In 2016, most liberals chose the first option. Shortly after Trump’s inauguration, The Women’s March filled the streets of Washington D.C.; social media sites flooded with a roar of counter-protests, the iconic pink Pussy hats and liberal righteous indignation — the resistance seemed formidable. Similarly, the cultural response to Trump was united in its mockery. When Trump floated the idea of buying Greenland, Conan O’Brien visited the country and interviewed various citizens questioning Trump’s intelligence. When the Stormy Daniels scandal emerged, late-night hosts talked endlessly about Trump’s sexual history. Trump’s win didn’t weaken liberals — he invigorated them.

The second time Trump was announced as president, the vigor and stamina seemed to have dissipated. The People’s March of 2025 reached about 50,000 attendees — a far cry from the half a million that showed in 2017. According to new Pew Research Center polling, a paltry 51% of Democrats felt optimistic about the future of the party — a significant drop from 62% shortly after the 2016 election.

Similarly, the New York Times has interviewed numerous young Democratic activists who have put down their batons and retreated from political life. The contrast between 2016 and 2025 is striking. Many people are questioning the different reactions: where did the passion go? Why were people burying their heads in the sand, especially when Trump seemed more eclectic and unpredictable than ever?

Ultimately, Trump’s second victory served not just as a resounding endorsement of his ideology, but also as a stinging criticism of Democrats as a whole. The 2024 presidential election destroyed the illusion that Trump’s first presidency was a fluke, that with enough passion, protest and movement, people could erase his legacy.

As Democrats watch Trump nominate blatantly sycophantic candidates as secretaries and political leaders, there is an overwhelming sense of despair in the party. Even the cultural “elites,” so empowered and righteously angry after the 2016 election, seemed to understand the different atmosphere of 2024: shortly after Trump’s victory, Saturday Night Live produced a sketch that mockingly capitulated to Trump, acknowledging his political power and covertly recognizing liberal burnout. 

In the end, political participation is deeply important for the common good of society — but is fulfilling your civic duty worth sacrificing your mental health? For liberals attempting to recover from the bloodbath of their 2024 loss, perhaps the only solution is to withdraw from politics and prioritize their everyday lives rather than worrying about the future.

Yet, this was ultimately ineffective. Trump not only won the Electoral College and the popular vote – he made gains in almost every conceivable demographic group in America. Despite the blatantly racist jokes made at Trump’s rally in Madison Square Garden, Republicans supposedly made a whopping 13.3% gain in Hispanic-majority counties, a 10.0% gain in Native-American majority counties, and a 2.7% gain in Black-majority counties. Even with the last-minute endorsements of high-profile artists like Jennifer Lopez, Bad Bunny, and Lin Manuel Miranda, Harris failed to maintain the diverse coalition that had backed Joe Biden in 2020. As the results poured in, one thing was clear: her sparkling, charismatic, beautiful group of Hollywood campaigners made no concrete difference.

Celebrity endorsements weren’t always a hopeless endeavor. High-profile celebrities have always been excellent fund-raisers, and Barack Obama would certainly credit Oprah for a slice of his victory in 2008. In the context of modern politics, however, entertainers and performers have been increasingly relegated to the side in their influence beyond their respective fields. With the rise of Spotify and other streaming platforms, people have increasingly diversified their listening patterns to various singers–diluting the sway a singular artist might hold. In Hollywood, the “death of the superstar” has meant that every “Tom Cruise” has been replaced with a combination of “Jacob Elordi, Nicholas Galzantine, and Tom Holland.” Even with celebrities with famously masculine and rural fan bases, such as Bruce Springsteen and Eminem, entreaties to their fans did not result in a rush of enthusiasm for Harris. 

