Ah, the United States of America. Land of the free. Home of the brave. Or so the bumper stickers tell us. But let’s peel back the red, white, and blue curtain for a moment, shall we? Beneath the patriotic bravado and the fireworks is a truth far less convenient: this land was never ours, and the norms we cling to were never real. They are illusions—smoke and mirrors to keep us docile while the powerful tighten their grip.

Take a moment to reflect on our so-called “norms.” The idea that civility governs us. That democracy is sacred. That we, the people, have a moral compass guiding the ship of state. Nonsense. The story of America isn’t one of norms but of power. Raw, unrelenting power.

Let’s start at the beginning—or rather, the takeover. When European settlers arrived on these shores, they didn’t stumble upon an empty continent waiting to be tamed. No, they found thriving nations. Communities with their own systems, cultures, and histories. And what did those settlers do? They planted their flags, declared the land theirs, and called it “manifest destiny.” A polite way of saying, “We’ll take what we want because we can.”

The norms we’re told to revere were never written for everyone. They were written by the winners, for the winners. And when we talk about “norms,” we’re really talking about rules made by those with power to preserve their power. When it serves them, those norms are enforced with an iron fist. And when it doesn’t? They are ignored, bent, or discarded.

Donald Trump is often painted as the great disruptor of American norms, the barbarian at the gates who tore down the walls of civility. But let’s not kid ourselves. Civility is a myth, a tool wielded by those in power to silence dissent. Trump didn’t destroy our norms; he exposed them for what they’ve always been—fragile, selective, and designed to serve a privileged few.

Think about it. We clutch our pearls over rude tweets and vulgar speeches, yet we celebrate a history built on violence and domination. We gasp when political rivals trade insults, but shrug at centuries of systemic oppression. Civility isn’t a principle; it’s a weapon. And in the age of X—formerly Twitter—where the battle for public opinion plays out in 280-character bursts, civility is more disposable than ever.

X has become the new public square, a chaotic free-for-all where the loudest voices drown out the rest. It’s a fitting metaphor for America itself. We love the idea of a level playing field, but in practice, the game is rigged. The algorithm rewards outrage, amplifies division, and fuels the very chaos we pretend to detest. It’s not a bug; it’s a feature.

Now, let’s address the elephant in the room: the notion of ownership. “Our land,” we say, as if it were a birthright. But whose land is it, really? The indigenous peoples who lived here long before European ships appeared on the horizon might have a thing or two to say about that. America isn’t a nation built on shared ideals; it’s a nation built on stolen land.

And yet, we cling to the idea of ownership as if it’s sacred. Property rights. Borders. The whole notion of sovereignty. These are constructs—useful fictions that serve those in power. The truth is, we’re all just temporary stewards of a planet that doesn’t belong to anyone. But admitting that would undermine the entire foundation of our economy, our politics, and our identity. So, we keep up the charade.

Ah, democracy. The great equalizer. The cornerstone of our republic. Or so we’re told. But let’s not confuse the ideal with the reality. Our democracy has always been a rigged game, a contest where the rules are written by those who already hold the cards. Gerrymandering. Voter suppression. The electoral college. These aren’t flaws in the system; they are the system.

And when democracy becomes inconvenient for those in power, they have no qualms about casting it aside. January 6th wasn’t the death of democracy—it was its logical conclusion. A system that rewards division and incentivizes power at all costs will inevitably lead to chaos. And yet, we act surprised when the inevitable happens.

At the heart of all this is a fundamental truth: America doesn’t run on norms, or democracy, or morality. It runs on power. Raw, unfiltered power. And the people who wield it know this. They don’t bother with ideals or principles. They understand the game for what it is—a zero-sum contest where there are winners and losers.

Trump isn’t an aberration; he’s the embodiment of this truth. He didn’t play by the rules because he understood the rules were never real. They were a facade, a set of polite fictions designed to keep the masses in line while the powerful did as they pleased. And when he tore through those fictions like a bull in a china shop, it wasn’t a breach of our norms—it was a reminder of what has always been true.

So, what now? If we accept that our norms were never real, that our land was never ours, that our democracy is a sham, what’s left? Do we throw up our hands and resign ourselves to the chaos? Or do we build something better?

The first step is acknowledging the truth. America isn’t exceptional. It isn’t a shining city on a hill. It’s a flawed, messy experiment in power and human ambition. But that doesn’t mean it’s doomed. If we can let go of our illusions—about civility, about ownership, about democracy—we might just find a way forward.

The future won’t be built on norms or traditions. It will be built on honesty, on confronting the uncomfortable truths we’ve long ignored. And maybe, just maybe, we can start to write a new story—one where power isn’t concentrated in the hands of the few, but shared by the many.

Until then, the game goes on. And as always, the players who understand the rules—or the lack thereof—will come out on top.