Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Well, Democrats, progressives, independents, and anyone else who has been watching the political circus over the last several years with a mixture of disbelief, frustration, and occasional existential dread: we have a reason to be optimistic. The results of this midterm congressional election have given us an opportunity to change the direction of this country, restore some semblance of responsible government, and perhaps remind Washington that the people are still paying attention. It’s an encouraging development, and I’m certainly not going to apologize for being a little excited about it.

But before we start drafting legislation, rearranging congressional offices, and mentally redecorating the White House, perhaps we need to have a conversation about expectations.

One of the biggest problems with our political culture is that we have become accustomed to expecting instant gratification. We want results yesterday. We want legislation passed tomorrow. We want investigations completed, accountability delivered, institutions repaired, and every broken piece of government put back where it belongs before the next news cycle. And when those things don’t happen immediately, we become frustrated, disappointed, and sometimes downright angry with the very people we just elected to accomplish them.

We need to remember something rather fundamental: It doesn’t take very long to break something, but it takes considerably longer to put it back together.

We’ve spent years watching institutions being undermined, regulations dismantled, public trust eroded, relationships with our allies damaged, and the basic expectations of responsible leadership treated like optional suggestions. Reversing that damage isn’t going to happen because a new Congress takes an oath of office in January. There isn’t a magic switch in the Capitol building labeled “Restore Democracy.” Unfortunately, government doesn’t come with a factory reset button.

And institutional change is even more complicated.

If we genuinely want to address the underlying problems rather than simply reverse whatever the previous administration did, we need to think beyond the next election cycle. We need to establish building blocks that create lasting change. That means legislation, oversight, judicial reform, election protections, campaign finance reform, stronger institutions, and policies that can survive beyond the people currently occupying positions of authority.

Some of those things will be relatively easy to accomplish. Others will require negotiations, compromises, court challenges, public support, and perhaps several election cycles before we see meaningful results.

That’s why maintaining congressional majorities matters. One election can change the direction of the conversation, but maintaining those majorities for two or three consecutive cycles could give us the opportunity to accomplish something substantial. We need enough time to put policies in place, evaluate their effectiveness, make adjustments, and establish protections that aren’t easily undone by the next administration.

And let’s be honest with ourselves: we aren’t going to agree with every decision made by every Democrat we elected. There will be compromises we don’t like, legislation that doesn’t go far enough, and moments when we wonder whether anyone in Washington actually understands what we sent them there to do. That’s part of representative government. We can hold our elected officials accountable without demanding that every disagreement become a reason to abandon the entire effort.

We also need to resist the temptation to turn every political victory into an opportunity for revenge. Investigations and accountability are necessary. If laws were broken, if public resources were abused, or if constitutional responsibilities were ignored, those matters deserve examination. But the objective should be restoring the rule of law, not simply finding new people to punish. We should be demonstrating what responsible government looks like, not imitating the behavior that got us here in the first place.

And perhaps most importantly, we need to remember that governing is different from campaigning. Campaigning is about promises, slogans, and telling people what you intend to accomplish. Governing is about actually accomplishing those things, often through a painfully slow process involving people who don’t agree with you.

So, yes, let’s celebrate. Let’s enjoy this moment. We have earned a little optimism after watching the political equivalent of a dumpster fire for longer than any of us should have had to endure. But let’s temper that enthusiasm with a healthy dose of reality.

We didn’t get here overnight, and we aren’t going to get out of it overnight.

The work ahead is going to require patience, persistence, accountability, and a willingness to keep showing up even when the results aren’t immediately visible. We need to recognize progress when it happens, demand more when it doesn’t, and understand that meaningful change is often measured in years rather than headlines.

My expectations aren’t that the new Congress will fix everything in its first hundred days. My expectations are that they will start fixing things, establish a direction, and give us reasons to keep supporting the work.

We’ve been given an opportunity. Now we have to be willing to invest the time necessary to make something of it.

Winning an election changes who gets to steer the ship. It doesn’t magically repair the damage below deck.

Let’s keep our expectations realistic, our eyes on the long game, and our representatives working. We’ve got a country to put back together, and that is going to take more than one election, one congressional session, or one inspirational speech.

It takes sustained effort. And perhaps that’s the most important expectation we should have of ourselves as voters: don’t just show up when things are going wrong. Stay engaged long enough to make sure they get better.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Put Your Hand on the Constitution, Not the Bible

There is something I would like to see change when this next group of elected officials is sworn into office. Whether we’re talking about Zohran Mamdani, James Talarico, or any of the other newly elected representatives, I would like to see them put their hands on something other than a religious text when they take their oath of office. My suggestion is simple: Put your hand on the Constitution.

Not the Bible. Not the Quran. Not the Torah. Not any other religious text. The Constitution.

Before anyone gets their religious feathers ruffled, let me explain. This isn’t an attack on Christianity, Islam, Judaism, or anyone’s personal faith. People are absolutely entitled to believe whatever they want. They can worship on Sunday, Friday, Saturday, or whenever their particular faith tells them to. They can read their holy books, attend services, pray, meditate, or practice whatever religious traditions give their lives meaning.

But that’s personal faith. Holding public office is a public responsibility. Those two things should remain separate.

We supposedly have this little principle in the United States called separation of church and state. It isn’t an obscure suggestion or some modern invention designed to offend religious conservatives. The First Amendment establishes that Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting its free exercise. In other words, the government isn’t supposed to establish a religion, favor one religion over another, or interfere with an individual’s right to practice their faith.

Yet somehow, we’ve managed to turn religious symbolism into a recurring part of our political theater. Politicians hold Bibles, swear oaths on religious texts, invoke God in political speeches, and occasionally seem to confuse being elected to public office with receiving some sort of divine appointment.

I find that particularly ironic.

The oath of office isn’t a promise to God. It’s a promise to the American people and to the Constitution that establishes the government those officials are about to serve.

The Constitution is the document that defines their responsibilities, limits their authority, establishes the rights of the people, and provides the framework they are supposed to protect. It is the document that makes it possible for a Christian, a Muslim, a Jew, an atheist, or someone who practices a religion nobody in Washington has ever heard of to serve in the same government.

So why wouldn’t that be the document sitting underneath their hand when they take their oath?

Think about the symbolism for a moment. We have a country made up of people with different religious beliefs, different cultural backgrounds, and different ideas about the existence of God. Some believe deeply in a higher power. Some aren’t sure. Others don’t believe in God at all. But we all live under the same Constitution.

That’s supposed to be the common ground.

Article VI of the Constitution actually reinforces this principle by specifically prohibiting religious tests as a qualification for public office. The government doesn’t get to decide whether you’re Christian enough, Muslim enough, Jewish enough, or religious enough to represent your neighbors.

And that’s exactly how it should be.

I don’t want elected officials making decisions based on what they believe God wants. I want them making decisions based on the Constitution, the law, evidence, and the interests of the people they represent. Their personal religious beliefs are theirs to practice, but those beliefs shouldn’t become the measuring stick for everybody else’s rights.

If a politician wants to pray before taking office, that’s their business. If they want to attend church after the ceremony, that’s their business, too. But when they stand up to swear an oath to serve the United States government, I’d rather see them place their hand on the document that actually defines that responsibility.

And here’s where I’d like to take this one step further.

I would love to see the next swearing-in ceremony become an opportunity for every elected official, regardless of their religious affiliation, to make the same statement. Whether you’re a Christian minister, a Muslim, a Jew, an atheist, or someone who simply doesn’t subscribe to organized religion, put your hand on the Constitution and take the same oath.

Not because your religion is unimportant to you, but because it isn’t the job of government to represent one religion over another.

And I would even suggest changing the traditional closing words of the oath. Instead of ending with “So help me God,” why not end with something that actually reflects the responsibility these individuals are accepting?

