Report: Dipping on the Grand Military Parade

Thank God for anticlimaxes.

America has been on the verge of authoritarian collapse for months, prompting prominent experts on tyranny to move abroad. Timothy Snyder, Marci Shore, and Jason Stanley all fled the United States, with Ms. Shore warning: “the lesson of 1933 is you get out sooner rather than later.” It seemed narratively inevitable that if our democracy were going to fail, it would do so on June 14, 2025—the day President Donald Trump turned seventy-nine and presided over his $45 million Grand Military Parade in Washington, DC, to celebrate his birthday and, ostensibly, the 249th anniversary of the brave men and women of the United States Army. With 6,000 soldiers and 128 tanks in the streets of the capital and the Marines and National Guard surging into Los Angeles, it felt urgent to shift my coverage from the No Kings protests to the parade, which I was convinced would forerun national catastrophe.

At 4 AM that Saturday morning, I was jolted awake to news of the assassination of Democratic lawmaker Melissa Hortman, her husband Mark Hortman, and their dog, and the shooting of state senator John Hoffman and his wife Yvette Hoffman, by someone wearing a horrific latex mask and a police uniform. My first response was “of course,” before realizing I ought to be surprised. The killing of two Democratic lawmakers by Dr. Vance Boelter, the Director of Patrols at “Praetorian Guard Security Services” and CEO of the “Red Lion Group,” both names a bit too on-the-nose, did not put me in the mood to be around MAGA folk who would jeer at that. My assumption—and I expect to be correct—was that Dr. Boelter launched his terroristic murder spree to celebrate Mr. Trump’s grotesque birthday cavalcade.

Inseparable from the headlines about the parade were over 2,000 No Kings protests in all 50 states. Mr. Trump, never one to celebrate free expression for anyone but his grovelers, insisted that if dissent were to interrupt his spectacle, demonstrators “w[ould] be met with very heavy force.” Brevard County Sheriff Wayne Ivey in Florida also publicly fantasized about violence and inflicting bodily harm on Americans, suggesting that participants would be “going to the hospital and then jail,” “bitten by one of our big, beautiful dogs,” and that he would be “notifying [their] famil[ies] where to collect [their] remains, because [the Brevard County Sheriff’s Office] will kill [them], graveyard dead.”

My fear was that Mr. Trump would stand with tanks behind him and it would be an epic backdrop for announcing his Order 66, except instead of killing the Jedi, it would be hunting down the haters. If Mr. Trump has one hater, it is me, wearing a TRUMP IS A BITCH shirt available now at the Partisan Hex web store.

Corey Lewandowski’s mistress, Homeland Security Secretary, and dog killer Kirsti Noem announced as much. While discussing the military occupation of LA—before Senator Alex Padilla was tackled and carried out of the room—she implied that ICE and the National Guard would be participating in regime change: “We are not going away. We are staying here to liberate the city from the socialist and the burdensome leadership that this governor and that this mayor have placed on this country and what they have tried to insert into the city.”

Over the week, I had prepared a disguise so that I would not stand out as a donkey in a leather jacket in a crowd of Mr. Trump’s supporters: pink polo shirt, tan cargo khakis, red Nationals baseball cap, muddied Timberland work boots. My disguise succeeded—I received a hostile reception from DMV locals the whole afternoon while I ran errands. At the gas station, the pharmacy, the liquor store, and Popeyes, people regarded me with unusual tightness.

Expecting heavy traffic en route to the city, I dialed Mr. S., an Appalachian computer engineer, for tips on how to make small talk with salt-of-the-Earth MAGA Republicans. He suggested that I keep my mouth shut, mumble about the weather, or otherwise act drunk and vacant, because he distrusted my ability to “pretend to be anything but a Beltway asshole.”

He remained skeptical that there was any value to patronizing the fascist spectacle, except to “see some cool hardware,” but still listened while I ranted that the administration’s deliberate and unsubtle distortions about assaulting Mr. Padilla had reaffirmed the importance of seeing things myself, as this regime’s accounting cannot be trusted.

The senator from California had entered the Wilshire Federal Building through the front door, cleared a metal detector, and was escorted into the media area by an FBI agent. He did not burst into the room shouting questions or “lunging” at Ms. Noem, as she has disingenuously alleged. I doubt these security professionals failed to communicate with their peers inside the space about the presence of an additional protectee. To see the Homeland Security secretary fabricate otherwise—the tape shows one thing, Fox News another—caused me to worry that if some Tiananmen episode happened at this parade, the public would be misinformed.

Mr. S. suggested all the chaos was “a distraction” from the stories that “really mattered”: former co-president Elon Musk’s assertion that Mr. Trump was in the Epstein files, and the reporting on the Wall Street acronym “TACO,” meaning “Trump Always Chickens Out.” He told me: “Remember TACO.”

