In reality, the speech was about the present.

With Donald Trump continued tariff threats, questioning NATO obligations despite multiple wars, and even calling the UK Prime Minister a coward for not jumping into the US’s ‘excursion’ in Iran, the King’s speech was a reminder of what the relationship between the two countries has been, and what’s at risk if it doesn’t re-solidify.

If you missed the speech, here are the 10 lines to know, with the context you need.

1. “We meet in times of great uncertainty; in times of conflict from Europe to the Middle East which pose immense challenges for the international community and whose impact is felt in communities the length and breadth of our own countries.”

This opening grounds the speech in global instability rather than celebration. By immediately pointing to conflicts abroad with domestic consequences, he’s framing U.S. leadership as inseparable from international engagement.

2. “Whatever our differences, whatever disagreements we may have, we stand united in our commitment to uphold democracy, to protect all our people from harm…”

That repetition—whatever our differences—is doing quiet diplomatic work. It acknowledges real policy and political tensions between allies while insisting those disagreements should not override shared democratic commitments.

3. “With the spirit of 1776 in our minds, we can perhaps agree that we do not always agree… Ours is a partnership born out of dispute, but no less strong for it.”

He leans into disagreement as a defining feature of the U.S.-U.K. relationship, not a flaw. The message is that conflict—past or present—is not a justification for disengagement, but something historically managed within the alliance.

4. “The Founding Fathers were bold and imaginative rebels with a cause… they declared Independence… and united 13 disparate colonies to forge a nation…”

A British monarch praising the American Revolution is more than historical reflection—it’s strategic. By validating the founding moment, he reinforces democratic legitimacy while sidestepping any sense of hierarchy between the two nations.

5. “Not by the will of one, but by the deliberation of many, representing the living mosaic of the United States.”

This is a clear endorsement of pluralism and institutional decision-making. In a political moment defined by debates over executive power and polarization, it reads as a defense of representative governance over centralized authority.

6. “The challenges we face are too great for any one nation to bear alone… our alliance cannot rest on past achievements… we must build on it.”

This is a direct argument against isolationism. He’s not just celebrating the alliance—he’s warning that assuming it will endure without continued investment is a strategic mistake.

7. “Today, Mr. Speaker, that same, unyielding resolve is needed for the defense of Ukraine and her most courageous people. It is needed in order to secure a truly just and lasting peace.”

Placed immediately after a rundown of past joint military efforts, this line connects history to the present. The implication is clear: just as the U.S. and U.K. acted together in defining conflicts before, Ukraine is the current test of that same shared commitment.

8. “Magna Carta is cited in at least 160 Supreme Court cases since 1789, not least as the foundation of the principle that executive power is subject to checks and balances.”

This is one of the most pointed institutional reminders in the speech. Delivered directly to a Congress that is constitutionally responsible for checking the executive, it subtly reinforces their role at a moment when debates about presidential power and congressional oversight are front and center.

9. “Yet even as we celebrate the beauty that surrounds us, our generation must decide how to address the collapse of critical natural systems… We ignore at our peril the fact that these natural systems… provide the foundation for our prosperity and our national security.”

The added setup matters—it shifts the tone from admiration to urgency. He moves from praising natural beauty to warning about systemic collapse, framing environmental degradation not as abstract concern but as a direct threat to economic stability and national security.

10. “America’s words carry weight and meaning… The actions of this great nation matter even more.”

This is the closest the speech comes to a pointed reminder. By emphasizing action over rhetoric, he’s reinforcing a core expectation of global leadership: credibility is earned through follow-through, not statements.

The White House’s political logic is straightforward: retire now, while there’s a friendly president and Senate to confirm replacements. Wait, and you risk a Senate controlled by the other party that could stall—or outright block—the next nominee.

In other words, the question isn’t just who sits on the Supreme Court of the United States. It’s when the seat opens up.

And that’s where the real politics lives.

Crash Course: Why Timing Matters So Much

The Constitution gives Supreme Court justices lifetime tenure (“during good Behaviour”). The goal was insulation—keep judges above day-to-day politics.

But, in reality, it turned vacancies into political battlefields. And ones that can have huge effects on elections, especially for presidents who will be doing the nominating.

Because justices serve so long, openings are rare. And because they’re rare, each one is enormous. One seat can tilt the Court for decades.

So the system creates a quiet but powerful incentive for justices sitting on the bench: If you care about the political direction of the Court, you don’t just decide whether to retire. You decide when to retire.

The Data Behind the Strategy

This isn’t just vibes—it’s backed by a long-term shift in how long justices serve and how old they are when they do it.

According to data compiled by the Federal Judicial Center:

• Justices are being appointed younger than they used to be. Thomas was appointed to the Court back in 1991 at age 43.

• They are serving longer than at almost any point in U.S. history.

• The average tenure of SCOTUS justices used to hover around 16 years. Since 1970, it’s climbed past 23.

That combination matters.

You appoint someone in their late 40s or early 50s, and you’re not filling a seat—you’re locking in influence for a generation.

This Isn’t New—It’s Just More Obvious Now

Strategic retirements have been part of the Court for a while. But they’ve become more visible—and more expected.

• Anthony Kennedy stepped down during a Republican presidency, allowing a like-minded replacement. Kennedy was replaced by 53 year old Brett Kavanaugh.

• Stephen Breyer retired under Joe Biden after pressure from Democrats not to risk the seat. Breyer was replaced by 51 year old Ketanji Brown Jackson.

• And conversely, Ruth Bader Ginsburg chose not to retire when Barack Obama could have replaced her—a decision that reshaped the Court after her death after Senate Republicans blocked her successor from receiving a hearing, let alone a vote.

Why the Pressure Exists More Now

Which brings us back to the current speculation around Alito and Thomas.

The calculation is straightforward. A president can nominate a justice, but the Senate decides whether that nominee ever reaches the bench. When the same party controls both, vacancies tend to move. When control is split, the process can grind to a halt.

The Senate’s rules matter here. For most of modern history, confirming a Supreme Court justice effectively required 60 votes to overcome a filibuster. That changed in 2017, when Republicans extended the so-called “nuclear option” to Supreme Court nominations, lowering the threshold to a simple majority. Since then, confirmations have depended far more on which party holds the chamber than on building bipartisan coalitions.

You can see the difference in recent history:

• The Senate declined to take up Merrick Garland’s nomination in March 2016, leaving the seat open for months until after the 2016 election (which Trump won)

• Four years later, Trump nominee Amy Coney Barrett was confirmed by Senate Republicans only 35 days before the 2020 election

Same institution, same constitutional roles, but very different political conditions, and very different results.

That’s the backdrop for any talk of retirement. A justice stepping down at the right moment all but ensures a successor. Waiting introduces uncertainty, especially with the Senate’s balance always one election away from changing.

The Bigger Question

Retirement isn’t the end of a justice’s influence. It’s the moment that determines who carries it forward.

Once you see it, it’s hard to unsee.

If Supreme Court power hinges on timing—on aligning retirements with favorable political conditions—then the system isn’t just about law.

It’s about political strategy.

Which raises a simple question: Should something this important depend on who retires at the right moment?

That’s why ideas like term limits or mandatory retirement ages keep coming up. Not because the Court is “too political,” but because the politics we have now is concentrated into a few, high-stakes decisions about when to leave.

The Bottom Line

The headlines will always focus on the next nominee.

But the real action often happens before that—quietly, behind the scenes, in conversations about timing, risk, and control.

Because on today’s Supreme Court, the most important decision a justice makes might not be how they rule.

It’s when they retire.

If you read my earlier piece on why expulsion was unlikely, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. Expulsion is rare. Pressure works faster. And resignation is how these stories usually end.

But their exits point to a deeper question that sits beneath every congressional scandal:

If Congress almost never expels its members, who (or what) has the power to hold them accountable between elections?

The Ethics System: Congress Polices Itself

At the center of the answer is the House and Senate Ethics Committees—bodies made up entirely of sitting lawmakers, evenly split between Democrats and Republicans. That structure is intentional. It’s meant to prevent one party from weaponizing ethics enforcement against the other.

But it also means that every investigation is shaped by the same political incentives that govern everything else in Congress.

The result is a system that exists, functions, and produces outcomes—but rarely in the way the public expects and almost never on the public’s timeline.

How an Ethics Investigation Starts

Most people assume Congress launches investigations the way prosecutors do: quickly, decisively, and in response to clear allegations.

In reality, the process is slower and more layered.

There are two main ways a case gets started.

The first runs through the Office of Congressional Conduct (OCC), an independent, nonpartisan body created to give the public a way in. Anyone—not just lawmakers—can submit a complaint. The OCC reviews those submissions, conducts a preliminary inquiry, and, if it finds reason to proceed, refers the matter to the Ethics Committee with a report of its findings.

The second path is internal. Members of Congress can file complaints directly, or the Ethics Committee can initiate an investigation on its own, often in response to media reports or emerging scandals.

What Happens Once a Case Is Opened

Once the Ethics Committee takes up a case, the process unfolds in stages, most of which happen out of public view.

It typically begins with a preliminary review—quiet fact-finding meant to determine whether a full investigation is warranted. If the committee votes to move forward, it can open an investigative subcommittee, issue subpoenas, conduct interviews, and gather documents.

From there, the committee can:

• Dismiss the case

• Issue a report with findings

• Recommend punishment to the full House

In theory, that recommended punishment could include reprimand, censure, or even expulsion.

In practice, most cases never get that far.

Why the Process Takes So Long

Ethics investigations in Congress are not built for speed.

They often take months, and in some cases, years to resolve. Part of that is by design—members are cautious about due process, reputational harm, and setting precedents that could later be used against them.

But part of it is structural.

The committee is evenly divided between parties, which means disagreement can slow or stall progress. Investigations also operate alongside, not above, politics. Members are weighing not just the facts, but the political implications of acting on them.

There’s another constraint most people don’t realize: Ethics investigations don’t carry over indefinitely.

At the end of each Congress (every two years), unfinished investigations expire or must be reauthorized. That creates a natural clock—one that doesn’t always align with the pace of an investigation.

And then there’s the most common disruptor of all: Resignation.

When a member leaves office, the Ethics Committee loses jurisdiction. The investigation effectively stops—not because the questions are resolved, but because the committee no longer has jurisdiction.

Which is exactly what just happened with Swalwell and Gonzales.

Why Enforcement Feels So Weak

Put all of this together, and the pattern becomes clear.

The Ethics Committee is not absent. It’s active. It investigates, deliberates, and issues findings.

But it operates in a system where:

• Members investigate their own colleagues

• Bipartisan agreement is required to move forward

• The process is slow by design

• And resignation often ends the case before it concludes

That’s why formal punishment—especially something as severe as expulsion—is so rare.

Accountability, when it comes, usually arrives through other channels first: media scrutiny, party pressure, donor reaction, and voter backlash.

The Crash Course

Congress has rules. It has investigators. It has Ethics Committees. It has the constitutional authority to punish and even remove its own members.

But the system is built to move deliberately, not quickly—and to protect the institution as much as police it.

So when scandals break, the question isn’t just whether Congress can act.

It’s whether the system is built to act fast enough to matter.

And more often than not, it isn’t.

The allegations have sparked a wave of calls for accountability—and in some corners, demands that both members be removed from office.

Which raises an important question: Can Congress remove one of its own?

The answer is yes.

But, historically at least, it almost never happens.

The Congressional Menu of Punishment

Congress has a range of tools to discipline its own members. Think of it as a sliding scale:

1. Internal political pressure

• Party leaders push a member to resign

• Loss of committee assignments

• Political isolation

2. Reprimand

• Formal statement of disapproval

• No lasting penalties

3. Censure

• Public condemnation on the House or Senate floor

• Member must stand and hear the resolution read

• More serious—but still largely symbolic beyond the public rebuke

4. Expulsion

• The nuclear option

• Removes the member from office entirely

• Requires a two-thirds vote in the chamber of the offending party.

• That means 67 senators or 290 House members

• Senators can’t expel a House member, and Reps. can’t expel a Senator

The Short List of Expulsions

The House has expelled just 6 Representatives in U.S. history. The most recent expelled member was Rep. George Santos in 2023 for fraud and misuse of campaign funds (in addition to his infinity lies).

