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diversity
It's Too Late, Trump. You Cannot Undo the Multi-Racial, Multi-National Real America
Our nation's true history is one of diversity, even if equity and inclusion have been aspirational. You are the one who should leave. Your sleazy appeals to racial hatred are not welcome here.
Feb 13, 2026
Notice to Donald Trump and his MAGA myrmidons: It’s too late by centuries to turn the United States of American “back” into the ethnically homogenous nation for white people which it never was. And that’s nothing to be disappointed about.
Most Americans aren’t swallowing your so-called jokes depicting African-Americans as apes, your white supremacist lies about Haitians “eating the pets,” your slanders of law-abiding farmworkers as the “worst of the worst,” your creepy wails about immigrants “poisoning the blood” of America, your demand we exclude refugees who come from what you term “sh**-hole countries.”
Fear and hatred are all you offer, and relief from an imaginary conspiracy of Jews and elites which you claim are plotting to “replace” white Americans with invaders from abroad.
The reality: Americans have always been a polyglot people of multiple races and ethnicities. We did not become a multi-national, multi-ethnic people because of a scheme to open our borders. Rather, our nation and its leaders—through ambition to expand the United States—incorporated other peoples into the American mix from our earliest days. Our true history is one of diversity, even if equity and inclusion have been aspirational.
If the Anglo-Saxon whites who first colonized North America wanted it to be an exclusive homeland for white people, they should not have brought half a million enchained Africans to American shores. By the time the Constitution was adopted, the result was that one in five residents of the new nation were enslaved or free Black people.
If whites wanted North America to be an exclusive home for Anglo-Saxon white people, President Thomas Jefferson should not have made the Louisiana Purchase, bringing people of French, Spanish and African ancestry and still more Native American tribal nations into the territory of the United States.
If Anglo-Saxon whites wanted North America to be an exclusive home for white people, pro-slavery forces should not have launched the Mexican-American War of 1846-48 to seize almost half of what had been Mexico, and incorporate its Mexican population into the enlarged United States.
If Anglo-Saxon whites wanted North America to be an exclusive home for white people, we shouldn’t have employed tens of thousands of Chinese immigrant workers to build the Transcontinental Railroad, man the mines, and perform the other dangerous and dirty work that helped build the West.
And for that matter, if Anglo-Saxon whites wanted North America to be an exclusive home for “pure-bred” white people, they should not have encouraged the immigration of millions of Europeans who, at the turn of the Twentieth Century, weren’t really regarded as “white”: Irish, Italians, Poles and Slavs, eastern European Jews and others—“the wretched refuse of [Europe’s] teeming shores”—to work the mills and mines, the factories and farms of America.
Today desperate, hopeful and hardworking immigrants come from the lands south of our border, from India, from China, from the Dominican Republic. Many are fleeing horrific gang violence, persecution, or the impacts of climate change on their native lands. Undocumented immigrants—the so-called “invaders”—commonly do work native-born Americans won’t do.
Those without documentation provide most of the farm labor force. Trump’s own Labor Department has acknowledged that “agricultural work requires a distinct set of skills and is among the most physically demanding and hazardous occupations in the U.S. labor market.” “Such jobs are still not viewed as viable alternatives for many [U.S.-born] workers.”
Similarly, the labor of undocumented immigrants is critical to the meatpacking industry, food processing, construction, and elder care. Immigrants are not “replacing” American citizens—they are filling needs and struggling for a good life for themselves and their children. That’s what immigrants have always done.
It’s too late, Mr. Trump, for your sleazy appeals to racial hatred. Most Americans know that seeking to degrade others because of their race or ethnicity is deeply wrong—a violation of the values of fairness and decency we struggle to live up to, but seldom spurn entirely.
Our nation and the world have real problems—climate change, shrinking opportunity, inequality and poverty, violence and unnecessary suffering. But it has become clear to more and more Americans that your program of meanness, malice, and spleen are not the solution. It is time for you to get out of the way.
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Provoke and Deny: The Obama Cartoon and Decades of Racialized Governance
The racist imagery that briefly appeared on the official feed is not a rogue error. It is consistent with an administration that has repeatedly deflected harm while avoiding responsibility.
