And so it should be astonishing, even to the most jaded or irate Americans, that so many are sitting out our 250th birthday party this July, rejecting both the obligatory ritual and the occasion for devotion or reclamation that the anniversary has represented in the past. In 2026, in the era of Donald Trump, it now seems that the tradition of consecrating our origins is a spent force.
Fifty years later, we are again facing chaos in the White House and a morass of global warfare. And we are again facing an interregnum: neoliberalism as we’ve known it has lost credibility, and there is no clear sense of what will replace it. But today’s mood is decisively different. The 250th anniversary falls during the ongoing perpetration and revelation of executive crimes and misdemeanors. Joe Biden did not turn out to be Gerald Ford: whatever bland tonic he offered the anxiety-ridden nation didn’t last (if it worked at all). Among the many ways that Trump has set himself apart from previous presidents is by adopting a nonchalant and shifting relation to the American past. Part of the reason may be that he is too palpably narcissistic to engage in ancestor worship: his interest in the 250th celebration seems to be as much about observing his own birthday, on June 14, as the country’s. He has put up statues of Alexander Hamilton and Benjamin Franklin in the Rose Garden, but he mentions the founders and framers far less regularly than his immediate predecessors in either party. (His praise for other presidents is all over the map: he lionizes Andrew Jackson and William McKinley while also lauding Franklin D. Roosevelt.) Strikingly, he is a nationalist with little romantic investment in those who first launched the nation; to the extent that he’s nostalgic, it seems to be for the 1950s or the 1890s—not the 1770s.
Trump has many detractors, but if anything, liberals seem even less interested in reclaiming the founding spirit than their great foe. During Trump’s first term, many critical commentators coalesced around “normcore”—a return to the normalcy of the status quo ante, and a form of restorationist nostalgia. But in 2026, liberals are barely rousing themselves for this year’s ceremony of origins. In part, this may be thanks to a greater awareness of how the conditions that preceded Trump also produced him; the consensus seems to be that the only way out of our interregnum is through it, to something else and something new. And at a practical level, liberals’ attention is consumed by more immediate crises. In this regard, the mood of 1976 seems almost calm: Ford’s pardon of Nixon caused an uproar, but it pales in comparison with Trump’s constantly proliferating outrages. During the age of print newspapers and nightly broadcasts, even bad news didn’t have the same effect. For Americans now, glued to their feeds and screens and siloed by our fragmented information landscape, there is not enough emotional claim or free time to linger in political nostalgia. Both the seventies and today are examples of what political scientists call a “disjunction”—the failure of a political regime—but unlike in 1976, when the New Deal order had given way, the endlessly roiling turmoil of our current era is experienced as the result of one man’s caprice, not of shadowy structural forces apparently beyond anyone’s control. [...]
Increasingly less enamored of the founding, liberals and progressives seem happy to let Trump have all the claims on its memory he wants, even if—or just because—he uses them as occasions for spectacle. And these spectacles, such as a UFC cage match on the White House lawn, confirm that the flaws in the American union are simply too great to pretend that mindlessly ratifying the country’s original principles and promises will do the trick. Our need is not for restoration but for transformation.
For all the uncertainty of the 1970s, there was enough agreement across partisan lines to reform government. Republicans joined Democrats to oust Nixon, and responses to failed wars and presidential hijinks came from both sides of the aisle, with new arrangements intended to keep either from repeating themselves: the Ethics in Government Act, the Inspector General Act, and the Federal Election Campaign Act were established for politics at home; the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, the War Powers Resolution, and the prohibition of political assassination were meant to address malfeasance abroad. All have been eroded since, and no comparable legislation has been adopted in our time. In our present state of gridlock, it’s hard to imagine it will be.
The end of an interregnum can be identified only in retrospect. In 1976, the age of Reagan was already underway, ushering in a decisively new era. Now the country is once again trapped in an agonizing disjunction, and no party or politician has been programmatic or visionary enough to transcend it. American political regimes work in cycles. Partisan realignment or presidential leadership can set up new political orders, which last until their disintegration or entropy leads to a new shift. Our current interregnum has so far thwarted Trump’s own addled attempt to refound the country; he lacks enough popular support or a credible enough plan to do so. But the same is true, so far, of his bitterest enemies.
There is one glint of promise in the abstention from this summer’s anniversary. Watching Trump turn the country’s already hollowing rituals into truly empty gestures, Americans across the partisan spectrum see more clearly and in greater numbers the defunct religion in which so many have lost faith. And they see that nostalgia is not a strategy. Unlike in 1976, the emotional and intellectual plausibility of the American national mythology isn’t likely to survive the Trumpian pageantry this summer. The agonizing limitations of backward-looking resistance to Trump have already driven his enemies to invest less in that mythology in the first place. America, poised on the brink of something, knows it cannot go back to the future.
by Samuel Moyn, The Yale Review | Read more:
Image: Getty
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There is no modern nation-state, after all, whose history is not rife with social injustice; with oppression based on race, class, and sex; with the violence of unjust wars. Our history is a dark and bloody ground in which slavery shares space with freedom, dispossession with progress, hatred with heritage. If there is anything admirable about America, it is not its supposed exception to these historical patterns but the persistence with which its people have struggled to amend injustice, relieve oppression, limit the exercise of state violence, and realize an extraordinarily broad and inclusive concept of nationality. If the dark side of U.S. history is the exploitation of land and labor by rampant capitalism and the rise of corporate oligarchy, its counterpart is the struggle for workers’ rights and environmental conservation and our determined efforts to strike a just and constructive balance between individual rights, corporate power, and the public good. It is because of that willingness to struggle, as much as for our achievements, that America has been the desired destination of immigrants from every country and culture on earth.