The Senate has expelled 15 Senators in its history. The last one was in 1862.

And 17 of those 21 total expulsions happened during the Civil War, when members were removed for supporting the Confederacy.

Outside of the Civil War, expulsion is almost unheard of, and let’s just say there has been plenty of congressional wrongdoing since.

What Usually Happens When a Member Is Accused

This is where expectations and reality diverge.

Calls for expulsion often follow allegations. But Congress almost never acts on allegations alone.

Instead, the typical path looks like this:

• Allegations are made

• Ethics Committee investigations—where members investigate their own colleague

• Political pressure to resign comes from leaders, fellow members, the media, and voters

• Recognizing their circumstances and lack of support, the lawmaker resigns before any formal punishment OR

• The lawmaker stays until the next election, letting voters have the final say on if they return at or not

Only in the rarest of cases is there a vote for expulsion.

Could These Cases Be Different?

This is where things get less theoretical.

For expulsion to even be on the table, two things typically have to happen:

1. Sustained political pressure — not just a news cycle, but ongoing attention from leadership, media, and voters

2. Credible, substantiated findings — typically from the Ethics Committee or outside investigations

But here’s the key wrinkle: An investigation isn’t required.

Any member can introduce a resolution to expel a colleague, and the chamber can vote on it at any time.

The Ethics Committee process is the norm—not the rule.

And in a hyper-polarized Congress, that distinction matters.

If political pressure builds quickly enough, members could force a vote before an investigation is complete—or even begins.

Right now, the cases involving Eric Swalwell and Tony Gonzales are still in the early stages.

There’s clearly momentum—calls for accountability are growing, and the allegations are serious enough to keep this in the headlines.

But momentum alone doesn’t translate into expulsion.

To actually succeed, you would still need:

• Enough members willing to go on record without a fully developed investigative record (which would create a new precedent for future congresses)

• And most importantly, bipartisan support reaching a two-thirds vote

That last part may be the barrier.

Even in the most recent case—George Santos—it took months of investigation, detailed ethics findings, and criminal charges to build enough support.

So yes, today’s political environment makes it easier to call for a vote.

But history suggests it’s still extremely hard to win one.

Bottom Line

The power exists. The precedent does too.

But the threshold is high, the process is slow, and the votes are hard to get (usually).

So when the next scandal hits and calls for removal start flying, remember:

In Congress, the default isn’t “kick them out.”

It’s “prove it—or let voters decide.”

And history shows, that bar is almost never cleared.

The immediate crisis may be paused. Now, the real work begins.

Over the next two weeks, both sides will try to turn that pause into a long term peace agreement. But, the two sides are working from two very different blueprints. Iran has issued a 10-point proposal. The U.S. has its own 15-point plan.

The core divide in two sentences: Iran wants sovereignty. The U.S. wants control through verification.

Where the Plans Clash

If you want to understand why this is hard to resolve, don’t read the headlines—look at the terms and where the two countries differ.

The Biggest Flashpoints:

The Strait of Hormuz

This is the one to watch. Roughly a fifth of the world’s oil passes through it. Iran wants control and leverage; The U.S. wants guaranteed open access.

The Nuclear Gap

Iran possesses roughly 440–460 kilograms of uranium enriched to 60%. Weapons-grade uranium is about 90% enrichment. That stockpile alone could be enough for roughly 9–10 nuclear weapons if further enriched.

Now layer in the proposals.

Iran’s position: Keep enrichment rights and retain its existing stockpile

U.S. position: Eliminate or drastically limit enrichment and remove that stockpile out of Iran’s control.

This isn’t only about whether Iran can build a nuclear weapon (which 99% of the world agrees is a non-starter). It’s about what to do with one that’s already most of the way there.

Bottom Line

What you’re watching over the next 14 days isn’t just diplomacy—it’s a test of whether two fundamentally different visions of security can be reconciled.

• Iran wants relief, recognition, and control

• The U.S. wants limits, inspections, and guarantees

If the gaps between these two different visions of peace don’t close—and close quickly—this ceasefire isn’t a solution.

It’s a countdown.

It’s not. It’s better thought of (including by members of Congress) as a presidential wish list.

Still, the proposal tells you something important: what this White House values, what it wants cut, and where the political fights are headed.

Here’s what to know from President Trump’s recent $7 trillion budget proposal.

1. Where the Money Actually Goes

The federal budget is enormous—about $6.9 trillion in the most recent fiscal year—and most of it is already spoken for.

Three big buckets dominate:

Mandatory Spending (the big one)

• Social Security

• Medicare

• Medicaid

About $4.2–$4.5 trillion, or roughly 60–65% of all spending.

These are autopilot entitlement programs. Congress already set the rules, and the money flows automatically. For these funding levels to change, new laws would need to be passed.

Which means: most of what the government spends each year isn’t actually up for debate.

Discretionary Spending (this is what Congress (and POTUS) fights over)

• Defense

• Education

• Transportation

• Scientific research

• Foreign aid

About $1.7–$1.9 trillion, or roughly 25–30% of spending.

This is the part Congress actually debates each year.

This category has two major buckets:

• Defense: roughly $850–$900 billion

• Non-defense: roughly $800–$900 billion

Interest on the Debt

About $900 billion to $1 trillion, or roughly 10–15% of spending.

This is the fastest-growing, least flexible part of the budget.

2. Winners and Losers in Trump’s Budget Proposal

Presidential budgets aren’t just spreadsheets—they’re priorities in dollar form.

Who gets more funding tells you what the administration values.
Who gets cut tells you what it doesn’t.

Here’s how that breaks down in this proposal:

Winners (Big Increases)

Defense

• Trump’s budget asks for $1.5 trillion (with a T) for defense spending in FY 2027.

• This is a 44% increase in defense spending over FY 2026 levels.

This continues a long-standing trend: when budgets tighten elsewhere, defense is usually protected—or expanded.

Immigration Enforcement

• Builds on already massive funding increases in recent years:

  • ICE currently operates with roughly $18–$28 billion annually when including recent multi-year funding boosts

• Budget continues or expands funding for:

  • Detention capacity: backed by $45 billion over multiple years to scale toward 100,000 detention beds

  • Enforcement operations and personnel: roughly $30 billion over several years for hiring, training, and deportation operations

  • State and local enforcement partnerships: about $13–14 billion for cooperation programs and reimbursements

What’s notable is not just the annual increase—it’s the sustained, multi-year buildout. Compared to a roughly $9–10 billion ICE budget just a few years ago, this represents a near tripling of enforcement capacity.

Homeland Security / Border Operations

• The broader Department of Homeland Security (DHS) has already received $170–190+ billion in recent funding packages to expand enforcement infrastructure

• Key areas of continued or expanded investment:

  • Border infrastructure (walls, barriers, facilities)

  • Customs and Border Protection (CBP): tens of billions (about $60+ billion over multiple years) for hiring, vehicles, and surveillance

  • Technology and surveillance systems (drones, sensors, AI monitoring)

  • Personnel expansion across DHS components

Taken together, this reflects one of the largest peacetime expansions of federal enforcement infrastructure in modern history.

Losers (Proposed Cuts)

Non-Defense Domestic Agencies (Broad Category)

• Proposed reduction of roughly 10% to non-defense discretionary spending overall

• Equivalent to about $70–$75 billion in cuts in a single year

This is where the tradeoffs happen—cuts here help offset major increases in defense and enforcement.

Department of Education

• Significant reductions across federal education programs, including:

  • Cuts to K–12 funding streams and federal grants

  • Pressure on Title I and federal support programs

• Part of a broader effort to shift authority and funding responsibility to states

Environmental Protection Agency (EPA)

• The budget requests $4.6 billion cut, or 52% below the 2026 enacted level.

• Targeted areas:

  • Climate programs

  • Environmental enforcement

  • Research and regulatory oversight

This reflects a continued push to scale back federal environmental regulation.

Housing and Urban Development (HUD)

• A 13% cut to housing assistance and development programs, including:

  • Rental assistance programs

  • Community Development Block Grants (CDBG)

• These reductions typically fall in the tens of billions over time, depending on final appropriations

These are programs that disproportionately affect low-income renters and local development projects.

Foreign Aid / International Programs

• The budget requests $35.6 billion for the Department of State and other international programs, a $15.5 billion cut, or 30% below the 2026 enacted level.

• Cuts typically target:

  • Economic development aid

  • Humanitarian assistance

  • International institutions

3. The Civics Reality: This Isn’t the Budget

Here’s the part most people miss: The president does not write the federal budget. Congress does.

The Constitution is clear—Congress has the power of the purse.

So what is this document?

Think of it as:

• A wish list

• A messaging document

• A negotiating starting point

And Congress treats it that way.

Even when the president’s party controls Congress, lawmakers:

• Ignore large portions of it

• Rewrite priorities

• Fund programs the president wants cut

• Cut programs the president wants expanded

Why?

Because members answer to their districts and states—not the White House.

The Bottom Line

The president’s budget matters—but not in the way most people think.

It won’t become law. Not even close.

What it does do is reveal priorities:

• What this administration values

• What it’s willing to fight for

• And where the next spending battles are coming

If you want to understand where Washington is headed, don’t treat the budget as a plan.

Treat it as a signal.

Want to Go One Step Further?

If this clarified something for you, send it to one person who thinks the president controls federal spending.

Because in American government, the loudest proposal isn’t always the one that matters.

Then they get there… and realize the system has other plans.

In this week’s Crash Discourse, I’m joined by Dr. Maya Kornberg—author of the new book Stuck: How Money, Media, and Violence Prevent Change in Congress.

Among the book’s many important points, Maya makes a simple but uncomfortable observation: Congress doesn’t just resist change—it absorbs it. Reformers arrive with energy and ideas, but the institution is very good at turning disruption into business as usual.

Still, history shows change does happen—just not the way we expect.

Main takeaways from the conversation:

• Big change comes in waves
  1974, 1994, 2018—large freshman classes can shake the system, especially when they act together.

• You have to play the game to change the game
  The most effective reformers build coalitions, work with leadership, and wait for the right moment—not viral moments.

• The incentives are the real problem
  Money, media, and even threats of violence push members toward attention—not institution-building.

• Change isn’t instant—it’s opportunistic
  It takes years of groundwork before a window opens.

The hopeful part? Congress isn’t permanently broken. It’s shaped by the people inside it—and it has been changed before.

The hard part? The people best positioned to fix it are the ones most constrained by it.

That’s the paradox.

And maybe the assignment.

The hard part is that an authoritarian government doesn’t show up all at once.

It’s not a switch. It’s a slide.

Leaders don’t usually announce, “Hey, democracy’s over.” They chip away at it—slowly, strategically—until the system starts serving them instead of the people.

So how do you spot it?

Here’s your quick checklist.

1. Undermining the Referees

Courts. Elections. Law enforcement. Intelligence agencies.
If those institutions start getting politicized—rewarding loyalty over independence—that’s a red flag.

2. Attacking the Press

Journalists become “enemies.”
Critical coverage is labeled fake.
Friendly outlets get amplified.

Control the narrative, control reality.

3. Expanding Executive Power

Emergency powers get used… and then reused.
Checks and balances start to look more like suggestions than rules.

4. Loyalty Over Competence

Career experts get replaced with loyalists.
The question shifts from “Are you qualified?” to “Are you with me?”

5. Weaponizing Government

Political opponents suddenly face investigations, audits, or legal pressure.
The state stops being neutral—and starts keeping score.

6. Scapegoating

Find a group. Blame them. Repeat.
Immigrants. Minorities. “Elites.”

Division isn’t a bug—it’s the strategy.

7. Normalizing Political Violence

Rhetoric gets hotter.
Threats get shrugged off.
Sometimes, they’re even encouraged.

8. Manipulating Elections

Not always canceling elections—but questioning them, reshaping them, or tilting the rules to guarantee certain outcomes.

9. Ignoring the Law

Court rulings get brushed aside.
Legal challenges don’t slow anything down.

The message: rules apply… until they don’t.

10. Flooding the Zone with Lies

Disinformation. Conspiracy. Confusion.
If people can’t agree on what’s true, they can’t organize against power.

