By Dave O. Family stories are the first history lessons most of us get. And like a lot of history, they’re messy. I grew up being told that my ancestor, Porter McGhan, was a First Nation person—an Indian child adopted into a Scottish immigrant family. That story held a certain reverence in my heart. I was a step-child, adopted, in a fashion, and I was always acutely aware of it.  But the past doesn’t always sit still. Recent DNA testing suggests that Porter may not have been Indigenous at all—but Corsican. Mediterranean roots, not Native ones. And while that DNA test might change the narrative, it didn’t make me think any less of Porter. In fact, it made me think more about how we define identity—and who gets to draw the lines. "tintype' portrait of Porter McGhan A Beginning Without a Clear Origin Porter’s beginnings were uncertain. Family lore holds that he was abandoned or orphaned as an infant, new to a complicated world from his first breath. His mother died in child-birth. After burying his wife, Porter’s father reportedly abandoned the baby and disappeared into the unknown. As the story goes, Farmer McGhan, himself an immigrant, hearing the plight of the family, walked ten miles and rescued the orphaned baby. McGhan, a man who had come to America not with wealth or pedigree, but with enough grit to build a life from scratch. That act—of taking in a child, giving him a name, and raising him as his own—wasn’t just a kindness. It was a declaration. In a world obsessed with bloodlines, McGhan built his family differently: with intention, not inheritance.  Into the Fire In May of 1862, as the Civil War escalated, Porter joined the newly formed 17th Michigan Infantry. He was just one of thousands of young men, many of them first generation immigrants, swept into the currents of war. Just weeks after Porter’s enlistment, on August 27, 1862, the regiment boarded trains to Washington, D.C., Their first test came fast: South Mountain on September 14, then Antietam three days later—September 17, 1862. It was the bloodiest single day in American history. Porter was there. And he was wounded. A wound to his leg, ending his military career just weeks after it had begun. He was sent home on a medical furlough. In January 1863, Porter was discharged in Detroit, the paperwork citing a “gunshot wound - inner and lower aspect of right thigh.”  We Don’t Get to Look Away So who was Porter McGhan? He was a child taken in. A soldier wounded in one of this nation’s bloodiest battles. A man whose life crossed the boundaries of blood, nation, and certainty. He stood when called—not for a narrow idea of heritage, but I'd like to believe, for something larger. For belonging. For future generations. For home. And now, I look around and wonder what he would think of the country he helped hold together. Because today, nativist passions are boiling over. What was once billed as a crackdown on dangerous gang members has morphed into a brutal assault on immigrant communities—indiscriminate, inhumane, and escalating. People with legal status are being taken from homes, workplaces, and schools by masked marauders. Families are being torn apart in broad daylight. We are witnessing children ripped from their parents’ arms. Not by necessity. Not according to law or custom. But by design. And we are expected to call it policy instead of what it is: cruelty. Maybe it’s because of Porter—because of the uncertainty around his origins, the fragility of his belonging, the debt I feel to those who made space for him—that I can’t see this moment as anything but an assault on humanity itself. This post is for him. And for every child who doesn’t know if the adults in their life will retun home work tonight. For every parent who crossed a border not to break the law, but to keep a promise, to feed a family. For every American who believes that who we claim and how we treat the most vulnerable is what defines us in the end. We don’t get to look away. Not if we’ve inherited anything worth keeping.

(Cirrocumuli Field Notes) Yesterday I watched two people talk—really talk—about politics. Not shouting, not posting, not retreating into algorithmic corners. Just a long, intense, frustrating conversation between two human beings trying to make sense of the mess we’re all swimming in. They went at it for a solid half hour. Body language animated but respectful. No fists. No eyerolls. No easy exits. When they finally paused, both looked a little worn down. A little exasperated. You could see it on their faces— “Why don’t they get it?” But maybe that’s not the point. We’ve grown so used to measuring political discourse by conversions and victories—by who came out on top or who changed their mind on the spot. But that’s not how people work. That’s not how learning works. Engagement isn’t always about being right. Sometimes it’s about being real. Present. Willing to risk the discomfort of not being agreed with. In the mid-90s, I was invited to hear Noam Chomsky speak. I disagreed with almost everything he said. I sat there thinking, This guy doesn’t have a clue.  But I heard him. I really heard him. And over the years—through a hundred different glitches in the matrix, through moments of crisis and clarity—I’ve had to admit to myself, Oh fuck… he was right. That moment didn’t change me on the spot. But it left a seed. And that seed has rippled outward for decades. That’s the kind of engagement I hope to nurture - to learn - not the kind that wins arguments, but the kind that plants something deeper. A habit of listening. A muscle for holding tension. A willingness to stay at the table even when it would be easier to walk away. We don’t need everyone to agree. We need more people who are willing to stay in it . Because democracy doesn’t require unanimity. It requires presence. And sometimes, that’s more than enough to begin. Engaging with different viewpoints isn’t about surrendering your convictions—it’s about strengthening your capacity to live in a world where other people exist.

