Think MAGA -- and think Trump. But even before Donald Trump ran for president, a long line of Republicans already wanted to Make America Great Again.
On this episode of C-SPAN’s The Weekly Podcast, hear from Republican presidents and Republican presidential candidates not named Trump, who campaigned with MAGA in mind.
Bad Bunny performs on stage during the Debí Tirar Más Fotos world tour at Estadio GNP Seguros on December 11, 2025 in Mexico City, Mexico.
On Monday, January 26th, I published a column in the Fulcrum called Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl Halftime Show Sparks National Controversy As Trump Announces Boycott. At the time, I believed I had covered the entire political and cultural storm around Bad Bunny’s upcoming Super Bowl performance.
I was mistaken. In the days since, the reaction has only grown stronger, and something deeper has become clear. This is no longer just a debate about a halftime show. It is turning into a question of who belongs in America’s cultural imagination.
On October 7th, when I first wrote about Bad Bunny missing from U.S. tour dates and the early rallies forming around him, I sensed the moment was about more than music. I did not realize how quickly it would become a stand-in for the country’s unresolved issues with identity, language, immigration, and power. The rapid escalation of this story, from ICE threats to presidential criticism, shows how fragile social and cultural unity in America has become.
In just the last few days alone, the rhetoric has become more intense.. President Trump has repeated his now‑familiar line, “I’m anti‑them” — in interviews highlighted by the New York Post and Newsweek, ensuring the controversy stays in the bloodstream of the news cycle. On the right, MAGA commentators on platforms like Fox News, Breitbart, and Turning Point USA’s “TPUSA Live” have increased their outrage over rumors that Bad Bunny may perform in a dress, framing it as an assault on “traditional America.” Conservative influencers such as Danica Patrick, Charlie Kirk, and Benny Johnson have continued to insist that Spanish‑language music is “un‑American,” a theme amplified across X/Twitter and covered by outlets including Rolling Stone and The Daily Beast, despite the historical fact that Spanish predates English on this continent by centuries.
What we are witnessing is not simply disagreement. It is a widening fracture in America over what counts as American culture and who gets to define it.
The reaction to Bad Bunny’s performance does not exist in isolation. It builds on decades of debate about what behavior and culture are acceptable. Americans now often live in separate media worlds, celebrate different heroes, and see the same events in completely different ways.
The Super Bowl used to be one of the last shared cultural spaces in American life. Now, it is being drawn into the same divisions that affect so much else.
The fact that a halftime show can lead to a presidential boycott tells us something important. We are no longer just arguing about policies. We are fighting over symbols, over language, and over who gets to stand on the biggest stage in the country and say, “This is America, too.”
Negative comments from President Trump and his supporters have sparked a strong response from people who see Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance as a moment of cultural inclusion and acceptance. Latino civic groups are organizing watch parties focused on cultural celebration rather than football. Young fans see Bad Bunny’s performance as a chance for visibility, an opportunity to see themselves on a stage that has often left them out. Even betting markets are involved, giving odds on whether Bad Bunny will mention Trump. This shows how deeply politics has become part of our cultural events.
This is the paradox of the moment. The more some people try to narrow the definition of American identity, the more others push to expand it.
The cultural divide we see is not just about Bad Bunny. It is about the different visions Americans have for themselves and their country. One vision imagines a nation with a single language, a single cultural background, and a single way of life. The other sees America as a mosaic—multilingual, creative, always changing, and sometimes messy.
The Super Bowl is now the place where these two visions meet. The question is no longer just whether Bad Bunny will put on a great show. It is whether we, as a nation, are ready to face the deeper truth his presence shows us: America is changing, and the struggle over who belongs is not over.
The rallies, backlash, boycotts, and celebrations are all part of the same national conversation about identity and belonging. They remind us that entertainment has a big role in shaping our shared future.
As Springsteen once said, let us speak out against authoritarianism and let freedom be heard. But maybe this moment asks for something more—the courage to imagine an America big enough for all of us.
The Super Bowl stage is ready. The world is watching.
David Nevins is the publisher of The Fulcrum and co-founder and board chairman of the Bridge Alliance Education Fund.
Bruce Springsteen on October 22, 2025 in Hollywood, California.
Bruce Springsteen didn’t wait for the usual aftermath—no investigations, no statements, no political rituals. Instead, he picked up his guitar and told the truth, as he always does in moments of moral fracture.
