A Parade for the Emperor
A military parade. Tanks crawling down Pennsylvania Avenue like ancient beasts dragged from the tar pits, their steel hulls gleaming under the hot June sun. Flyovers slicing open the sky. All for a birthday. All for him.
Donald Trump is planning a spectacle. A birthday ode to might. A display of force choreographed like a war ballet, where the audience is the nation and the lead dancer is a man desperate to be seen. The parade is not about honor or remembrance. It is about command. It says: Look. They move when I say so.
The cost? Millions. Some say $30 million. Others estimate $50 million or more. The figures trail behind the event like a dirty flag, the kind no one dares to salute. It doesn’t matter. When money is a showpiece and not a service, the numbers blur.
But what if, instead of tanks, we chose teachers? What if the smoke from the flyovers cleared and revealed not battalions, but hospital beds? Not soldiers, but students? What could that money buy, if it weren’t feeding the machine of a man’s ego?
With $30 million, 500 new teachers could be hired at $60,000 a year. That’s 500 classrooms that don’t overflow. That’s guidance counselors who aren’t shared between four schools. That’s arts programs that don’t vanish like mirages. And if the number is $50 million? Then 50,000 diabetics could receive insulin for an entire year. That’s not a gesture. That’s a reprieve.
But this birthday, the candles are shaped like missiles. The cake is armored. The anthem echoes not in gratitude but in command.
The military, the sacred cow of a country addicted to war, is dressed up and marched down the boulevard. Soldiers, many of whom joined because college was too expensive, are paraded like ceremonial dolls. Their boots polished, their paychecks thin. Their medals shine while their healthcare is neglected. Ask the VA about the backlog. Ask a veteran about the silence that follows them home.
Still, the parade will roll on.
Television crews will zoom in on the face of the man who demanded the show. Perhaps he’ll salute. Perhaps he’ll grin. Perhaps he’ll believe that this is history bending toward him, and not away. But the real story will be happening elsewhere. In emergency rooms where people wait hours to be seen. In schools where children learn to read from outdated books and teachers buy their own supplies. In homes where eviction notices are taped beside report cards.
This is how decline parades itself. With flags and fog and armored bravado. This is what empire looks like on its way out: loud, expensive, and utterly convinced of its own myth.
When tanks become more important than textbooks, when aircraft are valued more than aftercare, when pride costs more than people can afford, the center cannot hold. Not because it’s broken, but because it was never meant to.
This isn't just about how money is spent. It's about what is deemed worthy of celebration. We glorify violence, so we get tanks. We glorify dominance, so we get parades. We glorify wealth, so we get men like Trump, who strip the cupboard bare and then demand dessert.
And so, the drums will thunder, and the jets will scream, and the country, battered and splintered, will applaud. Some out of fear. Some out of boredom. Some because they’ve forgotten what else to do.
But somewhere, far from the parades and the podiums, a child will sit in a peeling classroom. Her desk will wobble. The heater won’t work. The textbook in front of her will say the Earth has nine planets and that the Soviet Union still exists.
Maybe one day, if we're lucky, the parade will be for her.
Indivisible and other organizations are planning to protest the King Trump parades in communities across the country. Find out if there’s an event in your community and join them here: