The morning after No Kings Day arrives not with fireworks or declarations of victory, but with a quieter question echoing in protest-weary minds: Where do we go from here?
What began as a diffuse, decentralized movement took form—messily, sometimes incoherently—but unmistakably across parks, plazas, courthouse steps, and outside media headquarters. Some came for the symbolism, others for the substance. But in nearly every city, the chants rose in defiance of an administration increasingly comfortable blurring the line between elected government and authoritarian theater.
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Yet while the day’s mobilizations marked a significant step in the reawakening of American civil society, they also surfaced a more disconcerting realization: Resistance takes more than bodies in the street. It takes memory, it takes clarity—and, curiously, it takes music.
Many prominent figures have recently called for the creation of a “shadow cabinet” in the United States—an organized opposition structure that mirrors each official cabinet portfolio. As the Trump administration intensifies its radical, unconstitutional consolidation of executive power—described by many legal and historical experts as veering toward fascism—the need for a clear, coordinated counterforce has become urgent. Yet the messaging remains fragmented.
Among those leading the intellectual response is Professor Timothy Snyder, a distinguished historian of authoritarianism and Eastern Europe. Snyder has been a consistent voice warning of democratic backsliding and has strongly endorsed the concept of a shadow cabinet as a means of asserting institutional legitimacy and narrative clarity.
Dictatorships thrive not only on violence and spectacle, but on selective memory. That has been the defining tactic of the Trump administration’s second act. Whitewashed civics, loyalty oaths disguised as policy pledges, and the quiet de-funding of archival institutions and public broadcasting have all contributed to a cultivated amnesia. A nation that forgets its authoritarian flirtations is more likely to repeat them.
No Kings Day was, in part, an answer to that erasure—a reclamation of historical warning signs and civic imagination. But not all who participated came with the same clarity of purpose. As one organizer in Boston noted, “It felt like a symphony with too many conductors and no sheet music.”
Too Many Causes, Not Enough Choirs
The patchwork of concerns on display—immigration raids, DEI rollbacks, LGBTQ+ erasure, the shuttering of public health programs, the weaponization of ICE, and attacks on judicial independence—revealed both the vibrancy and the vulnerability of the movement. These were not contradictions, but different verses of the same song. Still, the lack of a shared narrative, of connective tissue across communities, made the moment feel more like a flashpoint than the beginning of a prolonged campaign.
Here, the absence of a musical theme for the democratic opposition is notable. Despite my efforts to organize a coordinated playlist—drawing from antiwar protest songs, civil rights marches, and punk anthems of defiance—it all seemed anachronistic. No “We Shall Overcome” for 2025. No “Fortunate Son,” no “Alright,” no “This is America.”
Notably, last month, Springsteen opened a concert with a forceful address:
“In my home, the America I love… is currently in the hands of a corrupt, incompetent, and treasonous administration. Tonight, we ask all who believe in democracy… to rise with us and let freedom ring.” He warned against authoritarian overreach, citing attacks on free speech, university defunding, civil rights rollbacks, and deportations without due process. Springsteen invoked James Baldwin for hope, closing with a rousing call to resilience and unity. Neither Fox News nor Donald Trump were pleased.
On June 14, 2025, millions of Americans participated in more than 2,000 "No Kings Day" events across the country—rallies, vigils, teach-ins, and marches unified by one core conviction: the United States is not, and must never become, a monarchy. The symbolic date—Flag Day—was transformed into a defiant reaffirmation of democratic principles. But even as millions turned out, millions more stayed home. The reasons for this disparity are revealing: they expose the costs of civic disillusionment, the chilling effects of authoritarian intimidation, and the limits of a protest strategy that prioritized quiet symbolism over public persuasion.
The "No Kings Day" demonstrations drew both praise and skepticism from commentators across the political spectrum. Many lauded the nationwide turnout—reportedly spanning over 2,000 cities and towns—as a visible rejection of authoritarian symbolism and a meaningful reaffirmation of democratic values.
Some analysts likened it to early-stage protest waves in other countries, noting that its visual impact, broad participation, and cultural resonance could help catalyze long-term civic engagement.
However, others raised valid questions about the protests' lasting impact. Political analysts such as G. Elliott Morris noted that the scale—while impressive—did not reach the 3.5% population threshold often associated with major political transformation.
