The Heart of a Nation Beats for Two

Walking into the U.S. Capitol Rotunda on a cold January morning, I felt something raw and unshakable in my chest. Draped in the American flag, President Jimmy Carter’s casket stood simple and silent. Standing in the shadow of history, staring at this scene felt both sacred and gut-wrenching. The room was heavy, not just with the weight of grief, but with respect, and the air felt like it might shatter if anyone dared breathe too loud.

For Jonathen Hart, a Ferris State University student and President of the Ferris College Democrats, the decision to come to Washington, D.C., was deeply personal. When Hart finally entered the rotunda, standing before the casket, reality hit him like a freight train. “It became real,” he said. “We were saying goodbye to someone who gave everything for us. I looked around, and there were people of all ages—kids, elderly folks—people who lived through his presidency, and those who only knew the stories. He touched all of them. His legacy wasn’t just something from the past. It still matters.”

That’s what stuck with me. Carter wasn’t just some relic from a better time. He was proof that integrity and empathy still mean something, even in politics. It’s hard not to be cynical these days. We’ve seen too many leaders betray us and too many ideals sold off for power or a paycheck. But Carter? He stayed true: even when it wasn’t glamorous, and even when no one was watching.

The timing of Carter’s death felt like a cruel irony, arriving amid one of the most chaotic political periods in modern history. His life was a testament to peace and justice, and stands in glaring incongruity with today’s divisive political discourse—a wake-up call we can’t afford to ignore, though I fear too many already have.

A week later, I found myself back in D.C., and the city felt like it had been turned inside out. The energy had shifted—it wasn’t quiet or reverent like before. It was loud, electric, and brimming with tension. Inauguration Day for Donald Trump’s second term had turned Washington into a spectacle, and not the kind that makes you proud. Streets overflowed with people decked out in red MAGA hats waving oversized flags as if they were trying to claim the city itself. It didn’t feel like a celebration; it felt like a challenge.  

Donald Trump, who infamously refused to participate in the peaceful transfer of power during his chaotic 2020 exit and incited a violent attack on the U.S. Capitol for which he has never been held accountable, stood before the nation and swore to “protect America from enemies, foreign and domestic.” The irony of that oath—given his track record—was enough to make anyone roll their eyes. Somehow, Trump managed not to laugh at the absurdity of it all, though I wouldn’t blame him if he had.

The contrast couldn’t have been starker. Carter’s lying in state had been about reverence—a collective pause, a chance for Americans to bow their heads and reflect on what it means to lead with humility. Here? Here, it was a carnival. A relentless drumbeat of energy that felt more like a show of dominance than anything resembling unity. In the stands, there was no weeping, no reflection. People chanted, screamed, and stamped their feet. The sound ricocheted off every surface, relentless and consuming. Here, two Americas were laid bare in the same city, just days apart. Standing there, caught in the cacophony of Trump’s inauguration, I couldn’t help but ask myself: Where the hell did our ideals go? Where was the humility? Where was the quiet, unwavering belief in service to others? Had we really traded all that for noise and spectacle?  

Trump’s presidency, like his campaign, is a masterclass in ignoring reality and rewriting the narrative to suit his ego. Nearly half of American voters strongly opposed his return to power, fearing what another four years of his reckless leadership would mean for the country. Another 36% of eligible voters did not vote. Yet, there he was, standing in the United StatesCapitol Rotunda, declaring January 20, 2025, as “Liberation Day” for American citizens. Liberation from what? Competent leadership? Democratic norms? Accountability?

Of course, the ceremony itself was a fitting reflection of the man. Flanked by billionaires and cronies, Trump once again peddled the idea that he’s a man of the people despite standing as one of the most blatant symbols of wealth and privilege in modern politics. This is the same man who, as a convicted felon guilty on 34 counts of “repeatedly and fraudulently falsifying business records,” dared to call his presidency the beginning of a “golden age for America.” Golden for whom, exactly? Certainly not for the working-class families he loves to exploit for votes while cutting taxes for his billionaire buddies.

In his speech, Trump leaned heavily into his well-worn playbook of fear-mongering and hyperbole, painting a picture of a dystopian America only he could fix. According to him, we’re teetering on the brink of collapse, unable to provide basic services, riddled with betrayal, and in desperate need of his singular vision. It’s a narrative he’s been spinning since 2016, despite the country’s ongoing resilience in the face of his chaos. The truth? America doesn’t need saving from Trump’s imagined hellscape—it needs saving from Trump himself.

