Is This the Country You Meant to Build?

If You’re Not Outraged Yet, You’re Not Paying Attention

I want to ask you something—not as a pundit, not as a politician, not even as a writer. But as a fellow citizen who walks the same streets, files the same taxes, and salutes the same flag. I want to ask you something you may not want to answer.

Are you proud of this?

I don’t mean proud of the country you were born into or the one you hope for—I mean this country. The one we’re living in right now. The one where the President of the United States makes decisions that enrich insiders and shock markets, and then smiles and brags about it like it’s all part of the show.

Is that what you call leadership?

Because I call it a betrayal.

He doesn’t care what you think. He doesn’t care about statesmanship or dignity or the quiet responsibility of the office. He doesn’t care about diplomacy. He doesn’t care about cooperation. And let’s be honest: he doesn’t care about you.

And the question I’m asking is—do you care that he doesn’t care?

When he mocks the very office he holds, turns public policy into a punchline, shrugs off your hardship, and plays king for the cameras—does that make you angry? Or have you gotten used to it?

Are you embarrassed?
Do you feel represented?
Is this what your children will be taught as usual?

Is this what you want to be remembered for?

Because you will be remembered, history always keeps its receipts. It remembers who looked away, said nothing, clapped at the wrong time, and kept clapping to keep the peace.

I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m asking you to be honest.

If your president behaves like this and your only response is silence, what are you telling the next one?

You can be tired. You can be cynical. But you can’t be both and still call yourself free.

We get the country we’re willing to fight for. The question is—is this the country you meant to build?

Because if you choose silence now, the country you leave behind won’t whisper your name with pride—it will choke on the memory of your silence. It will be where truth is whatever the powerful say it is, where courts rule by loyalty, not law. Where elections are performances, and justice is a thing you can buy, where children are taught obedience, not citizenship. Where the flag is waved to cover the theft, and the anthem is played so loud it drowns out the screams. You’ll live in a land where spectacle replaces substance, and the only real crime is refusing to applaud.

If you don’t push back now, your future will be decided by men who laugh at your restraint and count on your fatigue. And by the time you decide it’s gone too far, the road back will be buried under all the times you said nothing.

So here is what you do:
You write. You call. You show up. You demand.
You flood your representatives' inboxes, voicemails, and town halls with a single, unwavering message: This is unacceptable. This is not America.
You talk to your neighbors, not to fight, but to wake them up.
You support independent journalism, not echo chambers.
You stop waiting for someone else to fix it.
You get uncomfortable. You get loud. You get organized.
Because the republic doesn’t fall all at once.
It crumbles slowly—every time, good people stay seated.

Stand up now. While you still can.