11. Using Crisis as Cover

Real or manufactured—crises become justification to limit freedoms and expand authority.

12. Creating a Culture of Fear

People start self-censoring.
Not because they’re told to—but because they’re unsure what happens if they don’t.

The Big Takeaway

Authoritarianism isn’t one action. It’s a pattern.

And here’s the uncomfortable part: Most of these things can happen within a democracy—at least at first.

That’s why spotting the signs early matters.

Because once the guardrails are gone, it’s a lot harder to put them back.

A few things may jump out immediately. The outlines are the 435 House congressional districts used in the 2024 elections. The colors are familiar: red for Republicans, blue for Democrats.

And almost the entire map is filled in. You have no problem identifying every single state in the Union.

But what determines whether a district is colored?

This is the key: the filled-in districts represent House races in 2024 that were decided by more than ten points — elections that were not especially competitive. Landslides. Comfortable victories. Races that, well before Election Day, were widely understood to be safe for one party.

There were 366 such districts in 2024. Three hundred and sixty-six out of 435.

In a record-breaking year for presidential turnout, with Donald Trump at the top of the ballot and control of Congress hanging in the balance, nearly 85 percent of House races were effectively foregone conclusions. Regardless of the candidates, the state of the economy, or Congress’s approval rating, in the vast majority of districts the general election was less a contest than a confirmation.

Now let’s flip the picture.

The next map shows the inverse — the districts decided by ten points or fewer. These are the places where persuasion still mattered, where campaigns had to compete for undecided voters, where the outcome was genuinely uncertain.

There were just 69 of them. Sixty-nine competitive House elections in the entire country, 16% of all House elections, and a huge number of entire states with nothing close to a competitive election.

What these maps reveal isn’t simply where elections were close or lopsided. They reveal how dramatically the competitive landscape of the House has narrowed — and how that narrowing has quietly reshaped the incentive structure of Congress itself, and not for the better.

From competitive chamber to pre-selected outcomes

There was a time — not ancient history, but within living memory — when dozens more House seats were genuinely up for grabs in any given election cycle. As recently as 1996, over 42% of all House seats were competitive.

In the 1970s, ’80s, and even into the ’90s, polarization was far less intense, and ticket-splitting was common. That is, voters routinely supported a presidential candidate from one party and a House member from another. Can you imagine?! In fact, in 1984 — Ronald Reagan’s reelection year — 44% of House seats were carried by a presidential candidate of one party and a House candidate of the opposite party. Members represented politically mixed districts and had to build cross-party coalitions to survive.

Those days are long gone. In the 2020 election, fewer than 4% of House districts split their tickets.

Analysis from groups like FairVote shows that over the past several decades, the number of landslide House victories has grown while the number of competitive districts has shrunk. In 1996, just 30 years ago, a full third of the House chamber — 147 seats — were toss-ups, meaning that both parties had a solid chance at winning the seat. In 2016, that number had shrunk to a nadir of just 18 districts, or 4% of the entire House.

And if early projections for 2026 are any indication, the erosion of the competitive seat is continuing. FairVote predicts that 38 House elections will again be toss-ups.

The Cook Political Report, one of the most accurate prediction orgs going, currently rates only 18 House seats — just 4 percent of all districts — as toss-ups. Even if we add in all seats categorized as “leaners” to one party or the other, we still reach only about 40 districts that might plausibly flip.

Meanwhile, 86% of 2026 seats — 375 of the 435 — are rated “solid” for one party or the other, meaning it would take a political earthquake to avoid the predicted outcome. For nearly 90% of our House elections, we are all but certain which party will win well before we know which candidates will even be on the ballot.

And yet, in 2024 alone, campaigns and outside groups raised and spent roughly $9.5 billion on congressional elections. Billions of dollars flowed through a system in which only a few dozen districts were genuinely up for grabs. The overwhelming share of that money, attention, and advertising ultimately concentrated on a narrow slice of the map.

That concentration makes sense when you consider what’s at stake. The House operates on razor-thin margins. In 2026, Democrats would need to flip just four seats to reclaim the majority. Four districts would determine who holds the speaker’s gavel, who chairs committees, which bills reach the floor, and which investigations move forward.

But that reality also sharpens the paradox: while a tiny number of districts determine control of Congress, the vast majority of Americans live in places where the November outcome is effectively predetermined.

In most districts, the general election is no longer where the decisive contest takes place.

Which raises the deeper question: If November isn’t the moment of real competition, what is?

The primary incentive structure

Imagine you’re a moderate Democrat living in a deeply Republican district, or a pragmatic Republican in a heavily Democratic one. You consider running for Congress, believing you could make a difference, even help build a coalition across party lines. But you also know you can’t ignore math. The district’s partisan lean virtually guarantees that your party loses by double digits every two years.

Do you invest the time, the fundraising, the personal sacrifice? Most people say, “Hell, no!” And it’s tough to blame them.

The shrinking number of competitive districts doesn’t just affect outcomes — it shapes the candidate pool itself. In districts that are overwhelmingly red or blue, the minority party often struggles to recruit serious challengers at all. Why run a race that you’re structurally positioned to lose?

Instead, the only contest that truly matters is the dominant party’s primary.

And primaries are very different elections. They draw far fewer voters, and those who participate tend to be the most ideologically committed. Turnout in congressional primaries hovers around 20 percent. That means a small slice of highly engaged partisans effectively chooses the next member of Congress.

Under those conditions, moderation isn’t rewarded. It’s risky. Candidates compete to demonstrate ideological loyalty, not bipartisan flexibility. The incentive isn’t to appeal to swing voters who won’t decide the outcome — it’s to convince primary voters that you are the most authentic defender of the party’s cause. Once you win the primary, you’re all but assured to coast through the noncompetitive general election a few months later.

What happens once they get to Washington

The primary-focused incentives don’t disappear after Election Day, either.

If you win a seat that your party carries by 20 or more points — which is true in the majority of House districts — your greatest threat in the next cycle is unlikely to come from the opposing party in November. It will come from within your own party in the primary. That is where your vulnerability lies.

And primary electorates are not known for rewarding compromise.

They are more likely to view bipartisan deal-making with suspicion. A member who votes for a cross-party infrastructure bill, a budget agreement, or an immigration compromise risks being labeled disloyal or weak.

The accusations practically write themselves: selling out, caving to the other side, betraying the base. In Republican districts, the epithet might be “RINO.” In Democratic ones, “DINO.” The labels vary; the warning is the same.

So lawmakers, being rational actors who want to keep their jobs and represent their voters, adapt.

They signal ideological purity. They prioritize messaging that energizes their core supporters. They avoid bipartisan coalitions that could become fodder for a primary challenger. When compromise becomes electorally dangerous, confrontation becomes logical.

Over time, this produces a Congress less inclined to negotiate and more inclined to posture. Not because members are uniquely extreme individuals, but because the structure surrounding them rewards that behavior.

The map at the top of this piece is, in many ways, a map of those incentives.

How we got here

Some of this shift reflects broader changes in American society. Voters have sorted themselves geographically along partisan lines. Urban areas have grown more Democratic, rural areas more Republican. Suburbs have realigned. When like-minded voters cluster together, districts become less competitive.

But geography is only part of the story.

District lines are often drawn by state governments, and when one party controls that process, it has every incentive to design maps that protect its incumbents and maximize its advantage. We all know this process as gerrymandering. Texas has done it. California responded, and several other states are also pursuing gerrymandered maps to win a few more vital seats come November.

Both parties justify their actions by pointing to the other side, but the cumulative effect is even fewer competitive districts nationwide. That’s literally the goal of their efforts.

And even where independent commissions reduce overt partisan gerrymandering, the underlying winner-take-all structure of single-member districts tends to exaggerate small partisan advantages into secure seats. A district that leans 65–35 will reliably elect one party’s representative 100 percent of the time.

In such a system, competitive elections become the exception rather than the rule.

If this is the problem, what would change it?

There is no reform that would instantly produce dozens of swing districts. But there are structural changes that could alter incentives in meaningful ways.

One approach would be to ban partisan gerrymandering nationally. Independent redistricting commissions in states like Arizona and Michigan show that maps can be drawn with competitiveness and community boundaries in mind, rather than incumbent protection.

Would that require a constitutional amendment?

Probably not. The Constitution’s Elections Clause gives states authority to draw districts, but it also gives Congress the power to “make or alter” those rules. In 2019, the Supreme Court ruled in Rucho v. Common Cause that federal courts cannot police partisan gerrymandering — but it explicitly left the door open for Congress to act.

That means a national ban would likely require legislation, not an amendment, though it would almost certainly face political and legal challenges. An amendment would settle the constitutionality question once and for all.

Another lever of elections reform involves primary elections themselves. Closed primaries restrict participation to registered party members, concentrating power in the hands of the most ideologically committed voters. Opening primaries — allowing independents or even cross-party participation — broadens the electorate and forces candidates to appeal beyond a narrow base.

Some states have gone further still. Washington and California use a top-two primary system in which all candidates compete on a single ballot and the two highest vote-getters advance to the general election regardless of party. In heavily partisan districts, that can mean two candidates from the same party face off in November, giving voters a choice between governing styles rather than party labels. Even within a dominant party, competition reemerges as candidates work to moderate to pick up voters from the non-dominant party.

More ambitious reforms challenge the winner-take-all structure itself. Under proportional representation, parties would receive seats roughly in line with their vote share (for example, if Republicans won 30 percent of the statewide vote, they would receive about 30 percent of the seats). That would ensure minority-party voters in heavily one-sided states still have representation.

Would that require a constitutional amendment? Likely not. The Constitution requires single-member districts only because Congress mandated them by statute in 1967. In theory, Congress could repeal or revise that law and permit multi-member districts with proportional allocation. The barrier is political, not constitutional.

Ranked-choice voting is another election reform idea. RCV allows voters to rank candidates by preference, rewarding those who can build broader coalitions and appeal as a second choice rather than simply energize a narrow base.

States already use it in federal elections, and nothing in the Constitution prohibits it. Congress could encourage or require it nationally under its Elections Clause authority, though such a move would certainly be contentious.

Neither reform would be easy to enact. But neither is foreclosed by the Constitution.

The stakes

The House of Representatives was designed to be the most electorally responsive institution in the federal government. Members face voters every two years to ensure accountability. But accountability requires genuine competition.

When 375 of 435 seats are effectively locked in before a campaign even begins, voters lose leverage. Candidates adapt to narrower constituencies. Members govern with one eye fixed on a small, ideologically intense primary electorate.

If Congress feels dysfunctional — if compromise feels rare, if legislative stalemate feels routine — it is worth examining the map again.

Those 69 competitive districts are not just statistical curiosities. They are the places where persuasion still matters, where candidates must appeal beyond their base, where voters retain meaningful power to change direction.

The rest of the country lives under a different set of incentives.

And until we grapple with that structural reality, we will continue to debate personalities and rhetoric while the deeper mechanics of congressional behavior remain unchanged.

The map is not just a reflection of polarization.

It is a blueprint for it.

Instead, consider this a Crash Course in the speech itself—where it came from, how it works, and a bunch of weird, fascinating facts you probably didn’t know.

1. Article II of the US Constitution says the president shall “from time to time give to the Congress information of the State of the Union.” It does not require an in-person address, a prime-time slot, or a televised spectacle.

2. George Washington delivered the very first annual message in 1790 — and it was very short, just over 1,089 words. For context, the preliminary word count of Trump’s 2026 STOTU is 10,599 words.

3. Thomas Jefferson disliked the in-person ceremony and switched to written messages that Congress read to itself, instead. This practice lasted more than a century until Woodrow Wilson revived the modern, in-person State of the Union speech in 1913.

4. The phrase “State of the Union Address” became common during the Truman administration. Prior to that the speech/message was referred to simply as the President’s Annual Message.

5. The first radio broadcast of the address was in 1923 under Calvin Coolidge.

6. The first televised State of the Union was in 1947 under Harry Truman.

7. Trump’s 2026 address ran 1 hour and 48 minutes, making it the longest State of the Union on record in delivery time.

   

8. Members of Congress can each bring one guest, and both the speaker and vice president have separate guest invitations reserved.