Estimating crowd size is a tricky business in D.C., but long experience helps. By every reasonable measure, the  Unite for Veterans Rally  on the National Mall yesterday brought out  at least 25,000 to 30,000 people —a conservative estimate. What’s clear is this: something has shifted. Gone is the groping disorientation of January and February. The mood now is focused. Angry. Resolved. People aren’t just showing up—they know  why  they’re showing up. And they know this isn’t a season. It’s an era.  We are in the fight of our lifetimes. The speaker who grabbed my attention was  Cecil Roberts , a sixth-generation coal miner and Vietnam combat veteran, with the Capitol dome standing tall behind him. Roberts, president of the United Mine Workers of America, didn’t deliver a speech—he delivered a call to conscience. Invoking Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Roberts spoke about the moral imperative of fighting for something greater than oneself. “If a man has not discovered something that he will die for, he isn’t fit to live,” Roberts quoted. The meaning was clear:  this is a fight , and yes, you’re going to take some lumps. But the lumps are nothing compared to the deeper purpose—the cost of freedom, the price of dignity, the shared struggle for justice. A few minutes later, the Dropkick Murphys came on. The atmosphere cracked open—electric, alive, defiant. Mother Jones once said, “Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living.”  That spirit hung thick in the air on the Mall. This isn’t about pageantry. It’s about policy. It’s about who gets to live with dignity, who gets care, who gets heard. The call now is to  organize, amplify, and protect each other . Not someday. Not in theory. But right now. Bring your voice. Bring your art. Bring your outrage. We need all of it. We’re awake now. And we’re not going back to sleep.

Timothy Snyder begins On Tyranny  with a warning that echoes louder every day: “ Do not obey in advance .”  It’s not just a lesson from history—it’s a diagnosis of the present. Tyranny doesn’t always arrive with a bang. More often, it creeps in through silence, courtesy, and deference. It thrives not on orders, but on anticipation—when people adjust their speech, their values, their gaze, before anyone even asks them to. The problem didn't start with Trump. American society, for all the talk of independence, is remarkably obedient in this way. An example that comes to mind is Colin Kaepernick. Here was a man who, quietly and respectfully, refused to stand for the anthem as a form of protest. Not violence. Not disruption. Just dissent. And the cost? He was cast out. Not officially. Not with fanfare. But with a collective shrug—a professional blackballing that many treated as justified. As if we had all silently agreed that refusing to go along, even when morally compelled, deserved punishment. It was preemptive obedience that made it possible. The kind that says, “Well, he should’ve known better.” Or worse: “He made his choice.” The kind of thinking that justifies erasure because it’s uncomfortable to witness conviction. What about the War on Drugs? One of the most staggering examples of preemptive obedience in American history—a campaign waged not just through laws, but through cultural consent. Over decades, we constructed a vast custodial complex to punish addiction and poverty, branding it as protection. We locked people in cages—millions of them, disproportionately Black and brown—under the banner of public safety. But who were we really protecting? Often, the justification came dressed in paternalism: “They need discipline.” “It’s for their own good.” As if criminalization was a form of care. And through it all, the objections were minimal. Obedience didn’t require agreement—only acquiescence. Politicians gained points for being “tough on crime,” while entire communities were gutted. Schools became pipelines. Neighborhoods lost fathers, sisters, sons. And the rest of society watched, largely unmoved, convinced the system was working—or at least not working against  them. The machinery of mass incarceration wasn’t just built with bricks and bars. It was built with silence . More recent—more quietly, but just as corrosively—on platforms like LinkedIn. Communities of professionals, many impacted by the recent wave of unconstitutional, illegal, hostile, and in many cases needlessly cruel actions taken by DOGE, remain largely silent. And when someone does try to speak up, they’re often met with disdain or tone-policing from peers. "No politics here on Linkedin!" No one’s ordering people to be quiet. We just are. Because obedience has become habit. Snyder’s lesson isn’t abstract—it’s personal. It asks: Where have I gone along with something I didn’t believe in? Where have I stayed silent because I thought it was safer? There’s no shame in admitting it. That’s where the work begins. Do not obey in advance  is not a call for rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It’s a reminder that democracy is lived one choice at a time. One conversation. One refusal to nod along when something feels wrong. We don’t need permission to resist. But we do need each other. Thought For The Day: Think of a moment—recent or long past—when you felt something was wrong but stayed silent or went along. What stopped you from speaking or acting? What were you protecting? What did it cost? Now consider: What would it take—individually or collectively—to respond differently next time?

