Or what celebrating St. Patrick's Day as an ethnic holiday should teach us.

Thomas Hayden's “Irish on the Inside” explores what was lost when Irish Americans transitioned into whiteness. A deep connection to a unique form of Catholicism, with echoes of pre-Christian traditions, was severed, along with ties to the land and folkways.

The main thesis of “Irish on the Inside” is that Irish identity in America has been shaped by historical struggles against oppression. This heritage should inspire solidarity with the marginalized rather than assimilation into whiteness.

Our cultural identity should not be reduced to singing Irish drinking songs once a year and wearing green. In fact, the real color of Ireland and St. Patrick is blue. Ironically, it was a Protestant uprising in 1798 that cemented green at the center of Irish identity.

The conventional way of celebrating St. Patrick's Day distances Irish Americans from their immigrant and radical past and instead encourages assimilation into mainstream American whiteness, at the expense of solidarity with marginalized groups.

The 1798 Rebellion and Its Aftermath:

The United Irishmen was an organization that included both Catholics and Protestants. Founded in 1791 by primarily Protestant radicals in Belfast, it was inspired by the American and French Revolutions. Their goal was to unite Irish people of all religious backgrounds, Catholics, Presbyterians, and some Anglicans under the shared cause of Irish independence and democratic reform.

At the time, Ireland was ruled by the English Anglican protestant Ascendancy, which oppressed both Catholics and dissenting Presbyterians who had migrated from Scotland. While the movement initially sought moderate reform, British repression and the failure of peaceful efforts pushed it toward armed rebellion in 1798. The rebellion failed.

After the 1798 rebellion, the relationship between the Protestant Ascendancy (who controlled Ireland politically and economically) and the Presbyterians (who had been a major part of the rebellion, particularly in Ulster) shifted significantly.

Following the rebellion, the British government and the Ascendancy sought to neutralize Presbyterian dissent. While Presbyterians had historically faced discrimination under the Penal Laws (though not as harsh as Catholics), the government began offering them political and economic incentives, including administrative positions and greater religious toleration. Over time, many Presbyterians moved away from their earlier radicalism and aligned more with the British state. They were co-opted away from radicalism.

The failure of the rebellion also intensified sectarian divisions. The British government, recognizing the potential danger of Catholic-Presbyterian unity, worked to foster Protestant solidarity by emphasizing differences between Presbyterians and Catholics. The growing influence of the Orange Order, a Protestant fraternal organization that became a vehicle for anti-Catholic sentiment, played a key role in driving a wedge between the two groups.

By the mid-19th century, many Presbyterians in Ulster had shifted from being radical republicans to strong supporters of the Union with Britain. This shift laid the foundation for later divisions in Irish politics, where Presbyterians in the north became key supporters of Unionism, while Irish Catholics largely supported nationalist and independence movements.

Don't let Irish Americans become Ulster Presbyterians:

The journey of Irish Americans into whiteness and the journey of Ulster Presbyterians into Unionism after the 1798 rebellion share striking parallels. Both groups began as outsiders, oppressed by dominant power structures, only to later be co-opted into those same systems in exchange for privileges that distanced them from their former allies.

Over time, Irish Americans have assimilated into whiteness, losing much of our radical and immigrant past in the process. This shift was not inevitable but was encouraged by economic incentives, political opportunities, and social pressures that rewarded distancing from other oppressed communities.

Both transitions(the Irish American journey into whiteness and the Presbyterian journey into Unionism) illustrate how systems of power co-opt resistance movements.

They offer privileges in exchange for allegiance, reshaping identities in ways that reinforce existing hierarchies. This historical pattern should challenge Irish Americans today to reconsider what it means to celebrate our heritage. We should reconnect with the radical roots of our history and seek solidarity.

Recognizing these historical parallels allows us to see that identity is not static. It is shaped by political choices, economic pressures, and historical narratives. The challenge for Irish Americans is to reject the complacency of assimilation and rediscover the deeper meaning of our heritage, one rooted in justice, resistance, and solidarity.

