Good Trouble

I keep three coffee mugs on my desk to hold my ever-growing collection of highlighters, pens, and markers. The first was a Father's Day gift, a clay mug my kids made for me when they were little, painted in a hodgepodge of pastels with “DAD” written in that bulky, childlike script, no doubt done with mom’s help. It serves as a daily reminder that while there’s always more work to be done, my family is more important.

The second bears the last words of Captain James Lawrence, who commanded the USS Chesapeake during the War of 1812. Gravely wounded by small-arms fire during a fierce battle off Boston Harbor, Lawrence was carried below deck. With his last words, he urged his crew to keep fighting: "Tell the men to fire faster! Don't give up the ship!" After Lawrence's death, Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry commissioned a battle ensign emblazoned with his friend's dying words, flying it during the decisive Battle of Lake Erie. Today, the flag hangs in Memorial Hall at my alma mater, the U.S. Naval Academy, and those words have come to symbolize moral courage and perseverance in the face of adversity, words of encouragement during tough times.

The third mug carries a different inscription, a quote from Civil Rights leader John Lewis: “Get in good trouble, necessary trouble, and help redeem the soul of America.”

That mug is there to remind me that progress sometimes means rocking the boat: rowing upstream, challenging prevailing wisdom – and sometimes authority – when something deep down tells you change is needed. To me, “good trouble” isn’t an abstract concept; it’s the lifeblood of our democracy.

Our country was built on “good trouble.”

I’ve never really been one for public protest. Most of my adult life was spent in uniform, where you learn to keep your politics to yourself. I’ve always had plenty of opinions, but I put them aside so I could faithfully do my job. But this weekend was different.

No longer bound by the legal and ethical restraints of active duty service, I joined the “No Kings” protest for two reasons. First, I believe we’re at one of those moments in history where you either show up or spend the rest of your life explaining why you didn’t. Second, I was curious. I’d followed the news from LA, and our governor had activated the National Guard to respond to protests in Austin and San Antonio, while our sheriff publicly warned he was prepared to “kick ass” if necessary. I wanted to see firsthand what was happening, and show my kids the value of civic engagement – what it means to stand for the principle that political power must always be questioned, never blindly accepted.

The scene was lively – peaceful but energetic. The signs were clever, and pretty funny. But for me, rather than a homemade poster, I carried a large American flag. It just felt right.

In my Dallas area suburb, the crowd was largely older adults with a mix of some younger nonconformists and marginalized voices – a diverse assembly of mostly younger Boomers and Gen X-ers like me who remember when questioning authority was considered a patriotic duty. Many in the group could recall the 1970s and naturally carry a healthy skepticism of government. Folks my age remember the run-up to the Iraq War and the intelligence failures that led to a decades-long conflict costing thousands of American lives.

By contrast, the handful of counter-protesters I saw were in their late 20s or early 30s, having come of age politically at the tail end of the Obama era and during Trump’s first term. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of irony. Their political identities were forged largely in opposition to COVID-era lockdowns that cost them sports seasons, proms, graduations, and even much of their college experience. Those entering the workforce at the time struggled to find employment and endured the sudden shift to full-time remote work. They were robbed of formative experiences, moments they will never get back. Those losses left them with a profound mistrust of traditional government. Despite the best efforts of leaders working with limited information, the pandemic's uneven impact fell heavily on their generation. They carry a deep sense of grievance and anger toward a government they feel abandoned them even as it sought to control their everyday lives. Yet the irony remains: many of them now seem willing to cede the power they once resisted to someone else, so long as he promises to wield it against the “right” enemies.

It struck me how differently skepticism manifests depending on our experiences: the very mistrust that led them to protest lockdowns now underpins their loyalty to a leader promising to dismantle perceived threats from within government. On some level, I could empathize with their frustration. We share a healthy skepticism of concentrated power, but our responses diverge. For them, skepticism undergirds their faith in someone else to wield authority on their behalf. For me, that skepticism is a call to stay engaged, to question constantly, and speak up, never placing my trust in a single figure.

Lately, I’ve heard a steady refrain encouraging us to “trust President Trump.” From White House press briefings urging blind faith in Trump’s immigration and economic policies, to social media posts lauding his supposed four-dimensional chess. Rather than question authority, we’re called to put our faith in a single individual.