There’s a strange symmetry in American political discourse: the more fabricated an outrage, the more airtime it receives; the more devastating and real, the more it is buried beneath the noise. We are, in many ways, a nation trained to feel more than we think, to react harder to symbols than to systems. Consider the enduring myth of the spat-upon Vietnam veteran—a story so deeply woven into our national memory that it often goes unquestioned. But as Vietnam veteran and sociologist Jerry Lembcke  painstakingly documented in his book The Spitting Image , the narrative doesn’t hold up. Through a thorough investigation of media reports, court records, and military documentation, Lembcke found no credible evidence  that anti-war protesters spat on returning soldiers. In fact, many in the anti-war movement viewed soldiers as victims of the war machine, not its enemies. Some veterans even became anti-war leaders themselves. So where did the story come from? Lembcke argues it was a political construction—a narrative designed to delegitimize dissent, to paint the anti-war movement as unpatriotic, ungrateful, and dangerous. The myth found a powerful ally in pop culture, with films like First Blood  cementing the imagery of the disrespected warrior betrayed by the public. And yet, here we are. Decades later, the very people who invoke this myth to stir outrage have remained largely silent  in the face of a very real, very current betrayal : the massive cuts to veterans’ services embedded in recent budget proposals. Where is the wall-to-wall media coverage? Where are the performative floor speeches? Where is the righteous indignation? It’s one thing to defend veterans from imagined slights. It’s another to defend them from real material harm—cuts to healthcare, mental health services, housing, and job programs. These aren’t just numbers on a spreadsheet. They are lifelines. And they are being severed with hardly a whisper of public outrage. It’s easier, perhaps, to be angry at a phantom than to confront the mechanisms of actual suffering. Outrage is a renewable resource in American politics—but empathy, especially when it involves policy, seems to be in shorter supply. Let’s stop feeding the myths while ignoring the facts. If we truly care about those who’ve served, we should be shouting now—not about what may have happened in a movie script decades ago, but about what’s happening to real people, right now.

In two days, I will step away (pushed) from a long career as a federal employee.  It’s a strange, weighty moment—the closing of one chapter and the beginning of something I’ve been quietly building toward for years. I’ll have more to say once retirement is securely in place. And yes, when the time comes, I’ll step out from behind the nom de guerre (did you really think I was named Porter McGhan?). For now, I want to speak to what’s next—and what I hope to build. The technical vision for No Act Too Small  is largely complete. The foundation has been laid. The site is live, stable, and growing—capable of hosting flyers, streaming audio, managing events, and offering tools for action, reflection, and connection. The structure is there. Now comes the harder, deeper work: creating content  and telling stories that matter . This past weekend, I performed live at Columbus Circle alongside the incredible folks at MaydayMovementUSA . The show went well—despite a few technical hiccups that kept me from recording it. But that moment, standing there among organizers, music flowing across the plaza—it reminded me: this is how we move people. With sound. With story. With presence. This was the original vision—to be out in the streets with my thunder cart, bringing the funk. The Thunder Cart has been deployed. I’ve dabbled in DJing and music production for years. But in early February, when I watched in horror at what DOGE was about to do to the federal workforce—and to constitutional government—I knew I’d need to take to the streets. But I wanted to do more than hold a sign. I wanted to bring a lifetime of skills to the project. I wanted to help tell stories—with songs, with images, with everything I had. This week, I’ve dusted off the camera gear. The mic is ready. The timing is right. The federal chapter is closing, and a new one begins. Content creation is the next frontier—and there are so many stories that need to be told. To that end, I’m looking for collaborators. When I first put the call out, it was for coders to help build the site. Ben from theblop.org gave me an important nudge and introduced me to 21st century coding (ChatGPT). Beyond that I didn’t gain much traction on the tech side. But I had a vision and i muddled through. But now that the platform is in place, I’m shifting the call: I’m looking for writers, videographers, DJs, photographers, editors, organizers, and storytellers . People with something to say. People who know what’s at stake. If that’s you—get in touch. Let’s build something lasting. This is just the beginning. —Porter (for now)