Mr. S. also asked what I thought about the movements toward war by Israel and Iran. I told him real fighting made this parade seem small—Iran and Israel are shooting drones and missiles while America admires its old rolling tanks. We are deploying our military inward while the world moves without us.

He seemed troubled. When pressed, he asked me where the red line would be, if troops on the ground were not enough, but then started laughing. “Glad I’m nowhere near a city.”

“Well, I’m going into the center,” I said, with feigned resolve.

I passed a mile of protesters lined up along the highway going into the District; I wished I could have been with them instead.

Despite repeated warnings not to drive through the city, because traffic would be terrible, I had the road to myself. The streets were worse during the preparation than the event itself. I had my pick of parking garages and left my vehicle on an empty floor.

The White House announced an attendance of 250,000, but the city streets did not reflect this. There were some out-of-place red hats, but fewer than the people who were avoiding them. Going towards the Mall, there were police cruisers on every corner, and small pockets of protesters walking away. No Kings had specifically instructed demonstrators to avoid the District to avoid confrontation and drama—presumably to avoid being squished by tanks—but I was pleased to see there were still those on the left inspired to spoil the mood.

I had imagined a “Grand Military Parade” might be visible from the streets, like every other parade I have attended, but while “open to the public,” the public would have to put in real effort to get in. You had to pre-register through a government portal that limited signups to two tickets per phone number. Gates opened at 2 PM, several hours before the 6:30 start time, and it was recommended to arrive early to queue at one of two access points to be screened by the Secret Service at a magnetometer.

If we are going to be a nation that puts tanks on the streets to demonstrate our martial prowess, intimidate our enemies abroad, and threaten dissidents at home, Americans ought to be able to see the parade from their windows or the sidewalk without an RSVP. How am I supposed to be afflicted by shock and awe if I have to go out of my way for it?

The line for the screening was nuts-to-butts with Mr. Trump’s adorers, and while not the longest I had seen, it wrapped around the block and was at least similar in size to a large concert. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wish I could say the genuine attendees suffered in that line, but it looked like they were having fun. Someone was playing music, there was dancing, singing, good spirits, and laughter. For them, it looked like the line was the party. I could not stand it, and there was time yet to spare, so I decided to prioritize my biology over my ideology and cool down before going back to the magnetometer.

I quipped quite a bit about getting squished by a tank. I made the joke on this Substack and to friends and family. I thought it was hilarious—anyone who knows me understands I am not that kind of rebel. But I must have repeated it so much that while I was walking, heating up, and seeking refuge from the sun, my phone lit up with texts saying: “Please don’t get squished. We need you. Come back safely.”

Sadly, the JW Marriott Hotel, a spot I have gravitated to since the Principles First Summit, had its restrooms closed to the public. As a Marriott Titanium Elite member of many years, this defeats my “life hack” of using hotel lobbies to convalesce and get myself correct.

Some restaurants were closed with “because of events downtown” in handwritten signs. Since this ought to be a tourist attraction, which restaurateurs would want to profit from, this indicates that local businesses expected things to be scarier, too.

I stopped in the Smithsonian Museum of American History to catch my breath and drink some Modelitos in the cafeteria after briefly mistaking a hall celebrating America’s dining rooms (the sign read “FOOD”) for a real eatery. I was impressed that right in the foyer was an artifact wall titled “We belong here,” celebrating Title IX and even calling for equality for transgender and nonbinary athletes. I spent some time too in the “Many Voices, One Nation” exhibit, as well as another celebrating American science and ingenuity—all the things this administration is crushing. I remembered the good times, when the District was woke and we had leaders who were not intent on erasing the achievements of half of the population celebrated here.

Nobody bothered me while I stared lustily at President Thomas Jefferson’s handmade lapdesk, which would have come in handy for taking notes on days like this. Something I appreciated about MAGA families exploring the Smithsonian was their commitment to being normal tourists. I tried not to hold contempt for people who came to the city for the parade but were trying to be patriotic and respectful of history, so long as they were not shouting rude things or acting gleefully cruel.

I did not expect that of people with red hats, though it is possible I was not shoved into the lockers at the building entrance because of my disguise. Would they have avoided walking in my way, as I did theirs, if I were wearing a TRUMP IS A BITCH shirt, drinking from an EXCOMMUNICATE VANCE mug, or carrying a FUCK DOGE tote? What if I were wearing a hat that says “PRESS”?

These seemed to be, and likely were, harmless nuclear families looking at giant historical American flags in the “Banners of Liberty” exhibition. But perhaps they were also big fans of Mr. Trump’s mass deportation regime, cheered the pardons of damnable January 6 insurrectionists and traitors, or thought it was “based” that Senator Mike Lee was accusing the Minnesota shooter of being a “Marxist.” It may be that if I got squished by a tank, that family’s patriarch would make memes about it. How do you tell the difference between a person who visits a fascist’s parade because it is a parade and one who consciously admires authoritarianism?