Just over a year ago, I finally wrote down my theory about why youth voting participation remains persistently low.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/11MsplckerAHO_l80SUd30yE1Je-IlzfBc8Cf4FJAaRQ/edit?tab=t.0

Every election season, there’s a familiar refrain: Why don’t young people vote? Despite urgent appeals about protecting their future from older generations, turnout among voters under 40 remains stubbornly low. Even here in Washington State, where voting couldn’t be easier (ballots are mailed to every registered voter, drop boxes are everywhere, and pre-registration is available for 16- and 17-year-olds) young voters still lag far behind their older counterparts.

After years working in government, journalism, and civic life—and now running communications for a county elections office—I’ve started to wonder if we’re missing the deeper reasons why this gap persists. Recent research on brain development and voting suggests we may be looking in the wrong places for solutions.

The book “Making Young Voters” highlights a key finding: the strongest predictor of whether a young person votes isn’t just knowledge about government—it’s their level of non-cognitive skills. These are traits like grit, self-regulation, and follow-through. Unlike raw intelligence or civic knowledge, non-cognitive skills help us keep commitments, meet deadlines, and manage complex tasks like researching issues and returning a ballot on time.

https://www.cambridge.org/core/books/making-young-voters/D8A982E9E7C9DAAAE3DF9685F1DFC037

And here’s the thing: non-cognitive skills don’t peak at 18. They build steadily through our twenties and thirties, leveling off around 40—the same age when voting rates hit their stride. We often talk about voting as a habit, and it is. But habit formation depends on the very life skills: organization, time management, persistence—that our brains are still developing well into adulthood.

This raises uncomfortable questions for those of us in government and civic life: Is our system of voting unintentionally designed to reward people whose brains are already wired for follow-through—while sidelining those still developing those capacities? If the act of voting requires juggling deadlines, forms, and research, maybe it’s no surprise participation skews older.

This insight also challenges some well-meaning solutions. Take civic education. The common idea is that if we just teach young people more about government, they’ll show up to vote. But if voting behavior depends less on what you know and more on how you function in your daily life, maybe we’d do better investing in social and emotional learning—skills like self-regulation and planning—alongside civics.

It also reframes how we talk about political generations. When we say people “get more conservative as they age,” we’re often misreading the data. It’s not that individuals drift rightward. It’s that many non-voters from younger, more politically mixed groups eventually start voting later in life—when their non-cognitive skills have caught up. The 18-year-olds who didn’t vote in 2004 but start voting at 38 may not share the same views as the 18-year-olds who did. Generational shifts aren’t just ideological—they’re structural, tied to who’s participating at each stage of life.

So what do we do with this knowledge? Some countries sidestep these challenges by making participation mandatory, like Brazil and Greece, where young voters actually outnumber older ones. But barring a seismic shift like that in the U.S., we might explore other tools.

Deliberative processes like citizen assemblies, participatory budgeting, and local town halls offer alternative ways for people to engage in government that rely less on individual follow-through and more on collective experience.

https://democracywithoutelections.org/faq/

Citizen assemblies, in particular, gather a representative group of everyday people—selected through a lottery process, to study an issue, hear from experts, deliberate together, and recommend solutions. These assemblies are structured to support participation from people of all ages and backgrounds, regardless of their experience or comfort with traditional political processes. Participants are paid for their time, provided with child care and meals, and guided by facilitators who help ensure everyone’s voice is heard.

Rather than asking individuals to navigate complex ballots on their own, citizen assemblies create shared spaces where people can slow down, learn together, and produce thoughtful, democratic outcomes.

We could even require assemblies to reflect the distribution of voting age population if their suggestions are to move forward. If the goal is to really hear every voice in the community, voting as an activity feels stacked. Things like citizen assemblies feel like natural solutions to an inherent problem.

When I was in high school, I picked up a copy of Václav Havel's “Disturbing the Peace.” It’s a book-length question-and-answer exchange between Havel and Paul Wilson, and it profoundly shaped my teenage understanding of how politics and society ought to be arranged.