It always starts quietly. A subpoena. A cease and desist letter. An arrest on technical grounds. The regime insists it’s just “following procedure.” But the reality is clear: the legal system is being weaponized to suppress dissent. This is not new. From abolitionists to anti-colonial organizers, the law has long been used to punish those who disrupt the status quo. But now, it’s accelerating—and increasingly public. In just the past few weeks: The DOJ is investigating ActBlue , the nation’s leading progressive fundraising platform. The FTC is targeting Media Matters , a group known for scrutinizing right-wing media. DHS has been pressuring Harvard  amid political protest fallout. The Executive Office has turned its sights on law firms aligned with Democrats . A sitting Democratic lawmaker has been indicted by a U.S. Attorney . A liberal activist has been arrested under questionable pretense . Foreign students have had their legal status revoked , reportedly in connection to protest activity. This isn’t governance. It’s message-sending. These actions don’t just punish individuals—they warn the rest of us. Organize, and you’ll be audited. Speak, and you’ll be charged. Align with the wrong cause, and you may be erased. But this is also a moment for clarity. Authoritarianism thrives on confusion and fatigue. The antidote is visibility, shared language, and collective readiness. That’s why we’ve created a concise Action Guide —not as legal advice, but as a field manual for bearing witness, building response , and staying upright  when the law is used to knock you off balance. It outlines how to name repression for what it is, build support networks, defend public narrative, and protect your emotional bandwidth while continuing to organize. The goal of legal repression is to isolate and demoralize. Our response must be to connect, communicate, and endure. Read the guide. Share it with your circles. And remember—when fear is the point, courage is the answer. [Read the Action Guide →]

Five days into Malta—a small island that wasn’t on my bucket list, hadn’t been romanticized in my mind, and came without grand expectations. I was more interested in the tax code than the culture. And yet, I felt something here that has become rare of late, a sense of ease. A sense of being welcome. A sense of belonging. It’s a quiet thing, hard to describe but unmistakable. The woman at the bakery who greets me like a neighbor. The stranger at the bus stop who offers help without suspicion. The absence of the low-level wariness that colors so much of daily life back home. These are small gestures, yes—but they carry moral weight. They whisper a truth I hadn’t realized I missed: this is what it feels like to live among people who still know how to be people. In America, we’re told we’re free, but too often we feel unmoored—atomized in a landscape of privatized interactions and polite avoidance. Our culture rewards independence and self-reliance, but it increasingly resembles a kind of social loneliness, dressed up as empowerment. The coffee shop barista smiles because it’s protocol. The self-checkout kiosk never forgets to upsell. There is warmth, but it’s branded. There is connection, but it’s conditional. The American experience prizes individual liberty—but what if that liberty has come at the cost of a shared public life? What if, in our pursuit of autonomy, we’ve lost something quieter but no less vital: the daily rhythms of trust, ease, and mutual recognition? In Malta, I am not a client or a consumer—I am a guest. And that distinction matters. It suggests a kind of moral architecture that still holds: one built not on suspicion or performance, but on the assumption that we are, in fact, in this together. It may sound romantic. But if anything, it’s a critique. It shows what we’ve normalized in the U.S.—a society where suspicion feels safer than generosity, where efficiency trumps hospitality, and where belonging is too often something you pay for. I don’t want to make Malta a symbol or an ideal. It’s just a place. But the fact that it felt so different, so instantly human, should give us pause. It should make us ask what kind of culture we want to live in—and what we’re willing to trade in order to feel less alone.

After two days in Malta—a sun-bleached outcrop in the middle of the Mediterranean—I’ve come to a conclusion as plain as the local bread and as bitter as the espresso: I feel more welcome here among strangers than I do back home among my own tribe. There is a peculiar kind of warmth here. Not the saccharine, scripted kind dispensed at American retail counters by people who know the boss is listening, but a natural, unstudied ease. The woman who hands me my pastizzi seems to actually want me to enjoy it. The teenager who helped me to decipher the bus schedule didn’t glance nervously to see if I’m armed. The greetings are not obligations; they are customs born of a society not yet fully atomized. Compare this to the land of the free, where one is technically surrounded by fellow citizens, but feels adrift in a fog of mutual suspicion. Neighbors avoid eye contact, cities become mazes of self-checkout kiosks and privatized sadness, and human connection is relegated to app-based approximations. America, for all its swaggering wealth and rhetorical freedom, increasingly feels like a fortress of solitary confinement cells. One begins to suspect that our condition is not just political or economic, but existential. We are estranged not just from each other, but from the very idea of a shared public life. We are ruled by what Mencken might call “the iron whimsy of individualism run amok.” Everyone is sovereign, everyone is a brand, everyone is an influencer, and everyone is alone. In Malta, I am no one’s client. I am a guest. And that, perhaps, is the distinction that makes the ache of return so acute. Let the technocrats automate connection. Let the demagogues offer tribal belonging with a heaping dish of bile. I’ll take instead the nod from the baker, the wave from the man on the scooter, the brief illusion—no, the real sensation—of being among people who still know how to be people