Critics suggested that while the symbolism was powerful, the absence of sustained messaging or unified goals might blunt its effect over time.
Several opinion pieces argued that the “No Kings” branding, while catchy, risked becoming more of a slogan than a sustained strategy—especially if not followed by local organizing and voter mobilization.
Despite its considerable breadth, No Kings Day unfolded under an ominous cloud. In Washington, President Trump staged a grandiose military parade. In Los Angeles, Marines were deployed. Sheriff Wayne Ivey in Florida was recorded making inflammatory comments about protest suppression.
In Minnesota, the politically motivated shooting of two state legislators, one fatally, was weaponized by right-wing media to suggest the movement itself was dangerous. Flyers referencing “No Kings” found in the shooter’s vehicle were circulated to paint the resistance as extremist. Rallies in Anoka and Northeast Minneapolis were canceled, heightening protest safety concerns.
And yet—demonstrations spanned all 50 states. But something essential was still missing.
Restraint Over Resonance
Most No Kings Day gatherings were deliberately speaker- and music-free. This was a strategic decision. Many organizers under thirty—especially from groups like the 50501 Movement, ACLU, and grassroots immigration coalitions—rejected spectacle in favor of decentralized, community-led action. But the tradeoff was cohesion. Movements that endure—and succeed—blend message and emotion. They do not whisper their convictions; they sing them.
Past Protests and The Distortion of Memory
We must also confront the distortion of memory. Our collective recollection of the Vietnam War protests is romanticized. Most Americans did not attend Woodstock. Robert F. Kennedy is remembered as an anti-war voice, but Eugene McCarthy and George McGovern—actual antiwar candidates—never galvanized broad movements.
The antiwar era was fractious, geographically narrow, and often exclusionary. What endured were the visuals and the music. The protest had a score. Memory had rhythm.
Today, protests are quieter. Trump's authoritarian coup is advancing not through jungle warfare, but through bureaucracy, court rulings, and judicial capture.
Best interview with Wolff yet, thanks Joy!
The Day After No Kings Day
Some Thoughts on How to Rally a Resistance to Donald Trump, the Importance of Collective Memory, and Where is the Missing Soundtrack?
ETHAN S. BURGER
JUN 15, 2025
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Read the entire post at https://ethansburger.substack.com/p/the-day-after-no-kings-day
The morning after No Kings Day arrives not with fireworks or declarations of victory, but with a quieter question echoing in protest-weary minds: Where do we go from here?
What began as a diffuse, decentralized movement took form—messily, sometimes incoherently—but unmistakably across parks, plazas, courthouse steps, and outside media headquarters. Some came for the symbolism, others for the substance. But in nearly every city, the chants rose in defiance of an administration increasingly comfortable blurring the line between elected government and authoritarian theater.
Thanks for reading The past is the present, isn't it? It's the future, too! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
Subscribed
Yet while the day’s mobilizations marked a significant step in the reawakening of American civil society, they also surfaced a more disconcerting realization: Resistance takes more than bodies in the street. It takes memory, it takes clarity—and, curiously, it takes music.
Many prominent figures have recently called for the creation of a “shadow cabinet” in the United States—an organized opposition structure that mirrors each official cabinet portfolio. As the Trump administration intensifies its radical, unconstitutional consolidation of executive power—described by many legal and historical experts as veering toward fascism—the need for a clear, coordinated counterforce has become urgent. Yet the messaging remains fragmented.
Among those leading the intellectual response is Professor Timothy Snyder, a distinguished historian of authoritarianism and Eastern Europe. Snyder has been a consistent voice warning of democratic backsliding and has strongly endorsed the concept of a shadow cabinet as a means of asserting institutional legitimacy and narrative clarity.
Dictatorships thrive not only on violence and spectacle, but on selective memory. That has been the defining tactic of the Trump administration’s second act. Whitewashed civics, loyalty oaths disguised as policy pledges, and the quiet de-funding of archival institutions and public broadcasting have all contributed to a cultivated amnesia. A nation that forgets its authoritarian flirtations is more likely to repeat them.
No Kings Day was, in part, an answer to that erasure—a reclamation of historical warning signs and civic imagination. But not all who participated came with the same clarity of purpose. As one organizer in Boston noted, “It felt like a symphony with too many conductors and no sheet music.”