Feb 11, 2026
On a February morning in 2026, the opening days of Black History Month, something unthinkable appeared on the official social media platform of the president of the United States: a video inserting the faces of Barack and Michelle Obama onto cartoon apes, set to "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." It flashed at the end of a broader montage promoting 2020 election conspiracies and remained online for roughly 12 hours before deletion.
This was not a careless post. It tapped directly into a long, cruel lineage of racist caricature used to demean and dehumanize Black people. That this imagery came from the nation’s highest office demanded more than embarrassment, it demanded accountability. But what followed was predictable: dismissive deflection, minimization, and no consequences. The White House initially labeled criticism “fake outrage,” claimed it was “just a meme,” and then said it was “erroneously posted by a staffer.” No staffer has been named, and the president publicly declared no one would face repercussions. When pressed on an apology, he said he “didn’t make a mistake” because he had not seen the offensive portion.
Rhetoric cannot erase history. This episode, jarring as it was, is most meaningful as a mirror: It reflects a longstanding pattern of denial, obfuscation, and racialized harm that extends far beyond any single meme or social post.
Long before this video ever appeared, Donald Trump’s public life was intertwined with racial controversy. In 2011, he propelled himself into national headlines by demanding Barack Obama release his birth certificate, questioning whether the first Black president was even born in the United States. He called Obama a “foreign-born fraud,” despite clear evidence to the contrary. This birther campaign wasn’t a slip of judgment; it was a deliberate, sustained effort to delegitimize and diminish the first Black occupant of the White House—a strategy that inflamed racial distrust and energized nativist resentments across the country.
Trump’s repeated insistence that he is “not a racist” functions as a rhetorical shield. It resonates rhetorically but cannot wipe away decades of documented behavior, public statements, and the lived experiences of those harmed by policy and symbolism.
That pattern continued. In 2018, Trump reportedly referred to Haiti, El Salvador, and several African nations as “shithole countries,” expressing preference for immigrants from Norway. Such language dehumanizes entire nations and the predominantly non-white populations within them, shaping global perception and domestic attitudes alike.
The harm extends into domestic policy and public memory. In the late 1980s, during the Central Park Five case, Trump took out full‑page newspaper ads calling for the death penalty for five Black and Latino teenagers later exonerated by DNA evidence. Even after their innocence was proven, he publicly insisted on their guilt, reinforcing false narratives that fanned racial fear and distrust.
Long before he was in politics, his real estate company was sued by the US Department of Justice for discriminating against Black tenants, steering them away from apartments while offering vacancies to white applicants. The case was settled under a consent decree—but the episode underscores a pattern of exclusion that predates his political career.
Through all of this, denial has been central to the strategy. Trump routinely insists personal friendships with Black Americans prove he cannot be racist. But anecdotes do not outweigh outcomes. Leadership is not measured by denials or self‑serving narratives; it is measured by decisions, actions, and real consequences for communities.
Viewed in this light, the racist imagery that briefly appeared on the official feed is not a rogue error. It is consistent with an administration that has repeatedly deflected harm while avoiding responsibility. When damaging content appears and the response is to blame an unnamed staffer, with no transparency, no accountability, no corrective action, it signals at best a tolerance for racial insensitivity and at worst tacit acceptance of damaging narratives from the nation’s official channels.
Beyond symbolic offenses, the lived realities of millions reflect deeper injury. Immigration enforcement under the administration has subjected families from Latin America, Africa, and Asia to detention, deportation, and family separation, deterring entire communities—disproportionately people of color—from seeking healthcare, education, and legal protections. Threats to Medicare jeopardize access to care for Black, Latino, and Indigenous seniors already navigating health disparities, compounding generational inequities. Efforts to slash support for public education disproportionately affect students in underfunded schools—disproportionately Black, Latino, and Indigenous—by stripping Title I funding, free lunch programs, after‑school initiatives, and protections against discriminatory practices. Proposals to restrict the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) leave hundreds of thousands, again disproportionately people of color, struggling with food insecurity and impossible choices between rent, medicine, and nourishment.