9. Though technology has broadened access (radio, TV, internet), fewer Americans watch now than in the 1990s, showing the address is no longer the “must-see” event it once was.

10. Bill Clinton’s 1993 address — technically not a State of the Union but treated like one — drew nearly 67 million viewers, the largest TV audience.

    

11. Over time, the linguistic complexity of addresses has declined. Early presidents spoke at what would now be considered college-level; modern ones tend toward eighth- or ninth-grade readability.

    

12. Unsurprisingly, Woodrow Wilson—a PhD and former president of Princeton University—gave the most linguistically complex State of the Union on record.

13. Most State of the Union speeches fade quickly. But when one sticks in history, it’s often because of foreign policy. James Monroe used his 1823 address to announce the Monroe Doctrine. Theodore Roosevelt expanded it in 1904. Franklin D. Roosevelt introduced the “Four Freedoms” in 1941. And George W. Bush labeled an “Axis of Evil” in 2002.

14. Before the speech begins, the president hands two physical copies to the Speaker of the House and the vice president. It’s a small ritual with big meaning: it formally satisfies the Constitution’s requirement that the president report on the state of the nation and ensures Congress receives an official written record of the agenda.

15. Only two presidents never delivered a State of the Union address. William Henry Harrison died just weeks into his term in 1841, and James Garfield was assassinated in 1881 before he had the chance.

Here are the key questions people are asking — and the answers that help make sense of where things stand.

What’s happening now?

The U.S. has surged aircraft carrier strike groups, fighter jets, refueling tankers, bombers, and air-defense systems into and around the Middle East. Pentagon officials have told reporters that forces are being positioned so the president would have credible military options on short notice.

At the same time, reports are circulating that U.S. military planners are prepared for strikes if talks with Iran collapse. The administration says diplomacy remains the preferred path, but the scale of the buildup signals that Washington wants Tehran to believe the threat of force is real.

In short: the United States is preparing for the possibility of conflict while still publicly leaving the door open to negotiations.

This crisis is the product of years of unraveling agreements, mistrust, and escalation.

After the United States withdrew from the 2015 Iran nuclear deal during President Trump’s first term, sanctions were reimposed and Iran gradually expanded its nuclear activities. Efforts by later administrations to revive or replace the deal never fully succeeded.

More recently, tensions intensified after Israeli strikes on Iranian-linked targets and nuclear-related facilities, with U.S. backing. Those strikes deepened fears inside Washington that Iran is closer than ever to being able to produce nuclear weapons material, even if it has not publicly declared an intent to build a bomb.

At the same time, Iran continues to support armed groups across the region, maintain a growing missile program, and push back against U.S. influence in the Middle East. Each side views the other as the primary driver of instability.

Overlaying all of this are renewed waves of protests inside Iran, driven by economic distress, corruption, and anger at political repression. The Iranian government’s harsh crackdowns — and U.S. statements openly condemning Tehran’s human rights abuses and voicing support for protesters — have further hardened positions on both sides. For Washington, Iran’s internal unrest underscores the regime’s vulnerability; for Tehran, U.S. rhetoric reinforces the belief that Washington ultimately seeks to weaken or topple the government.

The result is a familiar pattern: stalled diplomacy, growing military pressure, and shrinking trust.

Why is the U.S. building up so much military force?

U.S. officials describe the buildup as serving two purposes.

First, deterrence. The administration wants Iran to believe that any move toward weaponization — or any major attack on U.S. forces or allies — would carry severe consequences.

Second, leverage. By showing it is serious about military options, Washington hopes to push Tehran into making concessions at the negotiating table, particularly on nuclear enrichment limits and inspections.

Privately, some U.S. officials also acknowledge that if diplomacy fails, any operation against Iran could be more than a single “pinprick” strike. That means planning now for the possibility of a sustained campaign and for defending U.S. bases and partners against retaliation.

Is there an imminent U.S. attack on Iran?

There is no public evidence that a strike order has been given.

What exists instead is readiness: forces in place, targets identified, and operational plans prepared. President Trump has said he prefers a diplomatic solution and has reportedly given Iran a short window — days, not months — to show meaningful progress.

That creates a narrow corridor where talks could still succeed, but also a situation where events could move quickly if the president decides diplomacy has failed.

What is Iran doing in response?

Iran has increased its own military signaling.

It has conducted naval exercises near key shipping lanes, including the Strait of Hormuz, and has warned that any attack on Iranian territory would be met with a strong response. Iranian leaders continue to insist their nuclear program is peaceful while rejecting U.S. demands that they fully dismantle enrichment capabilities.

Tehran’s strategy appears to be a mix of defiance and negotiation: demonstrate it can impose costs if attacked, while still engaging indirectly in talks to avoid full-scale war.

Are nuclear talks still happening?

Yes, but they are fragile and lack specifics.

U.S. and Iranian officials are communicating through intermediaries in Europe. Iran is expected to submit a written proposal outlining what limits it might accept and what sanctions relief it wants in return.

American officials say the sides remain far apart, especially on:

• How much uranium Iran can enrich

• How intrusive inspections would be

• Whether Iran must curb missile development and regional proxy activity

Negotiations exist, but no breakthrough has been announced.

What are the major risks of escalation?

Any U.S.–Iran conflict would almost certainly extend beyond a single exchange of strikes.

Iran could target U.S. bases, allies such as Israel, shipping in the Persian Gulf, or energy infrastructure. That would risk drawing in additional countries and disrupting global oil markets.

There is also the risk of miscalculation: an incident meant as a signal could be interpreted as the start of a larger attack, triggering a rapid spiral.

Even officials who believe pressure is necessary acknowledge that once fighting begins, controlling its scope becomes difficult.

What would a US attack look like?

Current planning emphasizes air and naval power rather than ground invasion.

That means carrier-based aircraft, long-range bombers, cruise missiles, cyber operations, and electronic warfare aimed at nuclear facilities, air defenses, missile sites, and command-and-control systems.

Large numbers of U.S. ground troops are not being positioned for an Iraq-style occupation, but forces are being prepared to defend bases and allies from retaliation.

Could diplomacy still succeed?

Yes — but…

Both sides have incentives to avoid war. Iran risks devastating damage to its economy and infrastructure. The U.S. risks another open-ended Middle East conflict. Plus, the game theory on how post-attack responses can go sideways once they are actually carried out.

Whether a compromise emerges depends on whether Iran is willing to accept tighter nuclear limits and whether the U.S. is willing to offer meaningful sanctions relief in return.

Right now, neither side is showing much public flexibility.

Why does this matter beyond the Middle East?

A war between the U.S. and Iran would ripple across global politics and the world economy.

Energy prices could spike. Shipping routes could be disrupted. Relations among major powers — including Russia, China, and European allies — would be tested. And the future of nuclear nonproliferation efforts would be put under severe strain.

Bottom line: The United States and Iran are locked in a familiar but dangerous cycle of pressure, threats, and stalled diplomacy. Military preparations are real, but war is not inevitable. What happens in the next days and weeks will determine whether this moment becomes another crisis defused — or a conflict unleashed.

The most prominent version is the Safeguard American Voter Eligibility Act (SAVE Act), which passed the House and has been sent to the Senate (where it’s very unlikely to advance).

Supporters argue that requiring photo ID and proof of citizenship will boost election integrity. Polls often show broad support for “voter ID” in the abstract — one recent Pew poll found roughly 83% of Americans favor a national ID requirement to vote.

But supporting the idea of ID and supporting the specific legislation Congress is considering are two very different things.

Let’s break down what the SAVE Act would actually do.

First, a Quick Reality Check About How Things Work Right Now

Before we talk about what Congress wants to change, it’s worth grounding ourselves in what the law already says—and what the evidence actually shows.

1. It’s already illegal for noncitizens to vote

Federal law has long made it a crime for noncitizens to register or vote in federal elections. That prohibition is clear, nationwide, and not new.

And the consequences aren’t minor.

If a noncitizen registers or votes and is caught, they can face criminal penalties, fines, imprisonment, and serious immigration consequences, including denial of naturalization or deportation. In other words, the legal system already treats this as a major offense with life-altering stakes.

So when you hear lawmakers argue we need new federal laws to “make it illegal for noncitizens to vote,” the accurate response is: it already is.

2. Actual voter fraud is extremely rare

Claims about widespread voter fraud have been studied repeatedly by scholars, journalists, courts, and bipartisan election officials.

The consistent finding: it happens, but at vanishingly small levels. We’re talking hundredths or thousandths of a single percent of all votes cast.

For instance, and even using data from the Heritage Foundation—known to be conservative leaning—and their Voter Fraud Database, Arizona has reported 36 cases of fraud over 25 years and 42 million ballots. Pennsylvania, another hotly contested state, has reported 39 cases across 30 years and more than 100 million votes cast.

That doesn’t mean election systems should ignore security. But it does mean that proposals which make voting significantly harder for millions of eligible citizens are being justified by a problem that is statistically negligible.

3. States already run elections—and the Constitution says they should

Article I, Section 4 of the Constitution gives states the primary authority to administer elections, including setting rules for registration, ballot access, and polling operations. While Congress can set some baseline standards, the Supreme Court has repeatedly recognized that states have broad power over the “times, places, and manner” of elections.

A federal law that dictates specific voter ID and citizenship-verification procedures would significantly shift that balance—moving control over highly granular election rules away from states and toward Washington.

What the SAVE Act Would Do

At its core, the SAVE Act would:

1. Require Documentary Proof of Citizenship to Register

Under current federal law, you must affirm that you’re a U.S. citizen when you register to vote. Under the SAVE Act, you would have to present documents proving citizenship—like a U.S. passport, enhanced ID, or birth certificate—every time you register or update a registration.

That sounds simple until you remember that most state driver’s licenses don’t actually show citizenship status.

2. Expand Ongoing Verification and Voter Roll Purges

The bill would require states to affirmatively identify noncitizens on voter rolls and remove them — and that process depends on matching state rolls with federal databases.

3. Create a More Robust Role for Federal Data

Some versions of this bill, and related federal actions, would involve the Department of Homeland Security and its SAVE system—a big database originally designed for immigration purposes—as a central source for verifying citizenship and purging voters.

That’s where the line between election integrity and data governance starts to blur.

Why Critics Are Alarmed

The SAVE Act has drawn sharp criticism from nonpartisan voting-rights organizations, election officials, and civil liberties advocates. Beyond the facts that the Constitution gives power to the states to conduct their own elections and that voter fraud is exceedingly rare, critics of the legislation have two major concerns:

1. It Could Disenfranchise Millions of Eligible Voters

Experts estimate that upwards of 21 million U.S. citizens don’t have easy access to the kinds of documents this bill would require—passports, birth certificates, enhanced IDs—especially low-income Americans, seniors, and some naturalized citizens.

2. Increased Federal Role Could Be Misused or Mishandled

Under current proposals and related federal actions, states would match voter rolls with federal databases to identify potential noncitizens. But federal systems like DHS’s SAVE weren’t built for elections, and there have been more than a few documented cases of mistaken purges and the wrongful removal of lawful voters.

There are also privacy concerns: large databases tied to voter rolls could be weaponized to target individuals or undermine confidence in the electoral process.

Think of it this way: would you be fine with a president and DHS secretary of the opposite party having final say over the voter rolls of your state?

Bottom Line: A Nuanced Trade-Off, Not a Simple One

National voter ID and citizenship verification are undeniably popular and sensible at a high level. Democrats and Republicans alike all want safe, free, and fair elections. But the specific legislative proposals in Congress — especially the SAVE Act — could:

• Make it harder not just for noncitizens but for many eligible voters to register and vote;

• Expand federal data access in ways that risk misuse;

• Undercut historic state authority over elections; and

• Focus on a problem that already has very limited evidence of occurrence.

That’s why fair-minded observers on both sides of the aisle—including some Republican election officials and even lawmakers who support voter ID in principle—are raising red flags.

As always with voting policy, the challenge is balancing security and access without tipping the scales away from the basic right to participate in democracy.

History isn’t destiny. But it rhymes. And if you’re looking for a crude, back-of-the-envelope way to think about what November might hold for President Trump and congressional Republicans, history gives us a pretty clear baseline.

