s adopted as an unofficial uniform.
Colbert is one of just a small number of Black people who live in wealthy, woodsy and very white Marin County — and the first Black supervisor elected since the county’s founding more than 175 years ago.
He didn’t lean into race, or history, as he campaigned in the fall. He didn’t have to. “As a large Black man,” he said, his physicality and the barrier-breaking nature of his candidacy were self-evident.
Rather, Colbert won after knocking, by his count, on 20,000 doors, wearing out several pairs of size 15 shoes and putting parochial concerns, such as wildfire prevention, disaster preparedness and flood control, at the center of his campaign. He continues, during these early months in office, to focus on a garden variety of municipal issues: housing, traffic, making local government more accessible and responsive.
That’s not to say, however, that Colbert doesn’t have deeply felt thoughts on the precedent his election set, or the significance of the lived experience he brings to office — different from most in this privileged slice of the San Francisco Bay Area — at a time President Trump is turning his back on civil rights and his administration treats diversity, equity and inclusion as though they were four-letter words.
“I think of the challenges, the indignities that my grandparents suffered on a daily basis” living under Jim Crow, Colbert said over lunch recently in his hometown of San Anselmo. He carefully chose his words, at one point resting an index finger on his temple to signal a pause as he gathered his thoughts.
Colbert recalled visits to Savannah, Ga., where he attended Baptist church services with his mother’s parents.
“I remember looking at the faces,” Colbert said, “and to me they were the faces of African Americans waiting for death, because they were aware and knew of the opportunities that had been denied to them simply because of the color of their skin. But what gave them hope was the belief their kids and grandkids would have a better life. I am a product of that hope, in so many ways.”
Colbert, 57, grew up in Bethel, Conn., about 60 miles northeast of New York City. Residents tried to prevent his parents — an accountant and a stay-at-home mom — from moving into the overwhelmingly white community. Neighbors circulated a petition urging the owners to not sell their home to the Black couple. They did so anyway.
Colbert went on to earn degrees in political science and acting, public policy and law. He traveled the world with his wife, a Syrian American, practiced law on Wall Street, ran a chocolate company and a small tech firm. He lived for 3½ years in Turkey, where he taught international law and political science at a private university.
In 2007, when the couple returned to the U.S., they set their sights on the Bay Area, drawn by the weather, the natural beauty and the entrepreneurial spirit that drew countless opportunity seekers before them. (Colbert started wearing Hawaiian shirts on the Silicon Valley conference circuit, after being mistaken one too many times for a security guard.)
In 2013, Colbert, his wife and their daughter settled in San Anselmo, a charmy tree-lined community about 15 miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. The relatively short commute to San Francisco, where he manages a medical concierge service, the quality schools and the vast open space were big attractions — though Colbert knew he and his family would stand out, just as he had in Bethel.
San Anselmo, with its rugged hillsides and red-brick downtown, has about 13,000 residents. The Black population is less than 2%. But Colbert’s extensive travels and life overseas convinced him that people “on a certain level [are] the same” everywhere — “warm, welcoming, kind, generous, helpful.”
He had an abiding interest in policy and public service, so in 2013 Colbert joined the city’s Economic Development Council. Four years later, he was elected to the Town Council. He served seven years, one in the rotating position of mayor, before running for the nonpartisan Board of Supervisors.
Inevitably, he encountered racism along the way. There were threatening phone calls and emails. He got the occasional side-eye as he canvassed door-to-door in all-white neighborhoods. For the most part, however, “people were incredibly pleasant” and campaigning “was no more challenging … than it would be [for] any candidate.”
On a recent sunny afternoon, Colbert was greeted heartily — “Hey, Brian!” “Hey, supervisor!” — as he strode past Town Hall to Imagination Park, a gift the city’s most famous resident, filmmaker George Lucas, bequeathed along with life-sized statues of Yoda and Indiana Jones.
Given a chance to speak directly to Trump, what would Colbert — a Democrat — say?
“Mr. President, thank you for your service,” he began. “Being in public offices is hard and difficult.”
He paused. Several beats passed. A waiter cleared away dishes.
“I would encourage you to change your tone, certainly publicly, and broaden your perspective and embrace those who might have a different perspective than you,” Colbert went on. “Many people have come to this country and they’ve added value. They’ve made this country for the better.
“Remember those who don’t necessarily have easy access to power. Remember those who are struggling. Focus on those who are most vulnerable and are highly dependent on the government to help them through a short amount of time. I mean, the American experiment is incredible. Keep that in mind. A little empathy. Simple acts of kindness. Place yourself into someone else’s shoes.