Seated just a few feet away were President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris, watching the inauguration with the same restrained composure they’ve shown for years. They’ve both warned—rightly—that Trump’s return is a dangerous step toward authoritarianism. Yet they sat there, honoring the ceremony, because that’s what American democracy demands, even when democracy itself feels fragile and under siege.

Trump wasted no time in weaponizing his office. Barely minutes after promising “unity,” he announced plans to strip protections for transgender Americans—an act of cruelty designed to score points with his base at the expense of some of the most vulnerable members of our society. This wasn’t a policy announcement; it was a declaration of hostility against anyone who didn’t fit his narrow, regressive vision of what America should be.

This is the Trump we’ve always known. The same man who spent his campaign labeling Democrats, progressives, and anyone who opposes him as enemies of the state had the gall to stand there and say, “We are one people, one family, and one glorious nation under God.” The lack of laughter after that line was deafening, though I imagine the word “irony” packed its bags and fled the country in protest.

Ending his speech, Trump said with his signature flair for false promises, “I am with you, I will fight for you, and I will win for you.” For a man who has consistently used his office to serve himself, those words couldn’t be further from the truth. The majority of Americans who disapprove of him—myself included—know exactly what’s coming: more division, more chaos, and more empty rhetoric disguised as leadership.

The transformation was surreal. Just days earlier, I’d stood in that same space, surrounded by people mourning a man who had dedicated his life to peace and service. Now it was a circus—a grotesque spectacle of power and privilege shoved in our faces. For the people in those stands, it was intoxicating. For me, it was sobering.  

This wasn’t just about Trump, though. As it is often said, he is not the disease, but the symptom. Trump is the loudest voice in a country that’s been screaming at itself for centuries. The divide isn’t just political; it’s cultural, moral, and existential. Trump didn’t create this chaos, but he thrives in it. Make no mistake: his so-called “shock-and-awe” presidency is designed to distract, overwhelm, and exhaust us while he and his billionaire allies loot our national wealth and our democratic heritage.

Then came Cardinal Timothy Dolan. For the first time all day, the crowd settled into something closer to silence. His invocation was smooth, masterful even—he spoke about redemption, spiritual rebirth, and second chances. He drew parallels between Trump’s political comeback and biblical arcs of transformation. The crowd ate it up. Trump as some kind of phoenix rising from the ashes? For his supporters, it was a compelling metaphor, but all I could hear was the hypocrisy rattling under every word. What second chance does he deserve when his first was spent dividing the country, emboldening racists, and tearing apart the social fabric? Where’s the redemption in pardoning insurrectionists or stripping away diversity programs? If anything, Trump isn’t rising from the ashes—he’s torching what’s left.

The wreckage is piling up fast. In just a couple of days, Trump pulled us out of the Paris climate agreement, rolled back diversity programs, and pardoned or commuted the sentences of those who participated in the January 6 riots—the same people who stormed this city to overthrow our government. He’s signaling to the world that science, equality, and democracy are disposable, just like the working-class voters he pretends to champion. To make this sordid message crystal clear, it was a parade of the nation’s billionaires–Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, Mark Zukerberg–who sat front and center at the inauguration ceremony. For the swearing in of an administration for the rich, by the rich, the rest of us were relegated to the cheap seats. 

This hypocrisy is heartbreaking, but the worst part is that many people don’t even see it. They cheer for him as if he’s an underdog hero fighting the system when, in reality, he’s everything that is wrong with the system—oligarchy wrapped in a red hat and the remnants of the Grand Old Party of Abraham Lincoln.

Washington is a city of contradictions. It’s messy, frustrating, and full of ideals constantly at odds with reality. But here’s the thing: Washington remembers. It holds onto the past even as it barrels forward. What struck me most that day was this wasn’t just about one man or one administration—it was about who we are as a country and where we’re headed. Right now, it feels like we’re on a relentless march forward with no regard for the wreckage we leave in our wake. But are we going to double down on this spectacle of greed and chaos, or are we going to demand something better, fairer, and more honest? 

As a woman, I am angry. I am scared. But I am not defeated.  

The true spirit of our democracy doesn’t rest in the hands of its loudest voices or its powerful leaders. It lives in us, the people who refuse to back down—angry, afraid, determined—because we know this experiment only survives when we fight for it. History isn’t a straight line. It's a battlefield, and every generation has to pick up the shattered pieces of the last. We must decide to endure, and to build something stronger.  

I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep fighting, especially when it feels impossible, because my country—cracked, flawed, and messy as it is​​—is still worth fighting for. I refuse to let it go. 

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