These threads are not separate. Families impacted by immigration enforcement often rely on SNAP or local schools, all parts of a social fabric that, when weakened, frays most quickly at its most vulnerable edges.
Representation at the top matters, too. In the second Trump administration, only a handful of Black officials hold top leadership roles, including Scott Turner as Housing and Urban Development secretary and Lynne Patton in White House outreach. Most high‑level offices remain overwhelmingly white, signaling whose voices shape policy and whose perspectives are absent from critical debates.
Language and civic rituals shape how a nation understands justice, belonging, and whose histories are honored. Martin Luther King Jr. Day is more than ceremony; it is a moral touchstone. Yet this year, the administration failed to recognize the holiday officially and removed it from the federal list of free pass days in national parks, a symbolic demotion that strips public access and diminishes public commemoration. Such action may seem bureaucratic, but it is telling: When national institutions downgrade the public recognition of a civil rights icon while championing narratives that demean Black leadership, the message is clear.
Trump’s repeated insistence that he is “not a racist” functions as a rhetorical shield. It resonates rhetorically but cannot wipe away decades of documented behavior, public statements, and the lived experiences of those harmed by policy and symbolism. True leadership is not measured by denials but by accountability and moral clarity.
The Obama video, the birther attacks, the attempts to delegitimize Black leadership, the Central Park Five advertisements, the housing discrimination lawsuit, and the “shithole country” comments are not isolated incidents. They form a pattern in which racialized harm is consistently dismissed, deflected, or minimized, even as policies continue to disproportionately affect communities of color.
Moral leadership demands more than words. It demands recognition of harm, centering those most affected in decision‑making, and ensuring that power and opportunity are equitably shared. On these measures, the administration’s pattern of deflection, denial, and exclusion is a failure, one that cannot be concealed behind memes, conspiracy theories, or personal relationships. For a nation still wrestling with the legacy of race, the cost of inaction is lived, generational, and real.
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What Holiday Magic Teaches Us About Resisting Authoritarianism
This holiday season, let us embrace the art of ambiguity as a form of resistance.
Dec 25, 2025
As Donald Trump declares in his recent address that he has achieved "more than anyone could have imagined" with "zero illegal aliens" allowed into the country and "100 percent of all jobs" going to American-born citizens, I'm thinking about what my Hungarian mother, my édi, taught me about surviving authoritarianism: the radical necessity of making room for what we cannot fully explain or control.
I'm an academic. I derive great comfort from empirical evidence and investigating every question with a critical, researcher's eye. I teach my students to do the same. I want them to confidently read the world with care and curiosity. This is more important than ever. As a group of students in my research methods class discovered this semester, 54% of adults in the U.S. read below a sixth-grade level. Authoritarians depend on this. They depend on a population that cannot parse complexity, that craves simple answers to complicated questions, that mistakes certainty for strength. In this recent ostensibly economic address, Trump declared he has "settled eight wars in 10 months" and brought "for the first time in 3,000 years peace to the Middle East." No nuance. No acknowledgment of ongoing negotiations or fragile ceasefires. Just absolute, unquestionable victory. This is the language of someone who cannot tolerate ambiguity, everything must be either 'worst ever' or 'best ever,' with no room for the messy reality in between.
I teach at CUNY, the largest urban university in the United States, which makes me one of the luckiest people alive. My students are remarkable worldbuilders, often the first in their families to earn degrees. Much like I experienced as an immigrant navigating college, they have no one opening doors for them, no family footsteps to guide their decision-making. They are celebrations of all their ancestors, all their family members and their legacies. When we get to be together, it is sacred.
While I'm deeply invested in helping refine their critical thinking brilliance and their literacy of complex information, these are essential democratic tools after all, I also focus on something autocrats fear even more: our tolerance for ambiguity. This isn't new wisdom. Simone de Beauvoir argued seventy years ago that embracing uncertainty is an ethical necessity, that rigid certainty is a form of bad faith. But knowing this intellectually isn't enough. We must practice it, build the muscle of sitting with what we cannot control. We aren't necessarily born with a tolerance for ambiguity, no, we have to develop it.