Worse than their ineffectiveness, the widespread support of Hollywood entertainers created a false sense of security. By all measures, Kamala Harris ran an excellent campaign. She made no major missteps, gaffes, or issues, and her rapid consolidation of the Democratic party was nothing short of breathtaking. Yet, her team’s complacency, many of whom were long-time Biden aides, were reassured by the outpouring of support from Hollywood celebrities whose views they mistakenly believed to be representative of their fans. Meanwhile, the presence of these incredibly famous entertainers at Harris’ rallies also played into the Democratic “elitist” archetype that Trump so flawlessly riffed off of. Entering the campaign, the message was clear to everyone involved: America was angry, America was anxious and America wanted a change. As voters watched millionaires dance and sing on stage, the message that Harris wanted to change the system for the better was not only unsupported, it was actively weakened. 

Trump’s rallies, with the exception of Elon Musk’s pale stomach, were sparsely attended by celebrity endorsers. But this didn’t damage his appeal: Trump himself is in essence, an entertainer. He may bluster and blunder, joke and jape, mock and mimic–yet no one can call him boring. The fact that no mainstream celebrities or politicians actively supported him only reinforced his narrative that he was the singular person who represented America’s desire for retribution. His media game also reflected this: rather than attending another presidential debate that would reveal his instability and derangement, he went on more obscure media routes such as podcasts with Joe Rogan or a shift at McDonald’s. He knew his audience, and he knew exactly how to reach that audience.

Ultimately, what doomed Harris’ campaign was the short election window she was afforded. Biden’s late dropout meant that she had to rapidly introduce herself to the American electorate while attacking her opponent at the same time. This meant that Harris’ team was forced to use celebrity spokespeople to send her message – not understanding that today’s media landscape has grown more dependent on podcasts, internet virality, and social media influencers than old-fashioned campaigning. Harris’ stunning loss to a fascist, authoritarian figure who promises retribution and destruction for his political opponents needs to become a critical moment of self-reflection for Democrats: to be a party for the “working class,” they need to start looking like one.

Contact the editor(s) responsible for this story: Caitlin Donovan

When I read “Hillbilly Elegy,” Vance’s bestselling memoir, I was struck by his humor and his humility; these are, perhaps, not the traits he is best known for. Throughout the novel, Vance details his childhood in an abusive household, his time in the military, and finally, his experiences as one of the only students attending Yale Law School coming from a comparatively rural area. I did not agree with many of his positions, most pointedly, his refusal to consider racism as a contributing factor towards the shift away from Democrats within the white, rural populations. Still, the image of the man I came away with was smart, contemplative, and compassionate. I respected his mindful and conscientious approach to dissecting the culture he had grown up with, including his coming to terms with how it has impacted him and the people he loves negatively. In a recent NYT op-ed, novelist John McWhorter described Vance’s memoir as an earnest attempt to “thread the needle (…) exploring societal issues without being co-opted by the temptations of partisanship.” Most significant, perhaps, was his description of his politically diverse friend group at Yale Law, where he would have civil discourse with both his liberal and conservative friends.

Vance’s shift in persona completely upends the thoughtfulness inherent in his memoir. In his Vice Presidential run, Vance transforms from a well-spoken, conscientious man to someone insistent on using his power and position to make broad, sweeping statements across America. When faced directly with fact-checking concerning his racist rhetoric in Springfield in an interview with CNN’s Dana Bash, he refused to back down: “If I have to create stories so that the American media actually pays attention to the suffering of the American people, then that’s what I’m going to do, Dana!” The difference between the Vance in “Hillbilly Elegy” and this blustering, spittle-flecked character is stark. 

What are the motivations behind such a drastic change? The political and financial rewards have been pointed out countless times, but it’s the psychological perspective that particularly interests me. Observing the original political climate “Hillbilly Elegy” came out in, we can see that Vance had carved out a niche for himself as a sort of consultant for Democrats in explaining the appeal that Trump holds to white, rural voters. Initially strongly anti-Trump, he essentially functioned then as Liz Cheney does now: a conservative spokesperson valued amongst Democrats for their symbolic Anti-Trump positions, but does not ultimately have power over or representation for the rest of their conservative views on social programs, abortion, national spending, etc. Democratic condescension in combination with his shifting political identity would have been extraordinarily chafing. 