Something along these lines:

“I take this oath for every person who voted for me and every person who didn’t. I take this oath to uphold the Constitution, protect the rights of the people I represent, and faithfully perform the duties of the office to which I have been elected. I understand that my responsibility is to all the people, not just those who share my political beliefs, my religious beliefs, or my opinions. I will do the job the American people entrusted to me.”

Now, that sounds like an oath of public service.

Because the person who voted against you still deserves representation. The Christian who disagrees with you deserves representation. The Muslim who disagrees with you deserves representation. The atheist, the agnostic, and the person who doesn’t give a damn about religion at all deserve representation.

You weren’t elected to represent God’s interests, your church’s interests, or even exclusively the interests of the people who put you in office. You were elected to serve the people.

There is something beautifully appropriate about that.

Imagine the next swearing-in ceremony. No religious competition over whose holy book gets the most prominent position. No implication that one faith has a special relationship with the government. Just elected representatives placing their hands on the Constitution and making a promise to the American people.

Because that’s the job.

My suggestion for getting God out of our politics isn’t complicated. We don’t need to outlaw prayer, remove religion from people’s lives, or tell anyone what they can believe. We simply need to remember that our government isn’t a church, the presidency isn’t a pulpit, and Congress isn’t a religious congregation.

Put your hand on the Constitution.

And when you finish taking your oath, don’t promise God that you’ll do your job. Promise the American people.

They are the ones who hired you. They are the ones whose rights you’re supposed to protect. And they are the ones to whom you are ultimately accountable.

It’s the Constitution that makes that promise possible. Perhaps it’s time we started treating it as the most important book in the room.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I had some interesting dreams last night. Actually, interesting might be a little too generous a description. They were more along the lines of anxiety-inducing workplace nightmares, which is particularly amusing when you consider that I haven’t worked for anyone other than myself in nearly ten years.

For some reason, my subconscious decided it was time to revisit the joys of having a job, a department, a schedule, and apparently an overwhelming fear of being late. There I was, wandering around some unfamiliar workplace, trying to find my department, not knowing where I was supposed to be, worrying that I was going to be late, and generally experiencing all the anxiety associated with being the new guy who somehow managed to show up without knowing where the hell he was supposed to go.

Here’s the funny part: I haven’t had a boss in almost a decade. I drive rideshare. I work for myself. I decide when I work, where I work, and, within reason, when I call it a day. There isn’t a supervisor waiting for me to explain why I’m late. There isn’t a department manager wondering where I’ve disappeared to. There isn’t even a time clock waiting to judge my questionable relationship with punctuality.

So where exactly is this anxiety coming from?

Apparently, my subconscious has decided that nearly ten years of independence isn’t enough to erase the institutional programming of decades of employment. Somewhere in the back of my head, there’s still a little employee waiting to be reprimanded for not knowing where he’s supposed to be.

Maybe that’s what dreams do. They take old experiences, unresolved emotions, familiar fears, and random pieces of our daily existence, throw them into a mental blender, and serve us something that makes absolutely no sense when we wake up. We spend our waking hours convinced we’ve moved beyond certain things, only to discover that our sleeping brains apparently didn’t get the memo.

And then there’s the other interesting part of last night’s entertainment: my ex-wife made an appearance.

Because apparently wandering around a nonexistent workplace worrying about being late wasn’t enough. My subconscious decided to bring in a supporting cast member from a previous chapter of my life. Why? What exactly is the connection between not being able to find my department and having my ex-wife show up in my dreams? Is there some hidden psychological connection, or did my brain simply decide that if it was going to manufacture anxiety, it might as well go all in?

Perhaps there’s a certain irony in the combination. The workplace dreams represent a time when I had obligations, expectations, and people to answer to. The appearance of my ex-wife represents another period of life that came with its own expectations, responsibilities, disappointments, and unresolved questions.

