Burying the Dead in the Land of the Free: Antigone and the American Decline
A friendly rant disguised as a Greek tragedy
I’ve been thinking a lot about Antigone lately.
Which—yes—I know is a weird sentence. Most people don’t just sip coffee and mutter “ah, the Theban plague of conscience…” But I do. And if you’re still reading this, I suspect you do too. Or you’re at least tragedy-curious.
So here’s my theory:
Modern American politics is just Antigone with Wi-Fi.
We’ve got the authoritarian uncle. We’ve got the brave, stubborn idealist. We’ve got the chorus, wringing their hands and doing precisely nothing. And we’ve got the gods, who, in our version, are silent because campaign ads and TikTok astrologers have drowned them out.
Let me spotlight it.
Creon’s America
Remember Creon? He’s the king of Thebes. Law and order guy. Big on loyalty. Not so big on nuance. He decrees that Antigone’s brother—the traitor—should not be buried. Let his corpse rot, as a warning to the rest.
Now fast-forward to us.
We may not be leaving bodies unburied (well, unless we count metaphorical ones like truth, dignity, and the Voting Rights Act), but we certainly have leaders who mistake control for wisdom. Who double down not out of principle, but out of fear they’ll look weak if they ever admit fault.
Creon isn’t evil. That’s what makes him dangerous. He thinks he’s right. He’s so sure he’s right that he can’t hear anything else—not his son, not the prophet, not the cries of the people. It’s righteousness turned septic.
And tell me that doesn’t sound familiar.
We have entire networks—entire states—built on the same principle: obey, or else.
Antigone: Patron Saint of Whistleblowers and Thanksgiving Fights
Then there’s Antigone. She’s a young woman, but she might as well be every frustrated citizen who’s ever been told to “just follow the rules” when the rules themselves are broken.
Her brother deserves a burial, not because he’s innocent (he’s not), but because some things are sacred, even in wartime, even in dysfunction.
She defies Creon not for clout, not for a seat in the Senate, but because her conscience won’t let her do otherwise. She buries the dead. She honors the gods. She does what’s right and pays the price.
I know people like that. Maybe you do too. People who speak up at school board meetings, or refuse to lie on the job, or get blacklisted for saying the quiet part out loud on live TV. People who lose careers, friends, family text threads—because they won’t shut up about what’s broken.
And in a culture that rewards silence and spin, that kind of honesty is dangerous. It doesn’t trend. It doesn’t sell. It doesn’t win elections.
But it matters.
The Chorus: That’s Us. Unfortunately.
In Greek tragedies, the chorus is the voice of the people. They’re always there, always watching, always commenting. Occasionally wise. Mostly useless.
They see the problem. They talk about the problem. They wonder aloud if maybe someone should do something about the problem.
And then they wait.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve heard a lot of chorus-like behavior lately:
“Somebody really ought to fix this.”
“Wow! It’s crazy out there!”
“I’m just trying to live my life.”
To be fair, it is crazy out there. And we are exhausted. But at some point, “watching the decline” starts to feel a lot like participating in it.
The Real Tragedy?
Antigone doesn’t end in triumph. She dies. Creon loses everything—his son, his wife, his grip on the moral high ground. The city is left stunned, bleeding, and leaderless. No one wins. Not really.
And that’s the part that haunts me. Not the drama, not the defiance—but the fact that it didn’t have to end that way.
Creon could’ve changed course. The chorus could’ve spoken up. Even Antigone might’ve survived if someone—anyone—had chosen compassion over control.
Which brings me back to us.
We don’t live in Thebes. We’re not bound by fate or oracles. But we are flirting with the same disaster. When conscience is treated like rebellion, when laws become weapons instead of guides, when the only thing worse than doing the wrong thing is admitting you did it, we’re already halfway to ruin.
So What Now?
I don’t have a neat ending. (Tragedies rarely do.) But I will say this:
If you’ve ever felt like the only sane person in a nation gone sideways—congratulations, you’re Antigone.
If you’ve ever bit your tongue in fear, or made a joke to soften your dread, or screamed at your screen because why is no one else reacting?—Then yes, you’re in the chorus. (It’s okay. Me too.)
But the story isn’t over yet. And unlike Sophocles, we get to rewrite the ending.
Let’s start by burying the dead—the truths we’ve ignored, the justice we’ve postponed, the values we’ve treated like relics. Then maybe, just maybe, we can stop this tragedy from becoming our obituary.
See you at the barricades. Or the next town hall. Or just at coffee, muttering about Thebes.
Further Reading