A quick Crash Course.

The Historical Pattern: Midterms Are Rough on Presidents

Since 1934, presidents of both parties have:

• Lost House seats in 87% midterm elections (20 of 23 elections)

• Lost an average of roughly 27 seats in those elections

• Only gained seats three times

Those rare outliers?

• 1934 – FDR (+9)

• 1998 – Clinton (+5)

• 2002 – George W. Bush (+8)

Everything else ranges from mild bruises (-4, JFK ‘64) to absolute whoopins (-63, Obama 2010).

Presidential Approval — A Useful (But Imperfect) Clue

One simple predictor we have is the president’s approval rating heading into the midterm.

Higher approval → smaller losses (rarely gains)
Lower approval → bigger losses

It’s not perfect but does give us a good stat: no president with an approval rating below 65% has gained House seats in a midterm election. Notta one. And gone are the days of even 50%+ approval ratings.

Trump today: 42% approval, well below the 65% mark.

That puts him squarely in historical danger territory, with the potential for major losses come November.

Trump Has Been Here Before

In Trump’s first midterm (2018):

• Approval: 44%

• House result: –40 GOP seats

• House majority flipped to Democrats

Different political environment, different economy, different Trump, different country—but same structural forces and potentially even bigger political headwinds.

Why Even Small Losses Matter

Republicans currently hold the House 218–214.

That’s a margin of four seats.

Which means:

• A net Democratic gain of just 4 seats flips the House

• A historically “small” midterm loss becomes a governing earthquake. And for context, Biden had a 40% approval in 2022 and Dems lost 9 seats and their House majority.

• JFK lost 4 seats in 1962 with a 61% approval rating.

Given the razor thin majorities today, presidents don’t need a 2010-style wipeout to lose the chamber; they barely need a ripple.

The Generic Ballot Is Flashing Yellow

Democrats currently hold about a 5.5-point lead on the generic congressional ballot (who voters say they plan to support for Congress overall).

Historically:

• When one party leads the generic ballot by ~5 points, they almost always win the House.

Again: crude indicator. But directionally important.

Why History Usually Works This Way

Midterms punish presidents for:

• Inflation, cost of living, gas and grocery prices—”it’s the economy stupid”

• Immigration and border conditions

• High-profile scandals

• Legislative failures or broken promises

• Foreign wars and global instability

Midterms become a national referendum, mostly on the president.

It’s less “Do you like your representative?” and more “How do you feel about the country right now?” And Americans have proven more than willing to try the other party after two years of one.

The Governing Consequences

If Democrats retake the House:

• Trump’s legislative agenda largely stalls

• Investigations ramp up

• Budget fights become even more frequent

• Executive actions become more attractive to the White House since going through a Democratic House will demand bipartisanship.

In short: Gridlock goes up. Presidential unilateral action goes up with it.

The Takeaway

If Trump’s approval doesn’t climb meaningfully, history suggests November won’t be kind to House Republicans—and in a chamber this evenly divided, even a modest breeze could flip control.

Let me give you an example with Trump’s tariffs.

Did you know that the House of Representatives adopted several procedural bills that *turned off* its own ability to challenge or remove President Trump’s tariffs?

In other words, as it stands now, the House is unable to terminate the Trump tariffs, even if the House wanted to, because it agreed to an internal rule that they couldn’t. They hamstrung themselves on a controversial issue. On purpose.

Let’s ignore the ‘why’ for now and dive into the ‘how’, because it’s going to make you mad (if you can stand the boring). Stay with me.

First, the context

All the way back in February of 2025, Trump declared a national emergency, a move his administration said was critical to deal with “a public health crisis” resulting from drugs coming into the US. Declaring that national emergency also allowed him to impose tariffs on countries he felt contributed to the health crisis—in this particular case, Mexico, China, and Canada.

Boom, tariffs imposed with few strokes of the presidential pen.

At the time, Congress could have responded in infinity ways, from imposing tariffs with its own votes to taking away the president’s power to unilaterally declare national emergencies or imposing tariffs at all. (Side note: we have a long history of tariffs in this country, but for the vast majority, Congress was the one doing the tariff-ing, not the president.)

Now, the law says that national emergencies are temporary. They are to only remain active for six months. Within six months, Congress must decide “whether that emergency shall be terminated.”

Congress does this with a bill that goes to a committee. That committee then has a deadline of 15 days to vote on whether or not they think the emergency should be terminated. If the committee thinks it should be, then the full House and Senate must vote on it within three calendar days.

That 15 and 3 days are critical here. They are Chekhov’s guns for my Congress nerds. Here’s why.

Next, turning time off

In March, the House adopted this resolution by a vote of 216-214 (all but one GOP Rep. voted yes and all Dems voted no). The resolution does a bunch of different things on several different pieces of legislation, but the very last section, the one sentence in Section 4, is where we start our tariff tomfoolery.

Sec. 4 states:

Each day for the remainder of the first session of the 119th Congress shall not constitute a calendar day for purposes of section 202 of the National Emergencies Act (50 U.S.C. 1622) with respect to a joint resolution terminating a national emergency declared by the President on February 1, 2025.

Let me translate: the calendar literally stops for the entire first year of the 119th Congress if there’s a bill that attempts to terminate Trump’s national emergency that gave him the power to impose tariffs. And if the calendar can’t start, the 15 days can’t go by. And if the days can’t tick off, there’s no deadline to vote on the issue. No deadlines, no votes to end the emergency and end the tariffs.

Let me translate even more directly: by adopting this one sentence tucked in a longer resolution dealing with other issues, the House says no days are happening. The clock is unplugged despite the sun going up and down a whole bunch of times. And since no days are going by, the deadline can never come to force a vote.

They turned the clock off!

It’s the Truman Show but with far worse actors and a lot fewer people who understand what the hell is going on.

It gets worse: they didn’t just do it once. They have done it four times! (Here, here, here, and here) for different national emergencies and different tariffs. So if some lawmakers didn’t know what was happening the first time, they’ve had three more plate appearances.

Just like Granny used to say, “fool me four times.” Or something like that.

Congress has a bad rap for not doing anything, often for good reason. And that’s frustrating enough.

But sometimes they’re literally making it so they can’t. And that’s much, much worse.

And while Natanson and WaPo were told they were not the subject of the investigation, the government’s actions raise foundational and constitutional questions for the free press.

Questions that have been asked and answered before.

As the saying goes, those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it.

In that spirit, Crashers, let’s go back to the 1970s. There we will find the story of the Pentagon Papers; a story that has many eery connections to the present day.

The Pentagon Papers

The leak that put truth — and the free press — on trial

In the summer of 1971, Americans woke up to front-page headlines that exposed decades of government secrecy.

The New York Times had obtained more than 7,000 pages of a classified Pentagon study formally titled “The Defense Department History of the United States Decisionmaking on Vietnam.”

You probably know it by another name: the “Pentagon Papers.”

What the study contained was undeniably explosive stuff. Commissioned in 1967 by Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, the classified review traced US involvement in Vietnam across five presidents — Truman through Johnson — and revealed a story the government had never dared to tell in public.

A story the government had actively lied about.

Among other revelations, the Pentagon Papers showed that senior officials knew the war was unwinnable, expanded military operations in secret, and misled Congress and the American people about why American troops continued to die in Southeast Asia.

The country was stunned. The Nixon White House, in power when the study was on page A1 of The Times, was furious. And the free press itself was put on trial.

But the story of the Pentagon Papers isn’t just about a leak.

It’s about how far ordinary people were willing to go to reveal the truth, and how their actions pushed the Supreme Court into issuing one of the strongest protections for press freedom the country has ever seen.

And the contrast hits differently when compared with the circus that is the Pentagon press corps today, with figures like Matt Gaetz and Laura Loomer posturing as “journalists” not to inform the public but to reinforce and promote the administration’s narrative to its supporters.

The Pentagon Papers were journalism. Much of what passes for “access” today is theater.

Let’s go back to where it began.

A Secret History No One Was Supposed to See

By 1967, Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, the Ford Motor exec turned JFK cabinet secretary, no longer believed his own optimistic briefings. Privately, he feared Vietnam was spiraling into catastrophe. Publicly, he continued to defend the mission. Trapped between his beliefs and his perception of duty, McNamara ordered something unprecedented: a full classified autopsy of every major US political and military decision that had led America into Vietnam.

He assembled what became known as the Vietnam Study Task Force, an elite group of 36 analysts, historians, military officers, and policy experts. The group was headed by Leslie H. Gelb, then a rising star in the Defense Department as director of policy planning and analysis. (Gelb later became a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist for… wait for it… The New York Times.) The task force’s charge was breathtaking in scope: reconstruct the story of the war not as politicians told it, but as the documents themselves revealed it.

For nearly two years, the task force operated out of a secure suite in the Pentagon, sifting through an ocean of classified material — thousands of documents pulled from the Office of the Secretary of Defense, State Department telegrams, CIA assessments, Joint Chiefs memos, covert-operations files, presidential communications, and raw intelligence cables spanning five administrations, from Truman to Johnson.

They built a history no outsider had ever seen. Forty-seven bound volumes, more than 7,000 pages, meticulously cataloguing the steady, deliberate expansion of American involvement in Vietnam, often in direct contradiction of the government’s public statements.

One of the analysts on the project was Daniel Ellsberg, a former Marine turned RAND Corporation strategist who had served in Vietnam and returned deeply troubled by the widening gap between government rhetoric and reality. The more Ellsberg read, the more devastating the truth became.

By 1969, he reached a moral breaking point.

The documents showed not a series of innocent misjudgments but a pattern of conscious deception; administrations that doubted the war privately but escalated it publicly; officials who misled Congress about troop levels and bombing campaigns; and intelligence assessments buried because they contradicted presidential speeches.

Ellsberg became convinced not only that the war was unwinnable but that the government knew it was unwinnable and had chosen to hide that belief from the American people.

And so he made a decision that would alter American history.

The Midnight Heist: How a Leak Was Born

Ellsberg began secretly copying the report in a homemade operation that now feels ripped from a political thriller. He snuck a few classified pages at a time out of his office under his shirt or inside his jacket, careful never to create a big enough bulge to be spotted by security.

But, even after he got the documents outside, he still needed something almost no civilian had in 1970: a photocopier. Machines were rare, bulky, and tightly controlled. Ellsberg asked a friend whether he knew anyone with access to one. By sheer luck, the friend’s girlfriend worked at a small ad agency that had a copy machine. The staff went home at night. The office was dark. That would become the first location where the Pentagon Papers were copied.

Soon, Ellsberg developed a more systematic operation at RAND — and he didn’t do it alone.

According to transcripts of Ellsberg’s interviews with Times reporters (as detailed in a 2023 investigative update from the podcast and publication Reveal), he sometimes brought his 13-year-old son and ten-year-old daughter into the RAND offices after hours to assist in the work. They acted as sentries at the hallway corner, whispering warnings if anyone approached, while Ellsberg fed “Top Secret” documents into a clattering Xerox machine that echoes through history.

And then came the closest call of all.

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One night, Ellsberg’s son was copying documents while his younger sister sat on the floor cutting the words “TOP SECRET” off each page so the stack would look less suspicious. Suddenly, police officers burst into the office responding to what was later considered a false alarm. The officers looked around, saw nothing out of place, and left. Ellsberg and his children kept copying.

By early 1971, he had assembled a full illicit duplicate of the 7,000-page report and begun offering the documents to members of Congress, none of whom chose to publicize the bombsells.

Ellsberg then turned to The New York Times. Robert “Rosey” Rosenthal, then only six months into his first reporting job, was called by a Times editor and told not to come into the newsroom in the morning. Instead he was to go to room 1111 of a Hilton hotel. “Don’t tell anyone where you’re going,” Rosenthal said, “and bring enough clothes for at least a month.”

Rosey did just that. And for the next month, he and a team of fellow reporters went through the documents, verifying their authenticity and growing more and more stunned at the scope and scale of the government’s long-standing deception about what was actually happening in Vietnam.

Finally, on June 13, 1971, the first front-page story dropped.