In Derrick Bell’s haunting allegory  The Space Traders , America is offered untold riches, clean energy, and the promise of a renewed golden age—in exchange for handing over all its Black citizens to an alien civilization. The shocking part of the story isn’t the offer—it’s how quickly the American public, the media, and the government rationalize it as a necessary sacrifice for the nation’s future. Bell’s critique lands hard: when progress is on the table, justice is often what gets bargained away. That story has never felt more relevant than now, as we watch Elon Musk’s  Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE)  advance a proposal to "retool" the entire federal workforce using AI. On paper, it’s pitched as efficiency: smarter government, leaner systems, fewer errors. But the real numbers tell a darker story:  285,000 federal workers displaced , vital public programs gutted or turned into automated shells, and countless lives—particularly among the most vulnerable—left at greater risk. Bill Gates recently cut to the core of it:  “ The picture of the world’s richest man killing the world’s poorest children is not a pretty one .”  The gutting of food programs, medical access, housing support, and tribal and rural services isn’t hypothetical—it’s already begun. Like Bell’s Space Traders, DOGE offers a gleaming future built on a cruel tradeoff. It seduces the public with the promise of AI-run efficiency while ignoring the very real  human infrastructure  that keeps society alive: teachers, health workers, data analysts, grant managers, community program staff. People, not code, are still the soul of public service. What makes the Space Traders allegory so chilling is its quiet inevitability. It asks: what are we willing to trade for the illusion of progress? Who gets erased so that others can believe in the fantasy of a perfect, technological tomorrow? In our fight to resist authoritarianism, we must also resist the dehumanization disguised as innovation. Because the future we’re being sold isn’t just a vision—it’s a transaction. A transaction where the people least equipped to pay - will pay the most. P.S. “Space Traders”  is one of his most well-known works of critical race theory fiction , blending science fiction with legal and social commentary. Now you know why they hate it - it makes people think about injustice.

No Act Too Small is more than a flyer gallery—it’s a full platform designed to support sustained, strategic activism. At the core of the site are four distinct  hubs , each built to serve a specific need within the movement. Whether you’re organizing, learning, recovering, or showing up for the first time, there’s a space for you here. 🔹 Action Hub The heartbeat of NATS. The Action Hub features a constantly updating collection of  flyers from across the country —protests, teach-ins, mutual aid drives, vigils, and more. You can  filter by date, city, or type of action , making it easy to find what’s happening near you or amplify what matters most. This is where movement energy takes visual form. 🔹 Resource Hub Practical and always growing, the Resource Hub is your go-to for  legal guides, organizing tools, tactical playbooks , and strategic insights. Whether you're running your first meeting or planning a direct action, this hub helps you get smarter, safer, and more effective. 🔹 Safety Hub We take safety seriously—on the street, online, and everywhere in between. The Safety Hub includes guides for  digital security, protest readiness, legal rights , and how to keep your community protected while staying engaged. Stay prepared and know your rights. 🔹 Self-Care Hub Movements can’t last without care. The Self-Care Hub centers  mental health, recovery, and resilience , offering resources for rest, reflection, and community support. From burnout prevention to trauma-informed tips, it’s here to help sustain the people who sustain the work. Each hub is updated regularly, designed with usability in mind, and part of our broader mission: to make grassroots action more accessible, durable, and connected. Explore the hubs. Share them widely. And stay in the fight—on your terms, with the support you need.

No Act Too Small is growing—and not just in numbers, but in depth, functionality, and reach. This past month, we’ve welcomed a wave of new members, each bringing new energy and perspective to the movement. Whether you’re organizing on the ground or following from afar, we’re glad you’re here. We’ve also launched a new Resource Hub —a curated space filled with tools, guides, and reference materials to help you take action, stay informed, and build stronger communities. It’s just the beginning of what we hope will become a deep well of knowledge for organizers of all experience levels. On the tech side, we’ve made important improvements to our flyer sorting and filtering features. Finding events that matter to you—by location, date, or type—is now smoother and more intuitive. And yes, the site itself just feels better: we’ve refreshed the visual design to make everything more clear, more vibrant, and more accessible. Behind the scenes, our automated data flows are working 24/7—adding new protest flyers to the Action Hub every day. This means the map of movement activity you see is always in motion, always growing, and always ready for you to explore. Thanks for staying connected. Every click, every share, every conversation helps us grow this thing into something even stronger. Stay tuned—the Digital Flyer Maker is tantalizingly close.