But John Lewis knew something the Founders understood instinctively: progress happens when ordinary people refuse to accept that those in power know best. Lewis’s "good trouble" wasn't just a Civil Rights slogan - it was the same spirit that drove colonists to dump tea in Boston Harbor, abolitionists to stand against slavery, and women to march for the right to vote.

The Boston Tea Party wasn't about tea. It was about the idea that distant authority shouldn't impose its will without consent. The same principle that compelled Lewis to march at Selma and sit at whites-only lunch counters motivated those colonists dress up as Indians and commit what was, by all accounts, vandalism.

They understood what we seem to have forgotten: the real threat to democracy isn't chaos in the streets, it's blind faith in authority. The First Amendment doesn't just tolerate dissent, it elevates it as civic duty because the framers knew that when power goes unchecked, civil rights erode. From abolitionist rallies to suffrage parades to civil rights marches, American history is defined by movements that used peaceful protest – good trouble – to preserve and expand liberty.

Ralph Abernathy, James Foreman, Martin Luther King, Jr., Jesse Douglas, and John Lewis in 1965 during the five-day, 54-mile march for voting rights from Selma to Montgomery, AL.

To me, that’s what makes this moment so unsettling: the ICE raids that triggered yesterday's protests and the reactive nativism of the MAGA movement clash with the promise of what draws people to America. Immigrants don't come here because we're the toughest country on earth. They risk life and limb to come to America because they’re fleeing places where unchecked power lets authorities arrest, detain, and even “disappear” people without recourse. They’re drawn by the promise of a system that, however imperfectly, seeks to limit arbitrary authority. Many of the protesters in LA understand what we risk losing better than we do.

For more than two centuries, immigrants have been drawn to America by the same ideals that motivated the Revolution: the belief that governments should serve people, not the other way around. From the Irish fleeing famine and oppression, to Jews escaping persecution in Europe, to Vietnamese boat people fleeing communist authoritarianism, newcomers – immigrants – came to America because it represented something different. Not just opportunity, but the radical idea that ordinary people could hold power accountable and govern themselves.

When they got here, they went to work and helped build the country we live in today. They laid railroads and built factories, tended farms, and launched businesses that are the backbones of their communities. Their work ethic and ingenuity fueled growth and innovation – from Main Street to Silicon Valley, immigrants and their children are part of the engine that drives the American economy, motivated by the promise of the American dream – which is, in its essence, the promise of a better life.

You see it in the flags they fly: Mexican and Dominican flags waving alongside the stars and stripes. Just as every Irish bar in Boston proudly displays a photo of JFK next to the Irish tricolor, or Italian restaurants in New York hang family snapshots beside an image of the pope, immigrants hold onto their heritage even as they roll up their sleeves to help build the America we all share.

That dual pride, honoring where they come from while contributing to where we’re going, embodies the very promise that drew them here. It’s the promise of America.

To me, it’s darkly ironic that some are now trying to use provocative force to expel people who came here seeking the very freedom and opportunity that make America worth defending. We've never been a country that shows off its military might -- we've never felt like we had to. We don't do military parades down Constitution Avenue. Washington himself refused peacetime troop reviews as president, understanding that in a republic, civilian authority doesn't need to prove its legitimacy through shows of force. Yet here we are, with a president who openly admires how North Koreans "sit up at attention" for Kim Jong Un and says he wants “my people to do the same." The same president who deployed Marines against protesters and federalized National Guard units to suppress dissent.

That isn’t strength, it's insecurity. It’s weakness. Real strength comes from an active and engaged citizenry that questions, criticizes, and yes, protests its government. The moment we start expecting people to "sit up at attention" for any leader, we've lost sight of everything America is supposed to represent.

 Arndrea Waters King, third from left, and Martin Luther King III, fourth from left, march in the “No Kings” protest, Saturday, June 14, 2025, in Philadelphia. (AP Photo/Yuki Iwamura)

Democracy is messy. It doesn't fall in line and stand in perfect formation like troops on parade. We don't sit at attention when our leaders speak – we lean back, cross our arms, and ask hard questions. We're skeptical. We hold them accountable, even the ones we voted for.

That's not a bug – it’s a feature. That’s the whole point.

