I came of age, politically speaking, during the presidency of one of the two most polarizing figures in our recent history. I am aging out during the presidency of the second one.
Richard Nixon and Donald Trump rose to power in markedly different ways but suffered remarkably similar falls from public grace while they were in office. Whatever demons and character flaws may have driven them to wield power as they did obviously played a part in their rise and fall, but they are irrelevant to the central point of this essay.
As presidents, Richard Nixon and Donald Trump made singular and unheralded contributions to the practice of democracy and the way we think of ourselves as Americans, not for their accomplishments while in office but for how a great number of everyday Americans stopped them from pulling off whatever they had in mind to realize their grander ambitions.
Others and I have written about the long and bumpy process whereby societies become more democratic. That is, how more well-to-do, socially prominent, and powerful people cede bits and pieces of what it means to be more and better than the rest of us to more of us than they would have preferred or thought feasible.
The great challenge in effecting such a change is how to pull it off without people retreating, as Tocqueville put it, to the temporary and illusory comfort provided by people in their small private circles, or, even worse, from tearing apart the social and economic order from which more of us today than in the past take a measure of comfort and security.
A complete handover or switch in of who was more on top and who was more in the middle or at the bottom was never finished or even in the cultural cards with which we are playing. There was more dealing from the bottom of the deck and more cards being slipped from sleeves than was agreeable or probably necessary to keep the game going. But over a period of time measured more in centuries than decades, and with more people being able to play, we all learned how to read the table better, call each other’s bluffs, and on occasion, force the dealer to reshuffle the cards to ensure the deck wasn’t as stacked against the rest of us as we had come to believe.
It’s the calling of bluffs and forced reshuffling of the decks that concern me here, how less experienced and accomplished players stopped more deck stacking, surprising sleights of hand, having their pockets picked, and, importantly, how the card sharks had their teeth pulled.
I understand that much of our present concern about the future of our democracy is driven by how Donald Trump behaves, the unwillingness or inability of other elected officials to call him to task for what he says and does, and his continuing appeal to tens of millions of American voters because he says and does these things.
But what sank Richard Nixon’s presidency and is sinking Trump’s is how a great many more Americans who pay middling-to-little attention to politics or how the federal government is supposed to work have called Trump’s bluff.
There is nothing selfless about their intervention. But more than selfishness is in play and at risk when so many Americans stand up and put a loud, disruptive, not infrequently destructive, and increasingly less-than-deadly-face to their unwillingness to be governed as their leaders were insisting.
These are acts of social and political disconsent that rebuke and chastise our governors for their obnoxious behavior and unwanted intrusion into our lives.
Here is how political disconsent works and why it succeeds.
Acts of disconsent do not last a long time. (They don’t have to for their intended message to be delivered or accepted.)
Acts of disconsent are neither designed nor intended to overturn whatever government was responsible for having behaved in an untoward or extreme way. (All the protesting and demonstratively annoying people on the street are happy to return to their otherwise humdrum lives once the offending practices are ended and the people executing them are sent packing.)
Angry disconsenters today are likely to memorialize their displeasure in future elections. (They are less likely than in the past to burn down the house of the offending official or obnoxious neighbor or run them out of town.)
Today’s disconsent has effectively brought Donald Trump’s reign to an end, but probably not his presidency.
He’ll find another ring to add to his circus performance and somebody else to eat in public.
But President Trump is also prone to bellowing loudly and expressing righteous anger and much made-up rage when whoever is on his plate puts up a big stink and bites back.
Minnesotans bit back. Young people and not-so-young people all over the country are biting back.
That’s why President Trump declared a moratorium on bagging and deporting the Spanish-speaking brown people who "sneaked" into the United States.
By my count, this leaves only his cabinet and people in Canada, Greenland, Cuba, Venezuela, NATO, and Ukraine to chew on and spit out.
There’s a midterm election coming.
My money’s on Canada, Greenland, Cuba, Venezuela, NATO, and Ukraine.




















A golden tray sits on the Resolute Desk as President Donald Trump speaks during an announcement on American nuclear innovation in the Oval Office at the White House on July 24, 2026, in Washington, D.C. Trump is signing multiple executive orders targeting the nuclear energy sector and easing rules for new reactors and nuclear fuel supply chains.
