Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The administration insists that Donald’s first year back in the White House will be remembered as the most transparent in history. And who are we to argue with transparency you can physically hold in your hand? There it is, thick and glossy, applied with a heavy Sharpie—America’s new official governing instrument—dragged lovingly across documents until entire paragraphs disappear like facts at a campaign rally.

This is not secrecy, we are told. This is curation. Transparency, but editorial. You see, the public doesn’t need to know everything—only the parts that survived the marker. The rest was clearly unimportant, dangerous, or insufficiently flattering. If sunlight is the best disinfectant, then Sharpie is sunscreen: SPF 10,000, protects delicate egos from harmful exposure to reality.

Donald promised a “year in review,” but what we got was a year in reductions. Budgets reduced. Regulations reduced. Truth reduced to bullet points that fit on a bumper sticker. Entire agencies learned that efficiency doesn’t mean doing things better—it means doing fewer things, preferably nothing at all, and calling it innovation. Government, streamlined to the point of invisibility.

Press briefings became performance art. Questions were answered with answers to different questions, preferably ones no one asked. Follow-ups were treated like hostile acts. Reporters learned quickly that curiosity was unpatriotic and context was optional. When documents were released, they arrived looking less like records and more like modern art: bold black lines intersecting white space, titled Freedom.

The administration explained that redactions were necessary for national security. Specifically, the security of Donald—from embarrassment, accountability, and occasionally verbs. Anything that suggested foresight, coordination, or responsibility was deemed classified. Anything that suggested someone else might deserve credit was immediately erased. Transparency does not mean letting the public see how the sausage is made; it means letting them admire the label.

And yet, we were constantly reassured that nothing improper was happening behind those black bars. “If there were something to hide,” the logic went, “you wouldn’t be seeing all these documents.” Which is like claiming honesty because you handed someone a diary with every sentence crossed out except I was right.

Executive orders flew fast and loose, often announced before the ink was dry or the consequences were considered. When outcomes didn’t match promises, the promises were quietly revised—or loudly denied. It turns out governing by instinct is much easier when instinct is never fact-checked.

By the end of the year, transparency had been fully redefined. It no longer meant clarity or openness. It meant repetition. Say something often enough, loudly enough, and with enough confidence, and eventually it becomes “clear.” If contradictions appeared, they were simply alternate truths, waiting their turn.

So here we are, one year in: a government that sees itself as an open book—provided you don’t mind that most of the pages are missing, the rest are blacked out, and the author keeps insisting it’s a bestseller. Transparency has never been so opaque. And apparently, that’s the point.