Still, we can’t discuss America's tradition of dissent without confronting the darker currents in our political history. From the assassination of Lincoln through the killings of Martin Luther King Jr., John F. Kennedy, and Robert F. Kennedy, politically motivated violence has intermittently erupted at the heart of our democracy. In recent decades, we’ve seen an uptick in attacks on public figures— the shooting of Gabby Giffords, domestic extremist plots, and the January 6 attack on the Capitol. Just last summer, a deranged shooter tried to assassinate President Trump, and Saturday's ambushes in Minnesota left one state legislator and her husband dead and another clinging to life. What once felt anomalous now seems alarmingly familiar, as though political violence has become a normalized part of our national narrative rather than viewed as a shocking aberration.

Part of the problem lies in how we respond when tensions flare. Rhetoric from the top matters: when prominent figures pardon or excuse violence, or when they appear to tolerate or even celebrate intimidation, the unwritten norms that keep the republic on track begin to fray. Leaders within a democratic system have an obligation to cool things down when they heat up – to remind everyone that no cause justifies terror or bloodshed. Dissent belongs in the streets, the ballot box, and the courts, not in acts of violence. The antidote isn’t silencing protesters; it’s encouraging more peaceful protest, deeper civic engagement, and a steadfast commitment to resolve conflict through democratic means rather than force.

Our democracy has endured largely because of an unspoken, sometimes tenuous agreement between our leaders and the people: that we will all honor and preserve the norms that define who we are as Americans. We don’t always get it right. Our history is messy, and we have painful lapses. But it’s the tension in the system – the interplay of cautioning one another against overreach – that shapes our national character and makes our system resilient. When the people get out of check, leaders guide us back. When leaders go too far, the people rise up. That mutual responsibility lies at the heart of what makes us uniquely American. Citizens trust that their rights will be respected because they know we don’t “disappear” people, hold them indefinitely without due process, or ship them off to rot in foreign gulags. We don’t flex our military muscle by staging grand military spectacles or deploying Marines on U.S. soil because we know we don't need to. And when those in power stray from these norms, the people step in to hold them accountable through protest, free speech, the press, and ultimately, the ballot box.

Watching those young counter-protesters, I kept thinking about the weird moment we're in. The same generation that learned to distrust "the deep state" during COVID – that understandably questioned lockdown mandates and government overreach – now seems willing to trust one man to dismantle that very system. They learned the right lesson about centralized power but fail to apply it universally. Their angry skepticism toward our public health apparatus -- which is far from perfect but still among the best in the world -- somehow doesn't extend to immigration enforcement, the economy, or domestic troop deployments. Because Trump represents their strain of mistrust, they trust him blindly.

But that's not how this works. Our Founders understood that power corrupts, period. The solution isn't finding the right person to wield unchecked authority – it’s making sure no one ever gets that authority in the first place.

For 250 years, this experiment has lurched forward through slavery and civil war, suffrage battles and civil rights struggles, Vietnam and Watergate. It's been messy and at times, ugly, but it has also proven resilient. Our republic has survived because we never fully trusted those in power, even when we put them there ourselves.

But this self-governance thing doesn’t happen by itself. The arc of moral history is long, and it bends toward justice. But comedian turned political activist Jon Stewart recently reminded us that “it doesn’t bend by itself. It’s not gravity. People have to bend it. You have to bend it. And there are going to be other people trying to bend it the other way.”

In a democratic system, there is no cruise control. If we are to preserve this government of, by, and for the people, we can't take our foot off the gas. We must consciously decide to dig in and do the work of preserving and expanding liberty in pursuit of something better, or this experiment in democracy will surely perish from the earth.

Standing there with my flag, watching people exercise their First Amendment rights while some cheered and others jeered, I thought to myself: this is what American strength looks like. Not synchronized marching or displays of military hardware, but messy, uncomfortable democracy in action.

Once again, we’re at a moment where we have to choose what kind of country we want to be. The choice isn't about left or right, Republican or Democrat. It’s about whether we want to do the messy, frustrating work of democratic self-governance – whether we still believe in holding power accountable, or we’re too tired and jaded to do the work ourselves, ready to surrender that birthright for the illusion of security that comes with order imposed from above.

John Lewis understood that choice, and he chose to march. So did the colonists who launched this experiment, when they dumped the tea in Boston Harbor. Generation after generation, our forebears refused to give up the ship. Do we have that same courage? The courage to question, to protest, and hold leaders in check? I believe we do, but only if we remember that “good trouble” is our inheritance, and that honoring it means holding fast to our right to question and protest, never ceding that right to any leader.

So, will we step up and do the work to preserve our democratic republic for the next generation? Or are we ready to surrender this American experiment once and for all?