Neither necessarily has anything to do with my present circumstances. But both were once significant parts of my life, and apparently the filing cabinet in my subconscious hasn’t been particularly diligent about archiving old material.

Of course, I’m not going to pretend that every dream is some elaborate psychological message from the universe. Sometimes a dream is just a dream. Sometimes the brain is housekeeping, sometimes it’s processing stress, and sometimes it’s apparently producing a low-budget psychological thriller starring people who haven’t worked together in years.

But I do wonder whether there’s something to the timing.

We’ve all got experiences that leave impressions long after the circumstances themselves have disappeared. We can change jobs, relationships, homes, routines, and entire chapters of our lives, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the emotional associations disappear along with them. The conscious mind moves forward. The subconscious apparently takes a little longer to catch up.

Maybe the real question isn’t why I’m dreaming about being late for work when I haven’t had a boss in ten years. Maybe it’s why my brain thinks I still have something to prove, someone to answer to, or some unfinished business waiting around the corner.

And why, when it has an entire universe of possibilities to dream about, does it choose to bring back the people and circumstances most likely to make me uncomfortable?

I suppose there’s a certain mutual psychosis involved here. My waking brain has spent nearly a decade establishing that I’m perfectly capable of managing my own life, while my sleeping brain is apparently convinced I’m about to get fired from a job I don’t even have.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, my ex-wife gets a guest appearance.

Thanks, brain. Really appreciate the production value.

Tonight, perhaps we could try something different. Maybe a beach, a vacation, winning the lottery, or at the very least a workplace where I actually know where my department is.

Although, knowing my luck, I’ll probably dream that I’m late for my own vacation and my ex-wife is already there.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Work’s Not Over

Well, would you look at that. It appears that when Democrats actually get off their asses, read the assignment, and show up to vote, things can happen. Last night, voters stepped up. They sent a message, and hopefully a pretty unmistakable one: enough is enough. It looks like we’re taking back the reins of Congress, and come January, we’ll have an opportunity to start steering this country in a different direction.

Take a moment and enjoy that. Seriously. After everything we’ve watched over the past several years, a little political optimism is probably good for the soul. We ran through the tape, we showed up, and we did what needed to be done.

But here’s the thing: the work isn’t over. Not even close.

We have a tendency in politics to treat winning an election like crossing the finish line. It isn’t. It’s the starting gun for the next race. And the people we elected need to understand that they weren’t sent to Washington to celebrate, collect their committee assignments, and spend the next two years making cable news appearances. They were sent there to do a job.

And that job isn’t simply to get even.

Yes, there need to be investigations. Plenty of them. We need to examine the damage done to our institutions, the abuse of executive authority, the questionable dealings, and the people who decided that loyalty to one man was more important than loyalty to the Constitution. There may very well be grounds for impeachment. Some people in this administration might finally discover that accountability isn’t just a word Democrats use in campaign advertisements.

But impeachment, investigations, and political retribution cannot become the entire Democratic agenda. We cannot spend the next two years doing nothing but pointing at the mess and shouting about who made it. We already know who made it. We watched the damn thing happen in real time.

Our primary responsibility is to the people who stepped up and voted for us.

They didn’t vote Democratic because they wanted another political circus. They voted because they want affordable healthcare, reasonable prescription prices, better wages, affordable housing, functioning schools, infrastructure that doesn’t crumble around them, and an economy that works for ordinary Americans instead of a handful of billionaires. They want their Social Security protected, their retirement secure, their rights respected, and their government to actually give a damn whether they’re getting ahead or simply managing to survive another month.

That’s the assignment.

And if we spend two years investigating Donald Trump but accomplish absolutely nothing to improve the lives of the people who put us in office, then we’ve missed the point entirely. We will have traded one political circus for another, and the American people deserve better than that.

Now, let’s talk about something else: the power of the purse.