“Vietnam Archive: Pentagon Study Traces…” — The Publication Heard Around the World

“Vietnam Archive: Pentagon Study Traces 3 Decades of Growing U.S. Involvement” was the headline of the story the government never intended, or wanted, the public to see.

Drawing directly from the 7,000 pages Ellsberg had smuggled out one handful at a time, The Times revealed that:

• Presidents from Truman to Johnson had escalated the war even as they privately believed victory was unlikely — a throughline documented extensively in the Pentagon study.

• The US had secretly expanded operations into Cambodia and Laos, years before those actions were acknowledged to Congress or the American people.

• Congress had been repeatedly misled about troop levels, bombing campaigns, strategic objectives, and the scale of military commitment.

This wasn’t a policy disagreement. It was a documented pattern of systematic deception at the highest levels of government.

The public reaction was instant and seismic.

The Times’ phone lines were swamped. Members of Congress demanded hearings. Veterans wrote letters saying the revelations confirmed everything they had suspected. And inside the West Wing, the Nixon administration went into crisis mode, but not for the obvious reasons.

The Pentagon Papers did not cover the Nixon years, and Nixon and his team weren’t directly connected to the Vietnam deceit of his (largely Democratic) predecessors. Nixon believed the papers’ publication made Democrats look incompetent and untrustworthy, and yet still moved quickly to stop their publication.

Why? Nixon feared, obsessively, that his government had been infiltrated by liberal leakers set out to destroy him. And if they could leak this information, they could do the same to his administration.

Within 48 hours of the first story, the Nixon Justice Department raced into federal court seeking an emergency injunction to stop the Times from publishing any further installments of the Papers. And in a move almost without precedent in American history, a federal judge granted the request.

For the first time ever, the United States government successfully imposed a prior restraint on a newspaper — a legal order forbidding journalists to print true, newsworthy information prior to its being published.

The free press was no longer just reporting the story. It was now on trial.

And then something extraordinary happened.

While the Times was legally gagged, The Washington Post obtained its own set of the Papers. Inside The Post’s newsroom, panic met principle. Editors and lawyers warned that running the story could trigger federal prosecution. Publisher Katharine Graham, still relatively new to the job (and ironically a close personal friend of Defense Secretary McNamara), understood she could personally face criminal charges.

According to journalists reporting from the era and accounts preserved by the Miller Center, the meeting lasted hours. The room was split. But then Graham made a call that changed the history of journalism: “Let’s go. Let’s publish.”

Unbound by the injunction, The Post began to print. So did The Boston Globe. And the public kept reading while the legal battle escalated to the highest court in the land.

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The Supreme Court Steps In — and Saves Press Freedom

Just 15 days after the first Pentagon Papers headline ran, the Supreme Court agreed to hear the case of New York Times Co. v. United States.

At issue was a constitutional question as stark as it gets: Can the US government silence the press before publication?

On June 30, 1971, in a terse 6–3 decision, the answer came back a resounding “NO.” The First Amendment does not permit such censorship.

The Court ruled that the Nixon administration had failed to meet the “heavy burden of proof” required to justify a prior restraint. Justice Hugo Black put it bluntly in his concurrence, writing that allowing the government to muzzle the free press “would make a shambles of the First Amendment.”

He continued, “In the First Amendment, the Founding Fathers gave the free press the protection it must have to fulfill its essential role in our democracy. The press was to serve the governed, not the governors. The Government’s power to censor the press was abolished so that the press would remain forever free to censure the Government.”

With that single decision the Court reaffirmed one of the strongest protections for press freedom in American history.

It wasn’t just a win for The Times or The Post. It was a ruling that preserved the very idea of investigative journalism in a democracy.

But while the legal fight ended that day, the political fallout was only beginning.

The Nixon Administration Spirals — the Road to Watergate Begins

The Pentagon Papers triggered a paranoid collapse inside the Nixon White House. In the Oval Office, Nixon raged that the country was being sabotaged by leakers. He ordered his aides to stop leaks, telling them, “I don’t give a damn how it is done, do whatever has to be done to stop these leaks and prevent further unauthorized disclosures.”

To satisfy the president, a new and secret White House unit was established to plug leaks, a team soon referred to as “the Plumbers.” And their tactics were less than aboveboard. After learning of Ellsberg’s role as the Pentagon Paper source, the plumbers burglarized the California office of Ellsberg’s psychiatrist in hopes of finding incriminating and embarrassing information. (They came up empty).

After the failed Ellsberg operation, the Plumbers were folded into the Committee to Reelect the President (CREEP), where their mandate expanded to political sabotage.

The same men who broke into Ellsberg’s psychiatrist’s office — Howard Hunt, G. Gordon Liddy, and others — soon planned a more ambitious burglary: the nighttime break-in at the Democratic National Committee headquarters in the Watergate complex.

What began as an effort to punish a whistleblower grew into the Watergate scandal, triggering congressional investigations, televised hearings, and ultimately Nixon’s resignation in August of 1974.

What This History Means Now — Especially When “Press Access” is Government-Vetted

The Pentagon Papers didn’t end the Vietnam War. They didn’t restore trust in government.

But they did establish that the public’s right to know outweighs the government’s desire to control the narrative. And they reaffirmed the constitutional backbone journalists rely on today.

Which is why the contrast with recently unveiled rules for press access within the Department of Defense is so jarring. Among the changes, the new guidelines require that all DoD information be “approved for public release by an appropriate authorizing official before it is released, even if it is unclassified.”

Read that again.

Inside the same building where Ellsberg’s leak triggered a constitutional showdown, even unclassified information — details that have never been secret — now requires pre-approval before anyone inside the building can share it with the press or public. The rules further restrict who is allowed to speak to journalists, what counts as authorized communication, and when reporters can access subject-matter experts at all.

These are not minor procedural tweaks. They are a blueprint for controlled government-approved narratives. They also create a system where government officials can handpick which stories get told, when, and by whom, which is why “reporters” like Matt Gaetz and Laura Loomer are freely roaming the Pentagon’s press areas and asking questions of public officials while outlets like The Washington Post, the Associated Press, and Reuters are barred until they sign on to the Pentagon’s new rules.

And that is the precise opposite of what the Pentagon Papers taught the country back in 1971. A free press is only as strong as a public that can tell the difference between truth and spectacle — and insists on the difference.

But Trump and Vance risk falling into the same trap that ensnared President Joe Biden and the Democrats before them: Trying to justify to Americans the insurmountable disconnect between glowing macroeconomic data and the gritty realities of their personal pocketbooks.

Trump spoke last week at a rally-style event in Mount Pocono, Pa., a swing district he narrowly won in 2024. On stage, he touted measures like a $12 billion farm aid package, eased fuel efficiency standards, and extended tax cuts under the One Big Beautiful Bill Act he signed in July.

“We are bringing prices way down,” he declared, while blaming Democrats and his predecessor for the economy he inherited. Vance echoed that message to an audience at Uline Shipping Supplies outside Allentown, Pa. on Tuesday.

But Americans may not buy it from this administration any more than they did the last one.

Even with solid macro indicators like a 4.4% unemployment rate, 119,000 nonfarm payroll additions in the September report, and inflation cooling to 3% annually, convincing voters that their lived experiences are somehow mistaken is a fool’s errand.

How do I know? Because you just read those numbers above, they meant nothing to you, and had an immediate thought about prices still being too high. You remember what things *used* to cost and just want those days back.

Prices may be stabilizing, but they are still higher than prepandemic levels. And as the old political adage goes, “If you’re explaining, you’re losing.” Explaining why Americans should feel economically content because there are a lot of numbers is a losing endeavor.

Just ask the previous administration. During Biden’s tenure, officials repeatedly pointed to robust job growth and stock market highs, with the S&P 500 surging more than 50% from 2021 lows. Yet, as inflation peaked at 9.1% in 2022 and lingered around 3% by Biden’s exit from office, voters became fixated on more tangible pocketbook concerns. Grocery bills were up 25% from the start of Biden’s term, housing costs were soaring due to supply shortages, and gas prices were fluctuating wildly. The stock market’s boom, disproportionately benefiting the top 10% of wealth holders, did little to sway the working class feeling squeezed at the pump and the checkout line.

Trump’s challenge is amplified by his own campaign rhetoric, which set lofty expectations for a lower cost of living. He promised to “end inflation on day one” and to deliver an economic renaissance through tariffs, deregulation, and energy dominance. Eleven months in, the data tells a mixed story.

Inflation hit 3% year-over-year—unchanged since Trump took office. Groceries are up 2.7%, electricity has risen more than 5%, and core items like beef and coffee are climbing, despite some declines in eggs and gasoline. Those items’ prices have fallen largely due to factors outside the president’s control.

The administration’s tariffs—which are generating $30 billion monthly in revenue—have boosted domestic manufacturing. But they have also hiked prices on imports, including on foods that the U.S. can’t produce. Trump’s mass deportation plans could potentially disrupt the domestic food supply chain and exacerbate inflation on groceries, as up to 40% of farmworkers are undocumented.

So where does that leave us?

A new AP-NORC poll released this week crystallizes the public’s pessimism. Just 31% approved of Trump’s economic handling, an issue he has consistently received glowing marks on during his entire political life. This is a seismic drop from 40% in March and 33% last month. Half of voters in a similar Politico survey said they feel the cost of living is the worst of their lifetimes, including four in 10 who backed Trump in 2024.

Yet Trump grades his economy an “A-plus-plus-plus-plus-plus.” (side note: as a professor, I can confirm this is not a real grade.)

His dissonance compounds the issue at hand. In his Pennsylvania speech, he dismissed the affordability crisis as a “hoax” peddled by Democrats. He said that children should settle for “two or three” dolls amid higher toy prices. The president risks sounding not only unempathetic, but also wildly out of touch.

As pollster Frank Luntz noted this week, ““When you talk about affordability, it is all perception. and Trump risks appearing out of touch by dismissing it as a hoax when people feel and actually pay more.”

Trump’s bravado clashes with the institutional realities he faces. Congress, still narrowly divided, has shown little appetite for sweeping reforms beyond their initial tax extensions. Bipartisan pushback on tariffs from farm-state Republicans worried about retaliatory measures could stall his agenda. Meanwhile, the FED has signaled rate cuts will slow and ross domestic product growth estimates for 2025 have been drawn down to just 1.7%.

Oh, and congressional inaction on healthcare will drive costs much, much higher on millions, adding to the growing sentiment that the economy ain’t all that swell for the working class no matter what data is thrown out there.

In the end, Trump’s affordability tour may still rally most of his base, but it won’t bridge the chasm between Wall Street’s gains and Main Street’s grievances. Politicians have long learned that macro stats don’t pay the bills. For Trump, whose brand is built on unyielding confidence, admitting voters’ pain might require a humility that simply isn’t in his repertoire.

As Democrats gear up to hammer affordability in the midterms—fresh off gubernatorial and mayoral wins in Virginia, New Jersey, and New York City—the president would do well to remember: You can’t data-point your way out of perception.

Note: This piece previously appeared in .

When President Barack Obama rose to the podium in the East Room of the White House on March 23, 2010, the air crackled with anticipation. Lawmakers, advocates, and cameras packed the room as he prepared to sign the most sweeping health care reform in nearly half a century. “Today… health insurance reform becomes law in the United States of America,” he declared, casting the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act — colloquially known as Obamacare — as both a historic promise kept and a moral reckoning finally met.

As the president uncapped his pen to sign what would be his administration’s defining legislative achievement, Vice President Joe Biden leaned in to Obama’s ear and whispered, not at all quietly, “This is a big f***ing deal.” Cameras caught it; microphones amplified it; the line instantly entered political lore. Biden meant that the bill finally delivered on decades of bipartisan promises and repeated failures — from Harry Truman to Bill Clinton — to secure affordable care for millions of Americans.

But his words proved prophetic in ways no one fully appreciated. The law he celebrated would soon detonate American politics: fueling a nationwide backlash, costing Obama and Democrats their congressional majorities, galvanizing a Republican Party into near-religious opposition, and launching decade-long wars over not only the future of health care but the role of government itself in America.

In the years that followed, Obamacare would be sued, sabotaged, demonized, and nearly repealed — and yet never dismantled. Instead, through bitter fights and unlikely alliances, the Affordable Care Act quietly survived, expanded, and then did the unthinkable:

It transformed from America’s most-hated law into one too popular to kill. Even for Republicans.