Over 30 years later, I’m on at least my third copy of the book and still revisit my favorite passages from time to time.

One of the most significant parts of Havel’s life that he covers in the book is the period when he was jailed for dissident work after the Velvet Revolution. While this is not something many of us will ever have to fully consider, it’s not entirely unheard of either.

One of my favorite passages is Havel’s gentle yet roundabout way of describing Czech revolutionaries suddenly revealing themselves in Paris. He notes how Czechs who were perfectly willing to bend to the regime domestically would suddenly find themselves emboldened to speak out overseas.

”...I don’t think it hurts occasionally to remind people who live in totalitarian states, perhaps subsidized, that they might also do something about their own domestic totalitarianism, instead of just running away from it. If I demand that Westerners not think merely of their own particular interests and that they behave as all of us should behave—that is, as though we were immediately responsible for the fate of the whole of society—then I see no reason why I shouldn’t demand the same of people living in totalitarian countries. This may sound harsh, and in fact, I don’t think in such harsh terms myself, but unfortunately, when I heard your question, I began to see in my mind’s eye all those familiar people whose spines are bent, who are cautious, who inconspicuously support and create totalitarianism and then, on their very first trip abroad, suddenly decide that they’d rather live in a country where the living is easier, and I find myself confronting rude realities.”

“They immediately demand the rights and glory due to political refugees. Why is it that over there in the West they see all these rights as a natural responsibility of government, whereas when they were here, they contributed in all sorts of ways to a state in which individuals have no rights at all? I would never dare to ask anyone to shed his blood for our freedom, but I have no hesitation in suggesting that it might make more sense to criticize the atheistic educational system here, rather than running away to the God in the West.”

Havel’s words highlight a paradox: people living under totalitarian regimes who escape to the West in search of freedom often demand rights and privileges they didn’t fight for or defend in their home countries. He even implies that by not demanding rights at home, they were complicit in sustaining the regime. Rather than fleeing, they might more meaningfully engage with the systems they oppose, addressing the issues at their root.

This idea echoes what Gene Sharp wrote about in “From Dictatorship to Democracy,” where he noted that one of the weaknesses of a dictatorship is that “the cooperation of a multitude of people, groups, and institutions to operate the system may be restricted and withdrawn.”

(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/From_Dictatorship_to_Democracy)

It’s easy for me to say, living in Washington State, that I would never retreat to Canada or Norway in the face of any regime in the United States. But the 17-year-old version of me, rereading Havel’s passages and hunting for new Havel books, would likely approve. I keep coming back to this idea whenever I discuss the best course of personal action, as I have frequently over the last eight years.

Of course, it’s easier for me to say this, living where I do and believing what I believe. I’m not sure where I stand on the morality of interstate migration, especially as a cisgender, heterosexual, middle-aged white male. I’d certainly admit that it’s easier to effect change, even across state lines, when you feel safer.

People fleeing the Deep South over issues of bodily autonomy aren’t the only political migrants. In fact, if you visit online spaces where conservatives gather, you’ll see a constant drumbeat of people wishing they could move to Idaho or Texas, so much so that many of them do.

(https://www.kuow.org/stories/democrats-pour-into-washington-as-republicans-leave-analysis-shows)

This phenomenon has become such a cultural touchstone for conservatives in the Pacific Northwest that I believe it fueled the emotional resonance of the “Inslee Moves to Idaho After Retirement” rumor that spread across our region last year.

(https://610kona.com/washington-governor-inslee-idaho/)

The narrative thread of the rumor was that Inslee had done such a poor job governing that he would follow in the footsteps of many conservative retirees and settle in Idaho. A real knee-slapper.

Ultimately, we all need to decide for ourselves and our families what safety looks like. Maybe leaving is the right choice for some.

I just wanted to write about why I’ve always had the instinct to stay. It definitely comes from Havel.