Too Many Causes, Not Enough Choirs
The patchwork of concerns on display—immigration raids, DEI rollbacks, LGBTQ+ erasure, the shuttering of public health programs, the weaponization of ICE, and attacks on judicial independence—revealed both the vibrancy and the vulnerability of the movement. These were not contradictions, but different verses of the same song. Still, the lack of a shared narrative, of connective tissue across communities, made the moment feel more like a flashpoint than the beginning of a prolonged campaign.
Here, the absence of a musical theme for the democratic opposition is notable. Despite my efforts to organize a coordinated playlist—drawing from antiwar protest songs, civil rights marches, and punk anthems of defiance—it all seemed anachronistic. No “We Shall Overcome” for 2025. No “Fortunate Son,” no “Alright,” no “This is America.”
Notably, last month, Springsteen opened a concert with a forceful address:
“In my home, the America I love… is currently in the hands of a corrupt, incompetent, and treasonous administration. Tonight, we ask all who believe in democracy… to rise with us and let freedom ring.” He warned against authoritarian overreach, citing attacks on free speech, university defunding, civil rights rollbacks, and deportations without due process. Springsteen invoked James Baldwin for hope, closing with a rousing call to resilience and unity. Neither Fox News nor Donald Trump were pleased.
On June 14, 2025, millions of Americans participated in more than 2,000 "No Kings Day" events across the country—rallies, vigils, teach-ins, and marches unified by one core conviction: the United States is not, and must never become, a monarchy. The symbolic date—Flag Day—was transformed into a defiant reaffirmation of democratic principles. But even as millions turned out, millions more stayed home. The reasons for this disparity are revealing: they expose the costs of civic disillusionment, the chilling effects of authoritarian intimidation, and the limits of a protest strategy that prioritized quiet symbolism over public persuasion.
The "No Kings Day" demonstrations drew both praise and skepticism from commentators across the political spectrum. Many lauded the nationwide turnout—reportedly spanning over 2,000 cities and towns—as a visible rejection of authoritarian symbolism and a meaningful reaffirmation of democratic values.
Some analysts likened it to early-stage protest waves in other countries, noting that its visual impact, broad participation, and cultural resonance could help catalyze long-term civic engagement.
However, others raised valid questions about the protests' lasting impact. Political analysts such as G. Elliott Morris noted that the scale—while impressive—did not reach the 3.5% population threshold often associated with major political transformation.
Critics suggested that while the symbolism was powerful, the absence of sustained messaging or unified goals might blunt its effect over time.
Several opinion pieces argued that the “No Kings” branding, while catchy, risked becoming more of a slogan than a sustained strategy—especially if not followed by local organizing and voter mobilization.
Despite its considerable breadth, No Kings Day unfolded under an ominous cloud. In Washington, President Trump staged a grandiose military parade. In Los Angeles, Marines were deployed. Sheriff Wayne Ivey in Florida was recorded making inflammatory comments about protest suppression.
In Minnesota, the politically motivated shooting of two state legislators, one fatally, was weaponized by right-wing media to suggest the movement itself was dangerous. Flyers referencing “No Kings” found in the shooter’s vehicle were circulated to paint the resistance as extremist. Rallies in Anoka and Northeast Minneapolis were canceled, heightening protest safety concerns.
And yet—demonstrations spanned all 50 states. But something essential was still missing.
Restraint Over Resonance
Most No Kings Day gatherings were deliberately speaker- and music-free. This was a strategic decision. Many organizers under thirty—especially from groups like the 50501 Movement, ACLU, and grassroots immigration coalitions—rejected spectacle in favor of decentralized, community-led action. But the tradeoff was cohesion. Movements that endure—and succeed—blend message and emotion. They do not whisper their convictions; they sing them.
Past Protests and The Distortion of Memory
We must also confront the distortion of memory. Our collective recollection of the Vietnam War protests is romanticized. Most Americans did not attend Woodstock. Robert F. Kennedy is remembered as an anti-war voice, but Eugene McCarthy and George McGovern—actual antiwar candidates—never galvanized broad movements.
The antiwar era was fractious, geographically narrow, and often exclusionary. What endured were the visuals and the music. The protest had a score. Memory had rhythm.
Today, protests are quieter. Trump's authoritarian coup is advancing not through jungle warfare, but through bureaucracy, court rulings, and judicial capture.