There’s also foreshadowing in Hillbilly Elegy itself, where Vance details his own adaptability and innate rejection of liberal elitism. As a child, he would mold himself to various ideologies in an attempt to fit in, such as a brief stint intensely embracing Creationism to fit in with the ultra-religious family members on his father’s side. In Yale Law School, he feels adrift, part of the elite yet simultaneously too “hillbilly” for belonging. Perhaps the most indicative part of the novel is the conclusion, where he realizes that he isn’t actually interested in law and that he still hasn’t quite found a career that suits him. In a way, Trump’s brash populism and rejection of the “elite” liberal and conservative establishment alike may pose a siren’s call to Vance that other conservatives with similar positions don’t necessarily feel. 

Ultimately, finishing this book, I felt a deep sadness. Vance has many excuses for his current positioning, but it doesn’t pardon him for using immigrants as easy targets or fanning the flames of political violence to rise on the political ladder. What makes him so despicable and disliked amongst the American electorate, according to FiveThirtyEight’s most recent poll on Vance’s negative 11 percent approval rating, is that he didn’t just turn his back on his principles—he also turned his back on his humanity and compassion.

“I kind of borrowed it from you,” she had said, smiling sheepishly, “But, you know, anything to get into an Ivy, right?”

After some thinly veiled “constructive criticism” that didn’t try very hard to hide my feelings, I asked her to choose another topic to write about. It was very clear that this had permanently changed the way I viewed her and our relationship, and she never shared her writing with me again. It was, all in all, a surreal experience that illustrated how ridiculously commercialized and insincere the college application experience had become. Yet, the weirdest part was that secretly I did understand. In a sort of strange, twisted way, I absolutely understood her desire to be taken seriously as a person, as an applicant, and as a victim.

It sounds awful, but we can all admit that being a “victim” has perks. In the NYT bestselling book, “Victim” (it’s getting a bit repetitive at this point), Andrew Boryga explores how the power of being a “victim” can bring an addictive cascade of sympathy, commiseration, and comfort. The main character, Javi, marvels at the praise and opportunities he is given because of his working-class background and the loss of his father to a shooting (which incidentally doesn’t affect him much; according to Javi, he was only “losing a person who was only kind of there”). Eventually, he learns to “game the system,” as he calls it, by  purposefully leaning into his oh-so-tragic backstory to collect the rewards. Eventually, he hits the jackpot: what better way to start than to pour all of it into his college application essay to get into a prestigious college? 

Of course, this is still a book with a moral center: eventually, Javi gets his comeuppance and learns to renounce his unhealthy dependence on self-victimization. But the immoral parts of our psyche can’t resist seeing the appeal of being a “victim,” particularly in something as consequential as college applications. College essays are, in theory, the magical gauntlets that allow schools to sift through applicants to find the diamond in the rough. The ideal college essay is supposed to come out spontaneously, written in a rush, a piece that perfectly represents your essence and “it” factor and hits the reader like a punch! The reality, instead, is that the writing process is slow and discouraging. It often ignites a kind of feverish pursuit in applicants to find the one essay that shows, deep down, how uniquely suited, smart or motivated you are to the admissions staff — yet each draft you write doesn’t seem good enough. Undergoing this process, it’s incredibly easy to see how an innocent search for deeper meaning mutates from honest competition to copious trauma dumping and self-victimization. 

Looking back, I think about whether my friend’s and I’s intense academic culture had pressured both of us into recounting traumatic stories in a convoluted desire to gain power and respect. In this period of our lives, where we constantly search for a deeper purpose, it can be hard to resist the siren call of placing yourself as a victim. But in navigating our choices, we should learn how to take control of our narratives instead of falling into the safe complacency of victimhood.