Apparently, somewhere along the way, Congress forgot that it is an equal branch of government. Under Mike Johnson’s leadership, the House essentially dropped its pants, handed over its constitutional responsibilities, and let Donald Trump run around pretending he was the king of the United States. The Senate hasn’t exactly covered itself in glory either.

Well, gentlemen, it’s time to pull your pants back up.

Congress has constitutional responsibilities, and one of the biggest is controlling federal spending. The president does not own the Treasury. He doesn’t get to spend money simply because he wants to, and a Supreme Court that occasionally seems determined to reinterpret presidential authority doesn’t magically turn the executive branch into a monarchy.

Congress controls appropriations. Congress has oversight responsibilities. Congress has the authority to investigate, hold hearings, subpoena witnesses, and use the legislative powers granted to it by the Constitution.

And yes, that means we can refuse to authorize funding for things that violate the law, ignore congressional intent, or undermine the interests of the American people. We can use the power of the purse as the constitutional check it was always intended to be, rather than treating it like some ceremonial responsibility we hand over to the White House.

I have absolutely no doubt Trump will attempt to obstruct, intimidate, threaten, and generally throw the political equivalent of a five-year-old’s temper tantrum. That’s what happens when someone accustomed to getting his way suddenly discovers that other people have authority, too.

Let him.

This isn’t a monarchy. It isn’t an authoritarian government. It isn’t a Trump-branded corporation where the CEO gets to fire anybody who disagrees with him and spend everybody else’s money however he pleases.

It’s a constitutional republic with three branches of government. Equal branches. Checks and balances. Separation of powers. These aren’t decorative phrases printed in a civics textbook. They’re the operating instructions for our government.

And it’s about damn time somebody started following them again.

Democrats need to take back the responsibilities that congressional leadership willingly surrendered. They need to stand up, assert their authority, and remind the executive branch that the Constitution doesn’t have a presidential exception clause.

But more importantly, they need to govern.

Fix the healthcare mess. Protect working families. Restore environmental protections. Invest in infrastructure. Defend voting rights. Protect Social Security and Medicare. Make housing and education more affordable. Rebuild confidence in institutions that have been battered by years of political chaos.

And do it in a way that people can actually see and feel in their everyday lives.

Because the best response to an administration that has spent years tearing things down isn’t simply to spend the next two years tearing them down in return. It’s to demonstrate that government can actually work for people. That democracy can deliver something better than outrage, division, and another round of campaign merchandise.

So, yes, celebrate last night. Enjoy the victories. Thank the voters, the volunteers, the organizers, and everybody who stood in line, filled out a ballot, and decided that their voice mattered.

We ran through the tape. We got across the finish line. We took back some ground.

But January isn’t going to be a victory lap. It’s going to be the first day of work.

And to the Democrats who will be sworn into office: You weren’t elected to become the anti-Trump party. You were elected to become the party that actually governs. There’s a difference, and the American people are going to be watching to see whether you understand it.

Investigate where necessary. Impeach if the evidence and circumstances warrant it. Hold people accountable. Absolutely.

But fix shit.

Give people something to believe in again. Give them reasons to vote for you beyond simply being the alternative to the other guy.

And when Donald Trump starts throwing his weight around, remind him that he’s the president, not the king. Congress has a job, the Constitution has rules, and the American people didn’t elect a monarchy.

You wanted to run the country like you owned it? Well, guess what? You don’t.

The voters have spoken. Now it’s time for the people we elected to speak with their actions.

The work isn’t over. In fact, it’s just getting started.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

There are some songs that belong to a particular generation, and then there are songs that somehow manage to outlive the circumstances that created them. In 1971, the Canadian rock group Five Man Electrical Band released Signs, a song that would become one of those enduring anthems. On the surface, it was a catchy rock song about signs everywhere, but underneath that memorable melody was something considerably more meaningful: a protest against conformity, exclusion, institutional authority, and the absurdity of people using rules and symbols to tell everyone else how to live.

“Sign, sign, everywhere a sign.”

