Declare Independence from the Lie

The Republican Party is gone. What remains wants silence, submission, or exile.

The last Republican presidential candidate spends five thousand dollars a day so he doesn’t get murdered by people who call themselves “Republicans.”

Mitt Romney’s campaign wasn’t the end of an era. It was the tombstone. He was the final nominee of a party that once trafficked in flawed ideas, not lies and facisim dystopia. After daring to say “this is wrong,” after voting for impeachment, after refusing to kneel, he hired private security and vanished behind it. He didn’t leave the Senate because of age or boredom or exhaustion. He left because truth had a price, and the people he once represented were suddenly eager for him to pay it in blood.

Senator Lisa Murkowski said the quiet part out loud when asked what she’d say to Americans afraid of a second Trump administration:

“We are all afraid.”

Not of losing elections. Of what comes after the win. Of the mob in red hats who now roam unburdened by shame or consequence.

This is what compromise looks like in 2025: Armored convoys for anyone who whispers dissent. This is where bipartisanship ends, not in cigars and handshake deals, but in tactical vests and security clearances.

The Republican Party is dead. Grieve it if you must, but stop pretending it’s still breathing. In its place stands a cult of blood and obedience. A movement of rage-drunk authoritarians who drape themselves in flags while calling for purges. You don’t compromise with that. You don’t negotiate with that. You survive it, if you’re rich, if you’re quiet, if you’ve already learned to live beneath it.

Today, America throws itself a birthday party. Flags are raised. Burgers are flipped. Fireworks explode over a country pretending not to hear the sirens. We sing about liberty while ignoring the ash gathering at our feet.

Look around your barbecue. Count the “Red Hats.” They’re not fringe anymore. They are your cousin. Your neighbor. Your child’s teacher. The woman at the library board meeting. The man who once smiled at you from across the church pew. The ones who believe books are dangerous, dissent is treason, and elections are only valid if their messiah wins.

And you?

You’ll probably smile. Again. You’ll probably say nothing. Again. Because you don’t want to “start something.” Because they’re “family.” Because you are afraid. Honestly, you should be. Because when ICE and its new 1,400% larger, $45 billion budget starts rounding up Americans, do you think the Red Hats in your neighborhood will object? Do you think they’ll whisper you into their basement to protect you?

They will be the ones pointing towards your front door.

They have already told you who they are. Trump never hid it. He brags about mass deportations. He jokes about executing shoplifters. He calls for military generals to be tried and hanged. He promises pardons to violent mobs and photo-ops with white supremacists. His people don’t carry signs anymore. They carry zip ties.

This isn’t theory. This isn’t warning. This is now.

The institutions that once checked power have been bled dry. Still, we are told to seek “unity.” As if we can meet halfway with a movement that sees dialogue as weakness and mercy as betrayal.

The Republican establishment thought it could ride the dragon. It fed the beast. Praised its fury. Cheered when it burned the left to ash.

Now Romney spends $1.8 million per year to try to feel safe. Murkowski hides behind trembling words. Pence, the last Republican vice president, the man they built a gallows for, vanishes like a ghost.

They made the deal, and the Devil never leaves a debt unpaid.

So on this Independence Day, light your firecrackers if you must. But do not confuse spectacle for sovereignty.

Declare independence from the delusion that this is politics as usual.
Declare independence from the lie that both sides merely disagree.
Declare independence from the friend you keep around because you “don’t talk politics.”

They do. Every day. Every comment. Every ballot. Every silence.

This isn’t a disagreement. It’s a coordinated demolition of the republic.
If you still believe compromise is possible, if you still think there’s a seat at the table between democracy and fascism, then you’re not a moderate.

You are the help.

Do not sing about freedom beside those who would burn it.
Do not toast the republic with those who dream of its collapse.
Do not confuse politeness with courage, or civility with survival.

This is not a holiday.
This is a reckoning.
If we keep pretending otherwise, next year’s celebration won’t be a warning.

It will be the eulogy.

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