Contact the editor(s) responsible for this story: Caitlin Donovan

In my time exploring the world of makeup and cosmetics, I’ve discovered a curious trend where beauty influencers are constantly reassuring their viewers that they are huge feminists — so feminist, in fact, that all the work they put into their physical appearances isn’t influenced by a larger sexist society at all. This fierce faux-feminism contrasts paradoxically with the very nature of their occupation as influencers: to use their beauty … to sell more beauty products. But this strange contradiction brings me to my larger inquiry: why are people so insistent that makeup is feminist?

In examining the history of makeup, we can see that makeup first became part of the feminist movement in the 1990s, when there was a reclamation of traditionally feminine customs — the beginning of the “girl power” movement. Pink was back in fashion; lipstick and makeup could suddenly represent both femininity and strength. Lipstick feminism saw the beginning of using makeup as a feminine form of expression, using makeup for the user’s happiness rather than the audience. Yet, this “girl boss,” self-sufficient narrative is hard to believe. Makeup is, at its essence, a temporary cosmetic change — a product based on altering one’s physical appearance. The very nature of it is quite literally surface level; it cannot claim to be a pure expression of self without the influence of an outside male gaze. The beauty influencers with their emphasis on beauty as a feminist expression baffled me. From conventionally beautiful makeup to “anti-man” makeup (defined as bleached eyebrows, slightly edgy eyeliner, or if you’re feeling rebellious, some bright eyeshadow), these makeup trends only functioned within the confines of what men did or did not like anyway.

But is it correct to swing to the opposite side of the pendulum and call makeup inherently sexist? I’m not sure that’s the correct term either. Makeup embodies a cultural space and is considered almost a rite of passage, the difference between a gangly teenager and a well-groomed adult. Yes, it’s impossible to ignore how girls experience high body-related anxieties in comparison to boys, but to reduce makeup to internalized sexism is overly simplistic. Sexism implies that the only problem is the disparity in makeup usage between men and women, but as more and more men have started using makeup, studies have found that men also experienced an increase in social and body-related anxieties. This gendered disparity is closing, but having an overall more insecure and anxious population isn’t equality — it only exacerbates the central issue! Makeup shouldn’t be considered inherently feminist or sexist; instead, it should be considered exactly what it is: a capitalist industry based on the alteration of physical appearance. Makeup appeared because there was a demand for it. People wanted to look better, for social, cultural or personal reasons, so suppliers obliged.

As we watch children of Gen Z and Generation Alpha accessing social media at unprecedentedly young ages, “Sephora Teens” using retinol before they even reach puberty, and the yearly 120 billion units of trash generated from endless makeup waste, it becomes clear that overconsumption has twisted this simple exchange. In the endless horde of TikTok influencers and advertisements, makeup has become a flourishing industry directly profiting off of the insecurities of human bodies. Either painting it as sexist or feminist only hides the true problem: letting the makeup industry manipulate you into obsessing over every minor issue, forcing you to buy 14 products that you “need,” but really won’t do anything different.

But in the years since, Trump’s integral wealth has become secondary, even irrelevant for his political persona. In 2020, when Michael Bloomberg (net worth $106.2 billion) ran for president, he made the mistake of campaigning against 2016 Trump. On paper, Bloomberg and Trump seemed like mirror images of one another: arrogant billionaires, a history of sexist alpha-male mentalities and a love for everyday opulence. When questioned on Trump, Bloomberg even commented, “Who’s the other one?”— assuming that his superior wealth would easily defeat his opponent.

He was wrong. Winning an embarrassing 61 delegates with $935 million, Bloomberg’s defeat showed that Trump’s appeal was no longer money-based. The truth is, Trump as a politician has gone through such dynamic change that he can barely be compared to his 2016 self. Since Trump entered the mainstream political scene in 2016, he has perfected his simple populist language to become one of the most effective political communicators in modern history. In 2016, Trump’s straightforwardness and populism served to advertise “Trump the Billionaire.” In 2024, this outspokenness is no longer the opening performance — it’s the principal act. 