But I also think about 14-year-old Billy Frank Jr., who was pulled out of his boat by game wardens, yelling, “Leave me alone… I fish here! I live here!”

(https://blogs.loc.gov/law/2022/11/treaty-and-fishing-rights-activist-billy-frank-the-fish-wars/)

I was born here. I came back after moving away as a kid. I don’t see myself leaving anytime soon, and if I can use whatever privilege I have to make this place better for people who can’t leave, that’s the choice I want to make.

Rather than abandoning my community over disagreements with leadership, I believe in confronting the system, working within it, and contributing to shaping the society I wish to live in.

In the polarized landscape of American politics, rhetorical techniques like “Trump Derangement Syndrome” (TDS) and the phrase “Orange Man Bad” have become go-to tools for conservative commentators and politicians to deflect criticism of Donald Trump. These phrases are often deployed to dismiss progressive critiques of the former president, reducing complex arguments to emotional outbursts or childish complaints.

But what makes these techniques so effective, and why do they resonate with certain audiences? More importantly, how do they obscure the deeper dynamics of political allegiance and identity?

The pattern is familiar: a Democratic politician or progressive critic voices opposition to Trump through a lawsuit, policy critique, or public statement. In response, a conservative commentator or politician dismisses the critique by labeling it as “Trump Derangement Syndrome” or sarcastically remarking, “Orange Man Bad, huh?”

This rhetorical move serves two primary logical fallacies:

1. Straw Man Fallacy: By reducing nuanced criticisms of Trump to a simplistic, emotional reaction, the critic's argument is distorted into something easier to attack. Instead of engaging with the substance of the critique, the response caricatures it as irrational or baseless. For example, concerns about Trump's policies, rhetoric, or actions are dismissed as personal animosity rather than principled opposition.

2. Reductio ad Absurdum: This technique takes an argument to its extreme to highlight its supposed absurdity. By framing criticisms of Trump as childish or overly simplistic (e.g., “Orange Man Bad”), the responder mocks the critic, implying that their position lacks depth or reason. This can be particularly effective in rallying Trump's base, who may view such critiques as evidence of liberal hysteria or bias.

State Representative Jim Walsh, chair of the Washington State GOP, provides a clear example of this technique in action. In a heavily Democratic state like Washington, where Trump is broadly unpopular, Walsh often frames Democratic actions against Trump as purely emotional rather than principled or politically strategic. By doing so, he sidesteps the substance of the critiques and instead portrays Democrats as driven by irrational dislike for Trump. This allows him to appeal to his base while dismissing the concerns of the majority of voters in his state.

While “Trump Derangement Syndrome” and “Orange Man Bad” are used to paint progressives as emotionally unhinged, the reality is that the most intense emotional attachments to Trump are often found on the conservative side. Think of the houses adorned with massive Trump flags, the pickup truck convoys, or the boat flotillas celebrating the president. These displays are not just political statements, they are expressions of identity and loyalty.

This phenomenon is supported by research. A 2025 study published by Cambridge University Press, titled “The Power of Trump's Big Lie: Identity Fusion, Internalizing Misinformation, and Support for Trump” by Philip Moniz and William B. Swann, delves into the psychological mechanisms behind Trump's enduring appeal.

The study followed a cohort of Trump supporters over three years, examining how identity fusion—a deep sense of oneness with a leader or group—led to the internalization of misinformation, particularly Trump's false claims of electoral fraud (the “Big Lie”). The researchers found that individuals who felt a strong identity fusion with Trump were more likely to dismiss his criminal charges and support his policy priorities, even in the face of contradictory evidence.

This research underscores a critical point: the emotional and psychological attachment to Trump among his supporters is a powerful force that shapes their perception of reality. By contrast, the “Trump Derangement Syndrome” narrative flips the script, portraying progressives as the ones driven by emotion rather than reason.

The effectiveness of “Trump Derangement Syndrome” and “Orange Man Bad” lies in their ability to reframe the conversation. Instead of engaging with substantive critiques, these phrases shift focus to the critic's motives, painting them as irrational or biased. This not only disarms the critique but also reinforces the loyalty of Trump's base, who see themselves as rational defenders of a misunderstood leader.

