On July 17, I joined a group of Vermonters for a Good Trouble Lives On action in a village near where we were staying that month. Over the past 161 straight days, a small but determined contingent of mostly white, mostly grey-haired, mostly too-polite-to-make-much-trouble residents had been gathering at noon to protest US President Donald Trump’s policies on a little triangle of land where two streets meet in the village center. Their number had swelled to several dozen on that very hot day, a significant turnout for a community of fewer than 1,000 people. The majority of those driving past us flashed their lights, waved, or nodded in support, including the driver of a giant Pepsi delivery truck. (Since signs asked drivers-by not to honk because the noise upset the neighbors, honkers, I was told, were the opposition.) A young organizer tried to start a chant of protest, but the majority made it clear that they preferred to stand quietly, and she gave up.

It was civil, respectful, and earnest—very Vermont and, as it should have been, lots of fun. In the midst of it, I found myself thinking about a conversation several days earlier with a woman I’ll call Laura, whom I’ve come to know over the summers we’ve spent in Vermont. She’d stopped by to say hello and chat. And though we usually steer clear of national politics, recognizing, I think, that our views on the subject don’t align particularly well, this time we ventured carefully into talk about Trump’s America the second time around.

She told me that she didn’t see much difference. The stock market was still strong, and her groceries didn’t cost her much more when she went to shop.

She probably stands to benefit (as do I) from some of the revisions in tax legislation misnamed Donald Trump’s “One Big Beautiful Bill.” She claimed not to pay much attention to political news, and she’s hardly alone there. People’s lives are overburdened enough, or they simply find the news too upsetting. News about that bill was hard to miss, however.

It makes little sense to play by the rules when we have a president who doesn’t even think there are rules.

I told her about the Turkish graduate student at Tufts University (where I had taught journalism) who was nabbed on a street in my neighborhood in March by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents, apparently guilty of nothing more than co-writing an op-ed on Palestine for the college newspaper, which no one reads, including the students there. Laura recognized my distress. ICE was preying on Vermonters then, too. Still, its predatory policies seemed far away from the serenity of our shared afternoon.

Laura is an older woman, highly educated, actively devout, intelligent, resourceful, good-humored, and a long-time resident of a community that struggles to balance its relative wealth with the neediness of surrounding communities. Although she lands on the side of the comfortable, most of her wealth seems to be in land on which taxes keep rising to the limit of what she can afford. She’s deeply invested in local politics when it comes to housing and taxes in her area and particularly the tensions between longstanding Vermonters and newer arrivals. The newcomers—“We call them the stroller mafia,” she told me—pushed through new taxes aimed at curbing short-term rentals to tourists that limit the already-scarce housing available to residents. It was a laudable goal, but bad news for many longtime residents, including some of Laura’s friends who rely on the income from renting out extra rooms in the big houses they bought long ago.

Vermont, for people who have never been there, is cows, multicolored leaves, and Bernie Sanders. Its politics do lean notably progressive, but 10% of Vermonters still live in poverty. The state also suffered devastating floods in 2 of the last 3 summers, and it struggles to pay for adequate education and healthcare for its inhabitants. In other words, it’s like all too many other states, just smaller and with more maple syrup.

I like and respect Laura. Still, while I was patting myself on the back for finding common ground with someone I had classified as “on the other side”—that generous and high-minded territory we’re supposed to seek out in these uncommon and ungenerous times—I had to acknowledge that civility only gets you so far. I struggle to believe that a shared gripe or a joke about the absurdities of American politics brings us closer to agreeing on tax policy or a viable safety net for poor Americans or the humane treatment of immigrants, because common ground is not common cause and that’s what matters now.

It’s not important, maybe not even desirable, that Laura and I agree on everything. Still, in these grim Trumpian times, until reasonable, caring people like her start to reckon with the draconian policies raining down on our heads, as well as on the heads of people without papers and on neighboring Vermonters who stand to lose their healthcare and more in the years to come, I fear that the policies coming out of Washington will only get endlessly meaner and more destructive.

So, there I was, in common cause with those stalwart protesters, cheering the friendly drivers and flashing everyone the peace sign, and all I could think was: This shit is not working.

Neither has much else we’ve tried. Letter writing? Laura would toss out mail from someone she doesn’t know. Phone banking? She’d hang up. (So would I, which is why I no longer make those calls.) Door knocking? Vermont’s small congressional delegation is already left of center, and voters tend to like their own representatives, even when they dislike Congress as a whole, giving incumbents a significant advantage. So, while flipping Congress to the Democrats would revive the possibility of checks and balances, I’m leery of putting too many of my hopes into next year’s midterm elections.

I’m cautious, too, about trusting the rule of law when, despite many favorable lower court rulings, the arc of the Supreme Court seems to bend ever more Trumpward. And sure, so many of us can keep harping on the Epstein files, since that scandal is creepy and (let’s admit it) deliciously dirty, but I doubt any new disclosures—no matter what they reveal—will bring about Donald Trump’s downfall any more readily than his other messes have.

How about congregating in some public arena with thousands (tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions?) of people who already agree with me? May such communal resistance continue to grow in size, commitment, and wit. Building a movement takes time, and such demonstrations bolster solidarity and help create more resistance. So far, however, even the largest protests appear to have dented Trump’s consciousness only in leading him to want to charge George Soros with racketeering for supposedly financing them.

I can sign every petition and read every email from organizations I admire and others I’ve never heard of, each proclaiming calamities scarier than the last one—and then, of course, asking for a donation. And I am scared. Just hearing the words “Stephen Miller” or “Laura Loomer” sends my blood pressure soaring, but I suspect that neither hypertension nor money are the keys to the sea change our political culture needs. The problem isn’t just the challenge of getting Trump........

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