In 2024, Trump now owes half a billion dollars in legal fees and may continue to lose more and more of his fortune as he progresses through his 88 felony charges. This may have been a crushing blow to 2016 Trump, but 2024 Trump weathers this financial attack easily, for he has transformed from political outsider into political convict. As he creates this victim narrative that clashes with every metric of reality, Trump is betting on his ability to convince and charm against “the establishment”— and his enduring Republican popularity affirms this. 

Ultimately, the coming presidential election is dangerous in that Trump represents the Republican Party’s descent into flashiness and controversy over true policy stances. Trump’s surprise victory over Clinton resulted in part because Republicans disgusted by Trump’s language and brashness ended up voting along party lines regardless. He was considered a disreputable person, but a solid choice for the economy and domestic policy. Today, Trump’s ability to sell not just his money, but his personality and character represents a moral decline in the Republican Party itself.

I turned the book over, curious to learn more … and a white woman stared back at me! Immediately, I recoiled, shocked by the appearance of a white-passing author for a Chinese historical fiction novel. I later learned that the author was actually one-eighth Chinese and had spent her entire life fascinated by her heritage — but this discovery didn’t change the jarring feeling of surprise at seeing a presence so unfamiliar it seemed almost foreign. 

Why did I feel this instinctive sense of wrong-ness for an author of a novel I had never even read? Although “Lady Tan’s Circle of Women” made no promises whatsoever regarding its author, I had implicitly assumed that the author was one of “us,” a full presenting Asian-American — and when I witnessed her whiteness, I immediately felt on the defensive. The answer behind my inexplicable overprotectiveness involves a long history of debate regarding the separation of art from the artist, made all the more contentious with the emergence of political partisanship and identity politics into the mainstream.

As communities of color began reclaiming their own voices through writing books and creating their own art, the moral dubiousness of having a white speaker became increasingly awkward. After all, there is ample evidence throughout history to show how white authors have commandeered the stories of people of color for their own benefit. Infamously, “Memoirs of a Geisha” was written by a white man who sold nearly four million copies — all while deliberately misrepresenting the true account of an actual Japanese Geisha. When researching for his book, Arthur Golden purposefully chose to frame the “Geisha” occupation as a heavily fetishized narrative of Japanese women, still contributing to stereotypes of Asian women today.

However, the true moral debate arises if we consider a universe where Golden didn’t choose to warp the narrative to his benefit. Would his book still be ethical if he did properly represent the people he wrote about? If the art is considered objectively good, does the identity of the artist matter? On the other hand, if a Japanese woman had written “Memoirs of the Geisha,” does that guarantee that she would have represented the culture properly? Although it is undoubtedly beneficial to have a member of a community represent the community, should we require all authors to have to go through the exact same experiences they write about in their books? 

“Yellowface,” by R.F. Kuang, tackles similar themes of authenticity and authorship. When a white woman steals a book on Chinese history written by her Chinese friend and passes it as her own, she faces obvious ethical issues of plagiarism — but whether what she does is actively racist is the true issue. Kuang’s heavily flawed protagonist makes the argument that all writers are naturally vampiric; they suck the blood out of other people’s experiences to write about and profit off of. In the end, does the actual racial identity of the writer matter? Although Kuang’s main character is heavily satirized and her actions purposefully despicable, parts of her argument reflect real frustrations.

On the other hand, what happens when the imbalance flips and people of color write about white people? Hanya Yanagihara, the acclaimed author of “The People in the Trees” and “A Little Life,” has so far exclusively written about white gay men. Her personal identity as a Japanese woman has made minimal impact on her characters and she has stated in her interviews that talking about being a woman has never interested her. People have accused her of fetishizing gay men or hating her own identity, but others have argued that by assuming she has to write about herself, people are once again tokenizing the experiences of people of color. Ultimately, when the power of narrative shifts, are authors of color able to report on stories that have nothing to do with their own identities? If yes, is it unfair to blame white authors who do the same?