The majority of people in the Smithsonian were not even thinking about what evils the day might bring. They were enjoying their weekend, seemingly immune to the horror that afflicted me.

I went outside to the line again and found that mixture of DC’s humidity and my enemy’s joy unbearable. There were forecasted thunderstorms, though it started to seem like they would not come to cool the air until my misery peaked. My feet hurt. I did not like these people and was not going to suffer to get in with them. The magnitude of unpleasantness was more than I could stand—this was my donkey Hell. I could not continue. I took Mr. S.’s advice, remembered TACO, and chickened out.

My conviction for attending in my capacity as a hater was rooted in my sense of moral disgust for this government’s cruelty and dishonesty. The forces that kept me at bay managed to outweigh that outrage: terrible logistics and uncomfortable weather. Ironically, I would have stuck it out if there had been a thunderstorm. Tanks, troops, and aircraft in front of a dark and stormy sky—an irresistible cover banner. I would have felt such glee watching people in soggy toboggans squinting through the downpour and singing happy birthday to Mr. Trump.

I retreated from the nightmare with the Hamilton soundtrack blasting through my AirPods. Is there a more unflattering image of #Resistance liberalism? I am certain my escape is a type of “cope”—if I do not see it, maybe it was not necessary to see. If it were bad, I would have stayed, right? By fleeing, I have made the unacceptable seem more tolerable.

In the parking garage, I changed into a shirt and tie that I kept in the trunk. I understand the costume changes might sound ridiculous, and they are—we must get this country to a place of civic trust where even a hater like me should have the right to visibly attend a public event without fear. While straightening myself out, any time there was a new siren, I felt a jolt of worry, and prayed the darker half had not arrived, that the parade had not metamorphized into the declaration of the Insurrection Act or martial law or whatever crazed right-wing fantasy crackdown that had felt so imminent in the morning.

I came away with one thing reified: anger against MAGA is rising higher than enthusiasm for it. I will not deceive myself and imagine again their fever is breaking, but clearly fewer people are eager to pledge allegiance in the capital when it is demanding maximal nationalism.

The parade was broadly panned by pundits as “underwhelming,” “disappointing,” “sad,” and “embarrassing,” and all but one Republican senator, Roger Marshall, skipped it entirely. Senator Rand Paul slammed it as “not necessarily the best image to show,” said that he was “never… a big fan of goose-stepping soldiers in big tanks and missiles rolling down the street,” and that “the only parades [he could] remember are Soviet … or North Korean.”

God help me, but I am disappointed by the fascist military parade—even by the standards of fascist military parades. The squeaky tanks, empty bleachers, out-of-step soldiers, the Coinbase sponsorship, the choice to play “Fortunate Son”—the whole thing was parodic. Nobody was even squished by a tank.

"Fortunate Son" played during military parade in DC

Did Mr. Trump even appreciate his spooky little birthday pageant? His face suggests he was bored, and First Lady Melania Trump (whose roles Mr. Trump has reportedly assumed during their current estrangement) appeared to doze off. The Daily Beast reported that afterward, he screamed at ex-Fox News host and Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth for embarrassing him and then excluded him from discussions about the Iran-Israel war.

Well, in that, the president and I are in agreement: Mr. Hegseth is an embarrassment. His appointment was a disgrace, and he ought to be kicked to the curb like a dog.

We were lucky—going into this weekend, things were heading to a dark place. If the country tipped into chaos, it might have started here.

I do not think, by any means, this was the best-case scenario, but it was better than expected. “Better than expected” is not a phrase I would usually use for a weekend where lawmakers were assassinated, gunshots were fired into protest crowds, and a hundred tanks rolled through the streets of D.C. “Better than expected” means we are living in a world where “least bad” is good enough.

Perhaps I should have gotten squished, after all, to improve national morale.

My retreat from the parade only seems excusable because there was no outright crisis. I could have made it through that checkpoint. I had my ticket, a Fisher Space Pen, waterproof Field Notes, and a poncho; I was prepared to record the awful moment, but could not. We may not always have the opportunity to exit a narrative so safely. A day may come when to turn away is to abandon the record of history. As it was, I was defeated by the conditions of the world and my enemies were not. Maybe it does not matter, because nothing happened, but that should not be taken for granted—it is increasingly a privilege to say: “This weekend, I will not participate.”

I do not regret returning home—by the time I had my shoes off, it became clear that whether I stayed or left, only anticlimax awaited; the national meltdown was in another castle.

What I did not anticipate was that I misjudged the scale of the No Kings protests. I had thought dinky local rallies would be the lesser from a historical lens, but those decentralized demonstrations, in sum, turned out to be the real grand parade. Five million Americans came out to spit in Mr. Trump’s face on his birthday, while only thousands celebrated. Some time in the future, I expect we will be debating whether to call June 14 Flag Day or No Kings Day.