Conservative roots of a liberal law

When Barack Obama entered office in 2009, health care reform wasn’t a Democratic flight of fancy — it was an old, bipartisan promise. For decades, presidents from both parties had vowed to fix an expensive, uneven system in which medical crises routinely bankrupted families. Bill Clinton tried to deliver, empowering First Lady Hillary Clinton to craft a plan for universal coverage in 1993. But “Hillarycare” collapsed under the weight of congressional resistance, industry opposition, and strategic missteps — including a secretive drafting process that fed public distrust. The defeat was so punishing that Democrats lost control of Congress for the first time in 40 years in the 1994 midterms.

That failure loomed large over Obama’s team. Advisers warned him not to repeat the Clintons’ mistake: a sweeping health overhaul could consume his presidency and derail the rest of his agenda. Obama was aware of how Hillarycare’s failure hampered Clinton’s first term, but he wasn’t willing to give up entirely. Instead, he took a different path: rather than design a new federal program, he embraced a market-based approach drawn directly from conservative thinking.

The backbone of the Affordable Care Act (ACA) was built on a framework pioneered not by a Democrat but by a Republican: Mitt Romney. As governor of Massachusetts, Romney had signed a 2006 law built around private insurance marketplaces, subsidies for those who needed help buying coverage, and — crucially — an individual mandate requiring everyone to carry insurance. It worked: Massachusetts’s uninsured rate plunged to below 5% by the time Obama took office. Romney himself called the plan “a Republican way of reforming the market.”

This was no accident. The individual mandate — later a crux of GOP opposition — had originated not on the left, but at the conservative Heritage Foundation as early as 1989, proposed as a personal-responsibility alternative to single-payer health care. In 1993, Republican senators — including Minority Leader Bob Dole — introduced bills built around the mandate to counter the Clinton plan.

Obama adopted much of that framework. His health care blueprint rested on three pillars:

1. The individual mandate — requiring Americans to obtain coverage to broaden the insurance pool and keep premiums low;

2. Subsidies — federal tax credits to help lower- and middle-income families buy private plans;

3. Market reforms — including bans on denying coverage for preexisting conditions and caps on out-of-pocket costs.

It was, by design, a capitalist approach to social policy — strengthening private markets rather than replacing them.

The backlash that helped rebuild the GOP

At first, bipartisan cooperation seemed possible. Sens. Chuck Grassley (R-IA) and Olympia Snowe (R-ME) joined negotiations, and moderate Democrats like Max Baucus (MT) crafted legislation in consultation with insurers and hospitals.

But by mid-2009, the politics shifted dramatically. The individual mandate — once a Republican idea — became the GOP’s rallying cry against the bill, and against Obama more generally. It offered a simple, potent talking point: the government is forcing you to buy insurance.

That message helped ignite the Tea Party movement — a populist, anti-tax, anti-government wave that exploded in the summer of 2009. Town hall meetings turned confrontational, protest signs warned of socialism, and the ACA became a stand-in for broader fears about an expanding federal government.

As the base radicalized, Republican lawmakers faced enormous pressure to abandon negotiations. Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell later acknowledged that Republicans unified to deny Obama bipartisan policy victories. Sen. Jim DeMint (R-SC) was more explicit: “If we’re able to stop Obama on this, it will be his Waterloo — it will break him.”

Any hope of Republican support vanished. And yet, in March 2010, after more than a year of negotiations, over 100 separate committee hearings, over 150 hours of Senate debate, and more than 200 votes in Congress, the ACA passed without a single Republican member of Congress supporting the legislation. A bill built on conservative architecture had become a purely Democratic achievement.

Among other provisions in its 1,990 pages, the final law included:

• Private insurance marketplaces (exchanges): online platforms where people can compare and buy private health plans.

• Tax credits to help individuals purchase plans: federal subsidies that lower monthly premiums based on income.

• Medicaid expansion (state option): allowed states to extend Medicaid to more low-income adults.

• Consumer protections (preexisting condition ban, essential benefits, out-of-pocket caps): prevented insurance discrimination and required standard minimum coverage.

• Employer mandate: required large employers to offer affordable health insurance or pay penalties.

• Individual mandate: required most people to have coverage or pay a tax penalty.

Once the Affordable Care Act became law, the political battlefield widened. Republicans framed the statute not as a market-based reform built on conservative principles, but as a symbol of federal intrusion. The phrase “government takeover of health care” — later named PolitiFact’s 2010 Lie of the Year — saturated the airwaves and stuck.

This framing worked. Even as most Americans supported specific provisions of the law, public opinion turned sharply against “Obamacare.” A March 2010 Kaiser Health Tracking Poll found that while over 70% of Americans supported keeping young adults on their parents’ plans and banning insurers from denying coverage for preexisting conditions, only about 40% viewed the ACA favorably overall. In other words: people liked what was in the law but hated the idea of it.

The political costs were immediate. In the 2010 midterms, voters rebuked Democrats with historic force. The party lost 63 House seats, flipping control of the chamber; it was the worst midterm performance for a president’s party since 1938. President Obama acknowledged, “We took a shellacking.”

Republican leaders read the results as a mandate of their own: repeal. “Repeal and replace” became not just a slogan but the organizing principle of GOP politics for the next decade.

Obamacare on trial

Then came the implementation nightmare. In October 2013, the administration launched healthcare.gov — the federal online marketplace meant to showcase the ACA’s private-insurance model. Instead, it became a punchline. Servers crashed, pages froze, and on day one only six Americans successfully enrolled nationwide.

The debacle fueled the GOP narrative that Democrats could not competently administer the sweeping program they had forced upon the country. For Republicans, it was proof that health care was too complex for government to manage; for Democrats, it was a self-inflicted wound at the worst possible moment.

The fight quickly moved to the courts. Opponents challenged the ACA’s constitutionality, culminating in the 2012 Supreme Court case National Federation of Independent Business v. Sebelius. In a stunning decision, Chief Justice John Roberts joined the Court’s four liberals to uphold most of the law, including the individual mandate, by interpreting the penalty as a tax. The ruling shocked both parties — but it ensured the ACA would remain, as Obama put it, “the law of the land.”

But survival did not mean acceptance. The Court’s decision kept the ACA intact, yet the political war raged on. Republicans vowed to continue the fight through Congress, the courts, and the ballot box.

And soon, a new political figure would arrive on the national stage, promising to do what the Court would not: make sure Obamacare would no longer be the law of the land.

The evolving politics of Obamacare

When Donald Trump descended the escalator in 2015 and launched his presidential campaign, one of his core promises was to finally “repeal and replace Obamacare.” He called the Affordable Care Act “the worst health care law ever passed in this country” and promised a new system that would deliver “something terrific.” Once in office, Trump elevated the ACA to a litmus test of conservative credibility — a symbolic battle over federal power, national identity, and who deserved help from government.

But Trump was fighting against a different ACA from the one passed in 2010.

By the mid-2010s, the law had begun to quietly reshape the country’s health care. The uninsured rate fell from about 16% in 2010 to roughly 9% by 2015, the largest coverage expansion since the creation of Medicare and Medicaid. Tens of millions gained coverage through Medicaid expansion and subsidized private plans, and protections for preexisting conditions became foundational to the public’s expectations of health care.

Americans noticed. And they (mostly) liked it.

By the time Trump was sworn in in 2017, Pew found that 56% of Americans approved of the ACA, with nearly half of the country saying the law had a positive rather than negative impact on the country; a big deal on such a polarized issue. Perception of the law had flipped: provisions once abstract had become personal, tangible, and valued.

This created a tough dynamic for Republicans. They had spent years promising to repeal the ACA. Many had run campaigns on that single commitment. But now millions of their own constituents depended on it. Repeal was no longer a cost-free symbolic vote — it meant stripping insurance from families who couldn’t afford to lose it. (This didn’t at all prevent the GOP-controlled House from spending 378 hours on over 50 votes to repeal the ACA that went nowhere).

In July 2017, that tension exploded in public view. The clock ticked toward a dramatic midnight vote in the Senate on a “skinny repeal” bill designed to gut core ACA provisions with nothing to replace them. Even some Republicans admitted privately they expected the plan to fail — they had no consensus alternative, and the Congressional Budget Office projected 17 million Americans would lose their coverage.

In the end, the bill died with a single, dramatic thumbs-down from Sen. John McCain (R-AZ), who said Congress “must now return to regular order” and craft bipartisan solutions. The chamber gasped; the ACA survived.

The moment revealed a fundamental truth of social policy: once government gives people a benefit — especially one as intimate as health care — it becomes nearly impossible to take away.

For Republicans, the politics of repeal had backfired. The ACA had evolved from a polarizing law into a program with a constituency — one that included millions of rural, white, and older Americans who formed the backbone of the GOP coalition. Repealing the ACA now meant not just keeping a campaign promise but also ripping coverage from the very voters who had delivered Trump to power.

The law’s survival was no longer a question of judicial review or congressional arithmetic. It was now protected by something far more durable: people had gotten used to having health insurance. They didn’t want to lose it.

And suddenly, a once-hated law had become too popular to kill — even for the party that won political power on a promise to bury it.

At the center of the government shutdown

When Joe Biden took office in 2021, his approach to the ACA was a departure from the defiant repeal efforts of his predecessor. Instead of dismantling the law, he aimed to strengthen it. His administration boosted marketplace subsidies, expanded outreach to uninsured Americans, and worked to stabilize insurance markets. Meanwhile, the ripple effects of the Trump years remained visible: coverage gains, marketplace enrollments, and a growing constituency for the law.

At the conclusion of Biden’s term, more than 24 million Americans relied on ACA marketplace subsidies, and 64% of US adults held a favorable view of the ACA while just 35% viewed it unfavorably.

It wasn’t just Democrats who embraced the ACA’s gains. Some Republican governors in Medicaid-expansion states began publicly defending its core protections and affordability subsidies. A law once opposed as arrogance had become, in practice, indispensable.

That brings us to the present political stalemate. The 2025 government shutdown was the result of, in large part, a battle over the ACA’s premium tax credits. The subsidies — expanded during the Covid-19 relief era — were set to expire at year’s end, and Democrats demanded their renewal as a condition of funding the government. Republicans, while theoretically open to extension, insisted that such changes be tied to broader spending cuts and budget bills. Democrats, without many leverage points in DC, decided to tie their votes for government funding to the subsidies. And the government shutdown.

Even some hard-line Republicans expressed concern about neglecting to extend the subsidies. In Georgia, for example, GOP Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene, traditionally a Trump loyalist, sounded the alarm about expiring ACA subsidies, warning of premium spikes and coverage losses in her conservative-leaning district. Meanwhile, insurers and marketplace managers projected that without the credits, premiums could triple for many enrollees — triggering voter outrage and threatening the political coalition that powered Trump’s rise.

Most Republican lawmakers still criticize the ACA — often on ideological grounds, often as a symbol of federal overreach. But 15 years after its enactment, the party remains united in criticizing Obamacare as an abstract law without offering any real alternative to it. Repeal is no longer a credible rallying cry. Behind the rhetoric lies a hard political reality: changing the law — especially cutting subsidies — would mean real, immediate costs for millions of voters, including many in deeply conservative districts.

That recognition is shaping the current healthcare fight. While Republicans have not embraced the ACA, they have grown markedly more cautious about dismantling it outright. Lawmakers understand the electoral vulnerability in taking health coverage or financial assistance away from their constituents, particularly in rural states that have benefited most from Medicaid expansion and marketplace subsidies. The politics have reversed: where Obamacare was once seen as a liability for Democrats, today it is Republicans who risk backlash if they push too far.

And so the law endures — still debated, still resented in some quarters, still imperfect. But also deeply woven into the country it remade.

Congress is closing in on the record for the longest government shutdown in history. President Donald Trump has offered a blunt prescription for Republican lawmakers: Go nuclear. Or, in Senate speak, get rid of the filibuster.