This week, Springsteen released “Streets of Minneapolis,” a blistering protest song written and recorded in just 48 hours, in direct response to what he called “the state terror being visited on the city of Minneapolis.”
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The song memorializes Renee Good and Alex Pretti, two Minneapolis residents fatally shot by ICE agents during federal immigration operations. Eyewitness videos and community accounts have sharply contradicted the immediate reactions of President Trump and members of his administration. Neighbors who watched the events unfold described the shootings as “senseless” and “utterly avoidable,” with one witness saying, “Nothing I saw justified what happened. They fired before they even tried to understand.”
Springsteen names the victims, calls out what he calls "King Trump’s private army," and vows that Americans will remember those who died "in the winter of '26… on the streets of Minneapolis." He sings, "Injustice scorched these streets where the innocent fell," capturing the raw emotion and urgency of the moment.
The song is Springsteen's demand for accountability, and a reminder of the powerful role artists have played in our nation's history. In recent years, protest songs have been linked to significant real-world changes.
Just days before releasing the song, Springsteen stood on a small stage in Red Bank at the Light of Day WinterFest and dedicated "The Promised Land" to Renee Good. Renee, a Minneapolis school teacher with a reputation for dedication to her students and active involvement in community outreach programs, has now become a symbol of ICE overreach.
“This isn’t about one woman. This is about what we’re becoming — what we’re allowing.”
And of course, this is part of a longer pattern of protest by Springsteen. During his Land of Hope and Dreams tour in Europe in May 2025, Springsteen warned audiences that "there’s some very weird, strange, and dangerous shit going on out there right now," describing an America where dissent was punished, and the vulnerable were abandoned. Crowds across Europe roared in recognition. Back home, President Trump responded with personal insults and conspiracy theories, attacking Springsteen, Beyoncé, and Bono and accusing them — without evidence — of unlawful political activity.
This is an unmistakable pattern: An artist defends democratic values. The president tries to delegitimize the artist.
For generations, American artists have raised their voices against injustice, often long before political leaders found the courage to act. In the 1970s, the nation was shaken by the killing of four students at Kent State University. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young raised awareness with“four dead in Ohio.” Their song raised consciousness among a generation and served as a reminder that music can force a country to confront truths it would rather ignore. Decades earlier, during the Great Depression, Woody Guthrie’s ballads captured the struggles of ordinary Americans and urged the nation to reckon with its inequalities.
Together, these moments illustrate the continuity and evolution of civic artistry, highlighting how artists' voices have long echoed through many chapters of American history, calling out injustices and inspiring change.
Throughout our history, artists have connected people across divides, awakened empathy, and reminded us of our shared stake in the American experiment. Politics divides; music congregates, offering a unifying force that can transcend barriers and inspire collective action.
Springsteen’s dedication to Renee Good and the now-tribute in Streets of Minneapolis belong squarely in that lineage. Springsteen insists that the promise of America is not self‑executing. It requires vigilance, compassion, and the courage to call out injustice even when doing so invites backlash.
As political rhetoric grows more extreme and institutions strain under the weight of polarization, the arts remain one of the few spaces where Americans still gather. A concert, a musical, a mural, a poem: these are places where people still listen, still feel, still recognize themselves in one another.
Perhaps this is the moment to ask our artists to do what they have always done in times of crisis: lead.
But the bigger question is whether Springsteen's song will lead to citizen action. Will each of us consider what our voice and millions like ours could mean? Will you lend your voice and your support to amplify the message of democracy and unity? Each citizen's actions, no matter how small, contribute to a movement that seeks to preserve the very fabric of our society.
We have seen the power of such unity before. 'We Are the World' topped the charts worldwide, becoming one of the fastest-selling singles of all time. Live Aid, in 1985, brought together the world in a historic concert that raised over $125 million for famine relief in Africa.
Today, the stakes are different but no less profound.
Springsteen has captured this spirit with Streets of Minneapolis, widening the circle from a few horrible acts of violence to an entire city under siege.
Borrowing from Hamilton, it is time to raise a glass to freedom to ensure it is something they can never take away, no matter what they tell us.
Because in the end, democracy survives only if enough people believe in it strongly enough to fight for it.
Springsteen is doing his part. The question now is whether the rest of us will do ours. To start, just share the 'Streets of Minneapolis' with your friends and family and express your solidarity. By taking these small steps, we can contribute to a larger movement for change.
