Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Oh, the toughness. The grit. The unflinching, ice-veined masculinity of Trump and his acolytes, embodied in the loyal stormtroopers of ICE. These men (and a handful of women, mostly for photo ops) like to remind us at every opportunity that they are the wall between “civilization” and the chaos of desperate families whose biggest crime is fleeing gang violence or famine. Clad head-to-toe in black tactical gear, Kevlar vests bulging at the seams, they strut like they’ve just parachuted into a war zone. Except the “war zone” usually turns out to be a church basement, a community clinic, or a Greyhound bus. And the “enemy combatants”? Women clutching toddlers, children carrying juice boxes, maybe a grandfather with a limp. The ICE commandos throw them down, cuff them, and parade their bravery, because obviously the most pressing threat to the Dear Leader’s empire is a six-year-old with a Pokémon backpack.

But wait—don’t be fooled. These guys are tough. Just ask them. They’ll tell you all about the dangers they face, about how every knock on a door could be their last, every detention center raid a brush with death. Except, of course, when there actually is violence at a detention center, the tough-guy narrative collapses faster than Trump trying to walk down a ramp. Case in point: a shooting erupts in one of their beloved cages. One detainee killed, two others injured. Blood spilled, lives shattered. And ICE? Well, not a single one of these Kevlar-clad warriors so much as grazed by a bullet. But still, they clutch their pearls, wipe their brows, and scream, “ICE is under attack!”

Let’s pause and admire the audacity of this victim cosplay. Three migrants—people locked up in conditions so inhumane that Amnesty International can’t write reports fast enough—are the ones who pay in flesh and blood. Yet somehow, ICE manages to spin it into a war story where they’re the heroes, and simultaneously, the victims. It’s a remarkable talent, really: turning human suffering into propaganda for more funding, more toys, more jackboots.

And Trump? Oh, he eats it up. For a man who nearly collapses when an escalator turns into stairs, ICE is the perfect extension of his mythology. They are his muscle, his black-clad avatars of “strength.” Never mind that their “strength” is deployed against terrified families who pose less threat than a malfunctioning handrail. Never mind that when real violence intrudes, ICE is nowhere near the line of fire. In Trump’s telling, they are warriors besieged, noble gladiators defending the republic from the invasion of—checks notes—mothers nursing babies.

What’s most grotesque is how eagerly the cult laps it up. They cheer the images of ICE agents dragging children away at dawn, but then demand sympathy and tax dollars when their “heroes” cry danger after not even being scratched in an actual shooting. These are the “tough guys” America is supposed to admire: soldiers in an imaginary war, cosplaying courage while avoiding any real risk. They puff out their chests, pose for campaign ads, and remind us of their bravery—all while their Dear Leader trembles at the sight of a staircase.

If this is toughness, then maybe toughness has gone the way of Trump’s escalator: broken, ridiculous, and leading nowhere.