It is a simple opening, but it establishes the entire premise. Signs blocking up the scenery, changing minds, telling people what they can and cannot do. The song takes aim at a society increasingly covered in instructions, restrictions, and declarations of who belongs and who doesn’t. It questions the people who believe that putting up a sign somehow gives them the authority to dictate the behavior of everyone around them.

One of the most memorable parts of the song involves the distinction between the people who own the property and those who are simply trying to enjoy it. The message is unmistakable: rules are often written by people who already have the privilege of deciding who gets access and who doesn’t. The sign becomes more than a piece of wood or metal. It becomes a symbol of power.

And that is where this song becomes particularly interesting when we compare it with the protest music of today.

The 1960s and early 1970s were filled with music that challenged established authority. Vietnam, civil rights, racial inequality, generational conflict, and distrust of government provided plenty of material for musicians who wanted to say something beyond the usual love songs. Artists such as Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Marvin Gaye used music to question the world around them. Songs weren’t simply entertainment. They were commentary, frustration, and sometimes a demand for change.

But here’s the interesting thing: the subjects have changed, the technology has changed, and the political vocabulary has changed. The underlying arguments haven’t necessarily changed all that much.

Today, the signs aren’t necessarily nailed to trees or posted outside private property. They’re digital, political, institutional, and sometimes quite literal. They’re the messages telling us what we’re allowed to discuss, which histories we’re supposed to remember, which opinions are acceptable, and which people deserve access to the same opportunities as everyone else.

Today’s protest music takes many forms. Bruce Springsteen’s The Ghost of Tom Joad continues to resonate with conversations about poverty and inequality. Childish Gambino’s This Is America examines race, violence, and the contradictions of American culture. Kendrick Lamar’s Alright became closely associated with demonstrations against racial injustice. Rage Against the Machine built an entire musical identity around challenging political and economic power.

Different generations, different sounds, different targets. But the impulse is familiar.

The protest song has always been about more than complaining. It is about questioning the assumptions that society has quietly accepted. It is about looking at something everyone else has walked past and asking why it has to be that way.

And perhaps that’s why Signs still feels relevant.

We live in an era where everybody seems to have a sign to hold up. Political signs, ideological signs, religious signs, cultural signs. Everyone has a declaration about what America should be, who belongs, who doesn’t, and what everyone else ought to believe. Social media has effectively turned the entire country into one enormous bulletin board, with everybody competing to make their message the biggest and loudest.

The irony is that we have more ways to communicate than any generation before us, yet we seem increasingly determined to stop listening to one another.

The original song was questioning the authority behind the signs. Today’s protest songs often question the authority behind the institutions, policies, and cultural expectations that shape our lives. They challenge inequality, discrimination, violence, political corruption, economic opportunity, and the concentration of power.

But there is another important connection between then and now: protest music doesn’t necessarily have to provide an answer. Sometimes its purpose is simply to make people uncomfortable enough to ask a question.

That’s what music has always done particularly well. It takes an idea that might otherwise be buried in a newspaper editorial or political speech and turns it into something people can sing together. A melody makes an argument memorable. A chorus makes frustration communal. And sometimes a three-minute song can communicate something that a three-hour political debate never manages to accomplish.

I suppose that’s why I find myself returning to songs like Signs. Not because I necessarily agree with every interpretation someone might attach to the lyrics, but because the underlying question remains worth asking: Who put that sign there, why is it there, and who benefits from everyone else following it?

Fifty-five years later, we’re still arguing about the signs. We’re still debating who gets to put them up, who gets to take them down, and who gets to decide what they mean.

Maybe that’s the real legacy of the protest song. It isn’t necessarily that it changes the world overnight. It’s that it reminds us not to accept the world simply because somebody put up a sign telling us that’s the way things are supposed to be.

And if there’s one thing worth carrying forward from the music of the 1960s into the arguments of today, it’s this:

Don’t just read the sign. Question the person who put it there.