David Nevins is the publisher of The Fulcrum and co-founder and board chairman of the Bridge Alliance Education Fund.
North Carolina's Project Kitty Hawk, an online program-management system built by the government, has been beset by difficulties and slow to grow despite good intentions.
North Carolina’s Project Kitty Hawk is a grand experiment. Can a government entity build an online program-management system that competes with private providers? With $97 million in taxpayer funding, the initiative seemed promising. But, despite good intentions, the project has been beset by difficulties and has been slow to grow.
A state-chartered, university-affiliated online program manager may sound visionary, but in practice, it’s expensive, inefficient, and less adaptable than private solutions. In a new report for the James G. Martin Center for Academic Renewal, I examined the experience of Project Kitty Hawk and argued that online education needs less government and more free markets.
In many ways, Project Kitty Hawk mirrors private online program managers (OPMs). However, it differs in two fundamental ways. First, because it’s a public university affiliate, it must follow all the governance rules applicable to state entities. This creates additional complexity not found in the private sector; overlapping boards and bureaucratic layers significantly slowed Project Kitty Hawk’s development. Before PKH could launch a single program, it needed approvals from the PKH board, the UNC System Office, and the partnering campus—all operating on different calendars and according to different priorities.
More importantly, Project Kitty Hawk receives government money. Its $97m in start-up funding was provided by North Carolina taxpayers. Many of these silent “shareholders” will neither enroll in courses nor see any direct monetary return on their “investment.” Why ask taxpayers to foot start-up costs at all when expenses can be resolved through provider partnerships? Creating state-run programs requires taxpayers to assume 100 percent of the downside risk while realizing none of the upside. In contrast, private OPMs bear both risk and cost.
To its credit, going forward, Project Kitty Hawk will succeed or fail based on the value of the services it provides to North Carolina’s universities, which are not required to choose PKH as a vendor. But it has already been forced to reduce its program and revenue projections due to uncertainty about possible new regulations on revenue-sharing.
When Project Kitty Hawk moved from a revenue-sharing to a fee-for-service model in 2024, it decreased its projections for both program offerings (from 100 to 56 by 2028) and enrollments (from 31,000 to 14,800 by 2028). At the time, PKH stated that changing its model necessarily reduced its program pipeline. One university that had planned to use PKH as a partner pulled out because switching to fee-for-service would cause projected revenue losses in the first few years of operation.
Innovation thrives when universities can choose partners and pay only for results. Truly private revenue-sharing and fee-for-service models allow campuses to expand online offerings without building internal bureaucracies or footing the bill for start-up costs. This free-market competition decreases expenditures, improves student outcomes, and fosters a wide variety in program offerings.
Private OPMs are already offering such services. Yes, there have been bad actors, as there are in any market. But, on the whole, these services allow universities to offer affordable, accessible courses and to reach students that they wouldn’t otherwise. Private education-technology firms, such as Risepoint, 2U, and ed2go, have been especially valuable to small colleges and universities that lack the resources to build robust in-house online offerings. Moreover, these firms operate with zero taxpayer startup costs and rapid scalability. Many North Carolina colleges and universities, including UNC-Chapel Hill, UNC Greensboro, NC Central University, Winston-Salem State University, East Carolina University, and Central Carolina Community College, already use public-private partnerships to deliver online courses. A centralized, state-chartered platform can’t offer the same benefits.
But the current regulatory environment slows down even the private sector. Concerns about the possibility of new regulations have threatened providers’ models that provide student acquisition, retention support, technology deployment, and curriculum innovation in return for a share of tuition revenue.
As Workforce Pell is implemented, broadening the universe for short-term and career coursework, adult learners will demand even more online courses. Colleges will need to rapidly address access and the scalability of offerings. Congress should facilitate colleges using public-private partnerships to meet these needs by codifying the 2011 “bundled services” guidance. This reform would give universities certainty about revenue-share agreements going forward.
At the same time, state governments should encourage public institutions to contract with affordable, efficient private providers for online course marketing, recruitment, and instructional design, and allow them to succeed or fail based on student outcomes. This will be especially important for community colleges as they work to meet new demand created by Workforce Pell funding.
Other states should learn from North Carolina’s experiment; don’t gamble with taxpayer capital when private firms already offer scalable solutions. Students, not bureaucracies, should be the beneficiaries of online-education innovation.
Jenna Robinson is president of the James G. Martin Center for Academic Renewal.
"The promise of AI-powered tools—from personalized health monitoring to adaptive educational support—depends on access to quality data," writes Kevin Frazier.
Outdated, albeit well-intentioned data privacy laws create the risk that many Americans will miss out on proven ways in which AI can improve their quality of life. Thanks to advances in AI, we possess incredible opportunities to use our personal information to aid the development of new tools that can lead to better health care, education, and economic advancement. Yet, HIPAA (the Health Information Portability and Accountability Act), FERPA (The Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act), and a smattering of other state and federal laws complicate the ability of Americans to do just that.
The result is a system that claims to protect our privacy interests while actually denying us meaningful control over our data and, by extension, our well-being in the Digital Age.
The promise of AI-powered tools—from personalized health monitoring to adaptive educational support—depends on access to quality data. But our current legal framework, built on distrust of both corporations and skepticism of individual judgment, creates friction to the exchanges that could benefit us most.
This isn't just a technical problem. It's creating what I call an “AI abyss”—think of it as a subset of the larger Digital Divide—a widening gap between those who can navigate privacy restrictions to access cutting-edge AI services and those who cannot. Wealthy Americans already pay premium prices for AI-enhanced health monitoring and personalized care. Meanwhile, more than 100 million Americans lack a usual source of primary care, and privacy laws enacted decades ago make it nearly impossible for community health clinics to leverage AI tools that could transform care delivery.
Consider a hypothetical rural community, where a doctor at the local clinic proposed using AI to develop tailored health interventions based on aggregated clinic data and wearable device information. The community was enthusiastic—until a vocal lawyer claimed that state law required handwritten authorization from each patient, with explicit descriptions of every potential data use. The understaffed clinic couldn't manage the paperwork burden. The project died. Meanwhile, imagine a nearby affluent community that hires a law firm to help them create privately-operated “Health Data Clubs,” which aggregate member health data to then offer AI-driven recommendations.
This pattern repeats across domains in very real ways. Fewer than 15 percent of children in poverty who need mental health support receive care, yet developing reliable AI therapy tools requires exactly the kind of sensitive data that privacy laws most tightly restrict. During the pandemic, 20 percent of wealthy parents hired personal tutors; only 8 percent of low-income parents could afford them. Had AI tutors trained on individual learning patterns been available at that time, the technology could have narrowed that gap, but that also presumes that educational privacy laws didn't make such data sharing prohibitively complex. The unfortunate irony is that the AI applications with the greatest potential to revive and spread the American Dream are precisely those requiring the most legally protected information.
Incremental amendments to dozens of privacy statutes won't solve this problem. We need a different approach: a federal “right to share” that allows Americans to opt out of state privacy restrictions when they choose. To be clear, the aim is not to inhibit the ability of any individual to make use of as many privacy protections as they see fit. The core aim is instead to recognize that an individual’s data is more valuable than ever, which suggests that individuals should have more control over that data. Again, those who prefer current restrictions would remain fully covered. But those willing to share their data for purposes they value—whether joining health cooperatives or participating in educational research—would have that freedom.
The constitutional authority for such a right is clear. Commercial data exchange via the Internet constitutes interstate commerce, well within Congress's power to regulate. The implementation mechanism, however, may not be so straightforward. In theory, this right could operate in a manner similar to privacy notices and cookie disclosures. Americans could opt out of restrictive state laws through a simple online process, with reasonable opportunities to opt back in. How best to design and stand up this effort warrants more attention from interdisciplinary stakeholders. The Federal Trade Commission, which already enforces privacy policies, could handle complaints surrounding a failure to adhere to an individual’s expressed preferences.
Of course, no right is absolute. A right to share cannot extend to information directly implicating others' privacy—a family member's genetic data, for instance. Congress could establish narrow, content-neutral limits modeled on existing exceptions to free expression.
The deeper principle here is informational self-determination. Just as the First Amendment protects our right to speak and listen, we should have the right to disclose or withhold our own information. Both rest on the same constitutional value: personal autonomy as a safeguard of democratic life. Nearly 80 percent of Americans trust themselves to make the right decisions about their personal information. Our laws should reflect that trust rather than contradict it.Kevin Frazier is a Senior Fellow at the Abundance Institute and directs the AI Innovation and Law Program at the University of Texas School of Law