“TERMINATE THE FILIBUSTER NOW, END THE RIDICULOUS SHUTDOWN IMMEDIATELY,” Trump wrote on Truth Social on Tuesday. That would allow them to pass policies Republicans have dreamed of for years, he said. “WE WILL BE THE PARTY THAT CANNOT BE BEATEN – THE SMART PARTY!!!”

Democrats have used the filibuster to prevent the Senate from passing a clean continuing resolution to fund the government 13 times since the start of the shutdown on Oct. 1. Ditching the filibuster, Trump argues, wouldn’t only reopen the government, but remove one of the few veto points Democrats have in preventing his agenda from being fully implemented.

Trump isn’t the first president to be stymied by the filibuster, nor the first politician to call for its end when politically convenient. Democrats made similar arguments when Senate Republicans stood in the way of their priorities—on voting rights, immigration, and abortion protections. Now, without any other levers of power at the federal level, Democrats are singing a different tune.

Support for the filibuster has rarely been about principle—it has always depended on who holds the gavels. That it still exists isn’t constitutional design, but because it has unintentionally evolved into being the Senate’s most indispensable and defining procedural weapon.

The filibuster isn’t enshrined in the Constitution. In fact, it doesn’t even appear in the Senate rules by name. It wasn’t until 1917, amid national security concerns during World War I, that the Senate adopted Rule 22, allowing for the cutting off of debate via “cloture” with a two-thirds vote. That threshold was lowered in 1975 to just 60 votes, as part of a Senate compromise to allow more civil and social rights bills to receive an up or down floor vote.

The result is that a determined minority can block legislation by preventing cloture and prolonging debate. In a sharply polarized, narrowly divided chamber, that has become an almost insurmountable hurdle for all but the most bipartisan bills.

What often gets lost in the current debate is just how much the filibuster has been changed, hollowed out, and weaponized in recent decades. As the country became more polarized and majorities more insecure, the Senate minority party became more willing to lean on the filibuster to stall the majority’s legislative agenda—senatorial custom and precedent be damned.

So while the filibuster used to be characterized by exhausting speeches from lawmakers physically holding the Senate floor for many hours, today it is almost entirely silent. Merely signaling intent to filibuster now shifts the burden to the majority, who must cobble together 60 votes just to proceed to a vote that only requires a simple majority for passage. The days of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington-style principled stands are few and far between.

That transformation, from a burdensome, talking filibuster to a silent one, has turned what was once an extraordinary measure into a routine blockade. In practice, this means that even widely supported bills can be stalled indefinitely—leading many lawmakers, especially when in the majority, to question whether the rule still serves the Senate or merely stifles its work.

Debate over what to do about this is often framed as a false binary: Keep the filibuster exactly as it is, or eliminate it entirely. But there are credible, constructive reforms that could restore the filibuster’s original spirit without surrendering the protections it affords. Lowering the cloture threshold from 60 to 55 votes, for instance, would still require some bipartisan cooperation without letting a tiny minority veto everything. The Senate has reduced the cloture threshold before, and it could do it again.

Alternatively, Congress could implement a formula-based approach, such as requiring a majority plus a fixed number from the minority party, to better reflect the electorate’s will. This change would ensure at least some bipartisan support for legislation, maintaining the minority’s interest in the upper chamber.

Another option is to reinstate the so-called talking filibuster, which would force senators to physically hold the floor to sustain their objections. Visibility and effort would help distinguish genuine principled opposition from routine partisan delay. It would also flip the burden stalling legislation back onto the minority. The Senate could also limit where and when the filibuster applies. It could be used only for final passage votes, not for procedural motions that already bog down the legislative process before debate even begins.

Senate Majority Leader John Thune (R., S.D.) broke with Trump and said he won’t discard the filibuster. Other GOP Senators made similar comments. But the next time Democrats regain full control of government, they may seize on Trump’s rhetoric to justify their own move to eliminate the rule. If that happens, Republicans will have little credibility in objecting—and the Senate may never return to its previous norms.

The overuse and abuse of the filibuster have contributed to a Senate that struggles to function, even in moments of urgency like right now. But any changes to it must be grounded in thoughtful institutional reform—not impulsive social media posts.

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That is until Rep. Andy Biggs (R-AZ) decided to carpet bomb the legislative docket.

Over the course of just a few minutes, Biggs introduced 521 separate bills. Five hundred. Twenty. One. Separate. Bills.

Check the Congressional Record from that day. Each entry begins the same way: “Mr. Biggs introduced the following bill…”

And then another. And another, effectively spamming the chamber and it’s clerks with legislation.

And what were these 500+ bills? They weren’t sweeping economic reforms or bold new climate policies. Nearly all of them had identical language, aiming to repeal individual provisions of the 2021 Bipartisan Infrastructure Law—a kind of one-man scorched-earth campaign against federal spending.

To be clear, no hearings were held on any of these bills. No debates were scheduled. The bills weren’t meant to become law. They were meant to make a point.

It was part protest, part press release, part procedural overload. And most importantly, it was a vivid reminder of a truth about Congress that’s often overlooked:

Introducing a bill doesn’t mean much.

Anyone can do it. At any time. For any reason.

“I Introduced a Bill That…”

You’ve probably heard a lawmaker boast that they ‘introduced a bill that…’—on cable news, in constituent newsletters, at town halls, during political debates. It’s political catnip.

And they say it to distract you.

Introducing a bill sounds important. It’s tangible. It shows action that only an elected member of Congress can take. I mean, I can’t introduce a bill in Congress—can you? Doing so is a great talking point; it puts your name in the news.

But ,here’s the truth most civics classes skip: introducing a bill can be one of the easiest things a lawmaker can do. And it often is.

Any member of Congress—no matter how junior or senior, powerful or powerless—can introduce a bill at virtually any time. But that’s usually where the action stops. After the press release goes out and the headline is written, the vast majority—about 95%—quietly die right there, never receiving a hearing, a vote, or even a second glance.

And the range of what qualifies as a “bill” is staggering.

Some are a single page long—like those that rename post offices, designate commemorative days, or make minor technical corrections to existing law. Others are thousands of pages, sprawling rewrites of the tax code, health care, or energy systems. Some take years of negotiation and expert drafting. Others can be dashed off via copy/paste by a single staffer before lunch.

That’s why simply hearing that a lawmaker “introduced a bill” tells you almost nothing about its substance, significance, or likelihood of becoming law. One might be the product of a coalition of policy experts, committee lawyers, and advocacy groups; another could be a symbolic protest designed to get a headline and then be forgotten.

So while bill introductions sound impressive—and lawmakers love to brag about them—they’re often the easiest and least meaningful legislative action available to a member of Congress.

Who’s Introducing the Most Bills?

Let’s look at the numbers for the current 119th Congress to date.

At first glance, you might think: “Wow, some these lawmakers must be incredibly productive!” And, of course, ‘Mr. 521’ himself, Rep. Biggs leads the House in introductions so far this Congress.

Maybe. But remember—this is a count of introductions, not what happened to the bills after they are thrown in the hopper.

Though there are exceptions, most members of Congress do want to introduce at least some bills each session. Even if those bills have no real shot at becoming law, members know they’ll eventually need to point to official legislative text or get hammered for not doing their job.

In this line of work, introducing nothing can raise more eyebrows than introducing something that goes nowhere.

But the sheer number of bill introductions hides a bigger truth: like much in life, don’t confuse quantity with quality.

Bills that have any chance of passing—especially in a polarized Congress—take serious effort. Drafting substantive legislation requires research, stakeholder outreach, legal vetting, coalition building, committee negotiations, and often, a willing partner across the aisle. In other words: time, energy, and political capital.

On the flip side, when you see huge counts of introduced bills (especially when the member themselves is doing the bragging) remember this: Often, the point isn’t to legislate; it’s to be able to say you legislated. There’s a world of difference between those two statements.

So, when politicians tell you they “introduced a bill,” ask:

• Did it pass?

• Was it bipartisan?

• Did it get a hearing?

• Or was it simply a press release with a legislative number?

These simple questions can cut through a lot of politician speak.

From targeted impoundments (delaying or refusing to spend allocated funds) to large-scale rescissions (formally canceling funds via Congress), Trump and his allies are pushing the boundaries of executive budgetary power. But this time, the strategy is not just political theater—it’s freezing the entire budget process.

One primary reason the federal government is shutdown? Many Democrats don’t trust that the deal they agree to now will actually be carried out. More specifically, they worry Trump will simply impound funds or later rescind them. Their logic: why agree to a deal if the other team plans to cross out certain line items post-signature?

It’s the latest escalation in a fiscal arms race that’s already warped normal governance with shutdown threats, continuing resolutions, and debt ceiling brinkmanship.

But impoundments and rescissions aren’t just procedural wrinkles. They’re a long-running—and constitutional—tug-of-war over who controls federal spending.

What Are Impoundments and Rescissions, Exactly?

• Impoundment happens when a president refuses to spend money that Congress has already appropriated and the president has signed into law. It’s an executive delay—or denial—of action. Unless Congress has approved a delay, this is almost always illegal under the Impoundment Control Act of 1974.

• Rescissions, by contrast, are formal requests by the president to cancel previously approved spending. Under the law, the president can propose rescissions, but Congress must approve them within 45 days. If they don’t? The funds must be released and spent as directed.

Impoundment is a unilateral delay. Rescission is a formal ask that Congress must agree to with a majority vote in both the House and Senate.

A Long History of Budget Power Struggles

Presidential impoundments a direct challenge to the Constitution’s separation of powers.

And they aren’t at all new.

Presidents have been trying to manage, withhold, or cancel spending since the earliest days of the republic:

• 1803: Thomas Jefferson delayed Navy gunboat construction to save money.

• FDR and Truman: Used wartime impoundments to redirect federal resources.

• Eisenhower: Quietly impounded highway funds during inflationary spikes.

For decades, these executive maneuvers were tolerated—sometimes even praised—when seen as technical, prudent, or good-faith management of taxpayer funds.

But all that changed under Richard Nixon.

• Nixon, 1969–1974: Regularly impounded billions in spending—not just for technical reasons, but because he opposed the policies themselves. He withheld funding for environmental programs, housing grants, and more. His most brazen move? Refusing to spend funds for a water pollution program that Congress passed over his veto.

Congress responded with the Congressional Budget and Impoundment Control Act of 1974, which:

• Created the modern budget process (including the Congressional Budget Office).

• Explicitly limited unilateral impoundments.

• Required all rescission requests to be approved by Congress within 45 days—or the funds must be released.

Trump’s First Term Tested the System

Despite the 1974 law, Trump’s administration crossed several red lines:

• In 2019, the Trump White House impounded over $200 million in military aid to Ukraine. No rescission request was submitted. The Government Accountability Office later ruled this illegal, a key fact in Trump’s first impeachment.

• Separately, Trump proposed multiple large-scale rescissions packages. In 2018, he requested $15 billion in cuts, mostly from unspent CHIP and disaster relief funds. Congress rejected them. But the strategy—target previously approved programs for clawback—became a template that he’d lean on when he was reelected.

Back Again—and Bigger

Now in his second term, Trump and GOP lawmakers are reviving the rescissions playbook. In recent months, the Republican-controlled House and Senate passed a $9.4 billion rescissions package—repealing funds for:

• Climate investments from the Inflation Reduction Act

• IRS enforcement

• Public broadcasting

• Pandemic-era infrastructure grants

It’s the first successful rescissions package of that size since Reagan was POTUS.

Why It Matters Now

This isn’t just about politics—it’s shaping today’s budget gridlock. Why would Democrats agree to fund clean energy, transit, or IRS modernization if they believe Trump will cancel those funds via impoundment or rescission next year?

The Constitution is clear:

“No money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in Consequence of Appropriations made by Law.”
—Article I, Section 9

This isn’t advisory. It’s foundational. Congress controls the purse. Presidents don’t.

Trump didn’t invent impoundments or rescissions. But he has made them central to his governing strategy.

Unless Congress draws a bright, enforceable line, future presidents—Democrat or Republican—will keep erasing budgets they don’t like. Or as we see now, government funding deals will be even harder to broach because one party won’t trust the other to change the deal after it’s inked.

The power of the purse doesn’t belong to the White House. It belongs to the people—through their elected representatives in Congress.

And if Congress won’t defend it, it might as well surrender it.