Trump’s hubris rivals the fallen heroes of ancient Greek mythology
In January, the New York Times asked President Donald Trump if there were any limits on his global powers.
“Yeah,” the president responded, “there is one thing. My own morality. My own mind. It’s the only thing that can stop me.”
That was eight months ago, but fortunately Christopher Nolan’s blockbuster adaptation of “The Odyssey” has made ancient Greek literature newly relevant. Before that window closes, I’d like to talk about hubris.
Today, the term mostly means excessive pride or arrogance. That’s part of what the Greeks meant by it too, but the meaning was a bit richer and more specific. Hubris was an insolent or outrageous act that offended the gods, often because the transgressor was claiming abilities or authorities that solely belonged to supreme beings.
Nolan renamed and slightly modified the concept of xenia for the film, calling it “Zeus’ law.” In the director’s telling, mortals should follow the rules laid out by the gods, specifically the requirement to treat strangers with respect lest they be gods in disguise.
In a sense, hubris is the opposite, or at least the rejection, of xenia. The hubris of the suitors, and at times Odysseus himself, invites punishment by the gods and their mortal instruments.
Which brings me back to Donald Trump. His claim that there are no constraints on his personal power to dictate events on the global stage was one of the greatest expressions of hubris ever uttered by a political leader.
Trump’s claim was obviously false when he made it.
He vowed that he could end the Russia-Ukraine war in 24 hours. He’s proved powerless to make that happen. If he had divine powers to work his will, why would he have balked at implementing his tariffs so often that Wall Street adopted the “TACO trade” term for his deals? “TACO” stands for “Trump always chickens out.”
And why would Trump have made so many embarrassing concessions to China — from rescinding tariffs on Chinese goods to allowing them to buy crucial and incredibly valuable computer chips?
But Trump saw his success at capturing Venezuelan strongman Nicolas Maduro as proof of his ability to launch missiles to the same effect as Zeus’ lightning bolts. Trump believed he was the most powerful man who ever lived.
This is no exaggeration. In March, when the Iran invasion seemed successful, Trump gave a document penned by“Presidential Historian David King” to New York Times reporters Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan purporting to prove that Trump was “the most powerful person to have EVER walked this planet.” King was, in fact, a businessman and occasional caddy for legendary golfer Gary Player.
King compared Trump favorably to many of history’s most powerful, and often heinous, figures: Alexander the Great, Attila the Hun, William the Conqueror, Napoleon Bonaparte, Joseph Stalin, Genghis Khan, Mao Tse Tung, Adolf Hitler and Vladimir Lenin. Many of these men thought they were the most powerful person in the world, too. And many were defeated precisely because they believed it.
At least Napoleon and Hitler had a string of truly impressive victories before they learned the folly of hubris. The limits on Trump’s power have been exposed by far less august forces than the combined might of the allies in World War II or the fearsome Russian winter.
Iran is a comparatively middling power. But the regime’s ability to absorb punishment while imposing its will on the Strait of Hormuz has proved to be a greater constraint on Trump’s power than his morality or mind. We should note that, at least rhetorically, his morality has not proved much of a constraint. He has repeatedly promised to destroy Iranian “civilization” if the regime refuses to capitulate.
But they haven’t — and won’t anytime soon — because the regime’s tolerance for pain far outstrips Trump’s. The combined fear of skyrocketing oil prices, outrage of Gulf state potentates, diminishing weapon supplies and domestic unpopularity is doing the work that international law, congressional oversight and the collective opinion of foreign policy experts can’t or won’t do.
If I considered Trump more heroic than reason and facts could allow, I would say his Sisyphean predicament has the whiff of Greek tragedy to it. Trump is vexed by the fact that the Iranians won’t honor deals or ratify his countless premature claims of victory — giving new meaning to his vow that his presidency would make people tired of winning. It’s almost like they’re out-Trumping Trump.
Things might have gone better if he’d heeded that great Greek tragedian Sophocles: “For Zeus utterly abhors the boasts of a proud tongue.”
____
Jonah Goldberg is editor-in-chief of The Dispatch and the host of The Remnant podcast. His Twitter handle is @JonahDispatch.