This is what ordinary people do when they refuse authoritarian thinking: they risk themselves for something beyond certainty, for the magic of collective care, for keeping possibility alive in impossible circumstances.
Authoritarianism offers the seductive comfort of certainty. It promises that complex problems have simple solutions, that there are clear enemies and obvious heroes, that strength means never wavering or admitting uncertainty. It means launching missiles at boats in international waters and, when survivors cling to debris, firing again and then claiming moral clarity where there is only extrajudicial killing. But meaningful civic engagement requires the opposite. Meaningful civic engagement requires the capacity to sit with complex questions, to accept unknowns, to trust processes we cannot fully control.
In my research methods course, I ask students to create "visual citations" to introduce themselves. For this assignment they are invited to use any medium their imaginations can conjure. When these are due, we create a gallery around the classroom and marvel at our luck to build community with each person. Students have brought in playlists, five items of clothing representing their life journeys, stunning collages, paintings, sculptures. One created an entire puzzle of her family's migration story. As we complete our visual analysis, we ask: What gifts does our community bring? That is where we root ourselves, in the joys uncovered through a deceptively ambiguous and uncertain process.
But to reach this revelation, we first have to get past the discomfort of the unfamiliar. Students sometimes want to resist. Who can blame them? Why can't I just give them an exam to cram for, definitions to memorize? But then, most of the time, the classroom comes to trust me. I always explain my pedagogical reasons. And these risks pay off tremendously. We come to see each other as complex, dynamic, wonderful human beings. We come to see ourselves as capable of things we could not have imagined.
I developed a high tolerance for ambiguity early, as a child in Ceaușescu's Romania. My father escaped before I could hold onto memories of him. My childhood was my single mother and my two siblings. But Christmas—wow, my mom made Christmas magical!
In our region, it's not Santa who comes on Christmas. On St. Nicholas Day early in the month, he leaves goodies (and handwritten notes giving tips about how we can behave in the coming year—Santa is such a critic) in our boots. On Christmas, angels arrive and bring surprises and the Christmas tree. We lived on the fifth floor of a communist tenement, and somehow my mom arranged for angels to arrive once while we were home. We had no other explanation. The angels must have flown in through the balcony door and left the same way. We knew that the angels were, in fact, real. Peering through the crack at the bottom of the door, we could see black boots moving in the living room.
Meaningful civic engagement requires the capacity to sit with complex questions, to accept unknowns, to trust processes we cannot fully control.
Decades later, on a rare visit to my village, I learned that our neighbor had been in cahoots with my mom that year and literally risked his life climbing over from his balcony to ours, to make sure we would not give up on the magic of Christmas. Angels do wear black boots, but some climb instead of fly.
This is what ordinary people do when they refuse authoritarian thinking: they risk themselves for something beyond certainty, for the magic of collective care, for keeping possibility alive in impossible circumstances.
We live in a complex world. How lucky we are to share it with people who hold different perspectives, different experiences, different skills from us. To fully appreciate the gift of diversity, we have to tolerate ambiguity.
As the Trump administration moves to consolidate power through the false comfort of absolute certainty—declaring "our border is secure, inflation has stopped, wages are up, prices are down," a world with no room for the millions of Americans whose lived reality tells a different story—we must practice the opposite. We must hold space for what we cannot fully explain: for the neighbor who climbs across balconies in the dark, for the angels who somehow bring trees to the fifth floor, for the students whose brilliance catches us by surprise, for neighbors organizing to protect community members from ICE raids, for the ways collective care outsmarts surveillance states.
This holiday season, let us embrace the art of ambiguity as a resistance to authoritarianism. Let us choose the discomfort of complexity over the seductive ease of autocratic certainty. Let us trust in processes we cannot fully control—like democratic deliberation, like community care, like the slow work of building understanding across difference.
That's how my mom taught me to survive authoritarianism with my soul intact. We did not match the rigid certainty of Ceaușescu's policies. Instead we kept alive our capacity for wonder, for trust in what we cannot see, for believing that angels wear black boots and fly through balcony doors.
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