In the end, even after writing nearly 800 words on the moral quandary it brought on me, I didn’t end up reading “Lady Tan’s Circle of Women;” in truth, I had spent longer researching the author of the book than actually understanding the content of the book itself. Perhaps my own actions reflect the inherent problem in the debate of separating the art from the artist — rather than having productive conversations, we are all much more interested in finding a target to blame.

These two elderly grandfathers may only have an age gap of three years, but their vastly different rhetoric has made age a contentious issue. So why is one candidate so impacted while the other faces little backlash? 

The stark differences between the two candidates are clear even on a cursory analysis of their physicality. Although he is a healthy 81-year-old, Biden is undeniably fragile; he holds himself so stiffly that people are afraid to knock him over. His stutter was only a small issue when he was a younger politician, but as president, it haunts him as he releases a series of gaffes confusing dead politicians with  current ones. In a recent NY Meet Cute TikTok, Biden’s soft and slow speech was outshone by his wife Jill’s clearer and more energetic countenance. In contrast,  Donald Trump maintains a thick figure and mulish countenance. While Biden softly delivers campaign speeches, Trump yells into the microphone; while Biden falls off his bike, Trump self-assuredly boards a plane with toilet paper stuck to his foot; while Biden bores, Trump excites.

More important than body language, perhaps, is humor. Biden is a relatively bland candidate already, but compared to Trump, he verges on lifeless. Biden’s persona of the friendly Uncle Joe may help with interpersonal relationships, but it doesn’t create an intimidating campaign image. Meanwhile, Trump has an uncanny ability to blurt out one-liners that perfectly suit the current situation. Even Trump’s fiercest critics giggle at his sassy delivery: “The problem with Ron DeSanctimonious is that he needs a personality transplant– and those are not yet available.” People have always mocked Trump for his “dim intelligence,” but his refusal to use complex political vocabulary only makes his populist platform more engaging. Although most people who pride themselves on their progressive sensibilities would spit in Trump’s face, the same population eagerly reads of his public and private life. Trump’s image itself is an industry; whether journalists hound him or late-night hosts criticize him, they all know that without his name on their work, they would lose an integral portion of viewers. 

It has also become increasingly clear that Trump… is crazy. And people don’t care! From the moment he entered politics, he began making waves with one offensive comment after another. Yet his communication is so populist and basely effective that his words have become easily normalized. (Can you imagine that ten years ago, being impeached was actually considered a big deal?) So when Trump makes mistakes in his rallies and spouts gaffe after gaffe–it’s barely noticeable. Although Nikki Haley has pointed out his mistakes (such as mistaking her for Nancy Pelosi, who is in a completely different political party, ethnicity, and age range), these slip-ups don’t make as large an impact as when Joe Biden conflates the Egyptian President with the Mexican President. Trump’s willingness to engage with the media also emphasizes his freeform ability to communicate, while Biden’s team releases pre-recorded videos that are clearly scripted to flatteringly portray Biden. There’s a sense of fear and anxiety from Biden’s campaign managers, who seem to be worried that Biden is a flower so delicate it will fall apart at the slightest nudge. On the other hand, Trump’s campaign team lets him speak at will, whether via spontaneous exclamation or outrageous tweet.

Of course, there’s a rising  cynicism regarding the 2024 election that no amount of mudslinging towards political opponents can resolve. Younger generations puzzle over which candidate to choose, but neither candidate is their first choice. Regardless of detailed analyses drawing slight distinctions between the two candidates, both are still  two old men. Whoever’s arthritic knees don’t give out first while fighting for a place at the helm of the United States, our next president will  still be the oldest in history.