Dwain Northey (Gen X)

From the Rubicon to the Billionaire Bunker: A Love Letter to a Republic in Denial

As the United States limps toward its 250th birthday, it’s worth noting that this is about the age when great republics stop throwing dinner parties and start arguing about who gets the knives. Rome, famously, made it to roughly the same milestone before discovering that “eternal” is more of a branding concept than a guarantee.

Rome, you’ll recall, proudly declared itself a republic. Democracy-ish, anyway. Sure, only male property owners counted, slaves were a thing, women were a punchline, and the Senate was basically a country club with togas—but still, vibes. Sound familiar? Replace “toga” with “blue suit,” “senator” with “donor-funded incumbent,” and you’ve got C-SPAN with better lighting.

America, of course, was not supposed to be Rome. The Founders read Roman history the way modern Americans read WebMD: obsessively and with great confidence they wouldn’t make the same mistakes. No kings! No emperors! No concentration of power! Checks and balances! Virtue! Civic responsibility! And for about five minutes, that worked.

Rome didn’t collapse because of barbarian hordes alone—that’s the cinematic version. The real rot set in when wealth consolidated into the hands of a tiny elite, political power followed the money, and public institutions became props in a performance staged for the masses. The Senate became a rubber stamp. Elections became pageantry. The republic hollowed out long before it fell down.

Again—sound familiar?

In Rome, a few ultra-wealthy families owned everything: land, armies, politicians. In America, we call them “job creators” and give them tax cuts so generous they make Caesar’s triumphs look modest. Rome had bread and circuses to keep the public docile; we have culture wars and cable news panels yelling at each other while billionaires quietly buy another senator.

Rome didn’t intend to become an empire—it just kept expanding “for security reasons.” America didn’t intend to become an empire either; we just accidentally built military bases everywhere and call it “defense.” Totally different. Completely.

And just like Rome, when inequality grew unbearable, strongmen emerged promising to “restore greatness,” “fix corruption,” and “represent the real people.” They always do. Rome got Caesar. America keeps auditioning.

The irony is that Rome knew what was happening. Writers warned about corruption. Philosophers lamented lost virtue. Senators gave impassioned speeches while cashing checks from the very elites dismantling the system. The republic didn’t die screaming—it died nodding politely while saying, “Well, this is concerning.”

Which brings us to the present: a democracy where voting is technically allowed, influence is purchasable, and policy responds less to citizens than to capital. A system where wealth no longer whispers—it legislates.

Rome teaches us that republics don’t fall because people stop believing in them. They fall because too few people matter, too much power pools at the top, and everyone else is told to be grateful for the spectacle.

So here we are, candles out, cake cut, celebrating nearly 250 years of democracy—assuring ourselves we’re nothing like Rome, while walking the same road, reading the same warnings, and insisting this time will be different.

After all, Rome didn’t have a Constitution.

And we’ve never ignored ours when it was inconvenient.

Right?