Moreover, these techniques exploit the broader cultural divide in American politics. Reducing progressive critiques to emotional outbursts, they reinforce the “us vs. them” mentality that fuels polarization. This makes meaningful dialogue harder, as each side becomes more entrenched in its own narrative.

“Trump Derangement Syndrome” and “Orange Man Bad” are more than just catchy phrases, they're rhetorical tools designed to deflect criticism and reinforce partisan loyalty. By reducing complex arguments to simplistic caricatures, these techniques allow conservatives to avoid engaging with the substance of progressive critiques. At the same time, they obscure the deeper emotional and psychological attachment that many Trump supporters feel toward the former president.

Understanding these dynamics is crucial for navigating the current political landscape. Rather than falling into the trap of oversimplification, both sides would benefit from engaging with the substance of each other's arguments. Only then can we move beyond the divisive rhetoric and toward a more constructive dialogue.

Furthermore, Haidt’s book is not the definitive source it’s made out to be. A recent review in Nature (https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586-024-00902-2) highlights significant gaps in Haidt’s claims that social media is “rewiring” children’s brains. Most evidence linking social media to mental health challenges is weak or correlative at best. In fact, research suggests that preexisting mental health challenges often drive increased social media use, not the other way around. Oversimplifying the issue by blaming social media risks distracting us from addressing more significant factors like access to guns, economic hardship, and social isolation.

This brings me to a broader concern: the hypocrisy of how social media is treated in these discussions. Schools often condemn platforms like Facebook for their role in declining mental health, yet these same platforms are a cornerstone of how schools communicate with the community. If social media is truly as harmful as some claim, why do we rely on it so heavily to share important updates and connect with our communities?

We need to take a hard look at our collective relationship with algorithm-driven social media. The issue isn’t just about kids; it’s about all of us — parents, educators, local governments, and community leaders. Social media platforms, designed to maximize engagement by amplifying divisive rhetoric, have eroded our ability to have meaningful conversations and find solutions. Worse, these ad-driven networks have decimated local journalism, a critical tool for understanding our own communities.

Let’s not let ourselves off the hook. While it’s easy to focus on students’ use of social media, adults are equally responsible for questioning how these platforms shape our interactions and decisions. By blaming kids or technology for challenges like classroom distractions, we risk ignoring the systemic and cultural shifts that have made these platforms so influential in the first place.

I urge the board to approach this issue with clarity and consistency. A phone ban framed around classroom management is reasonable, but it must be accompanied by broader accountability for how we, as a community, engage with social media. Schools should lead by example, finding ways to reduce their reliance on algorithmic platforms while fostering open, constructive dialogue about the role these tools play in all of our lives.

We think a lot about our friends we see regularly but don't think about our local regular politics. We see this most in our voter participation in local elections, which is always lower than in Presidential elections.

We spend far more time thinking about who the President is or will be than about who our mayor is, especially if we live in a suburban, mid-sized town with little regional news coverage. Ironically, local government is the level that has the most impact on our daily lives, and where we, as engaged individuals, can have the greatest influence.

This is the insidious effect that television — especially cable television — has had on our politics. There was a time when our understanding of politics came primarily from our local newspaper. These papers covered national news, but it often arrived days later, gathered from wire reports or other newspapers.

The advent of national radio networks in the 20th century brought national news alongside local coverage. Then came national television networks, followed by cable TV, which introduced the modern attention economy.

For a moment, the internet seemed poised to re-localize the news. But the rise of algorithm-driven content silos instead democratized the ethos of cable television. This shift created a “bottom-up, top-down” content factory, perfected by election deniers but emblematic of the broader economy of outrage and rumor.

The people we see and interact with daily are the ones who truly listen to us and value what we say. These local, social networks offer the most opportunity for meaningful influence and positive impact. Yet, we spend more energy worrying about the opinions of people who will never meet us.