You Logically Shouldn't Trust Donald Trump

Skepticism is not the same thing as cynicism. Cynicism assumes bad intent. Skepticism simply asks for evidence—especially when a pattern has already been established. When it comes to evaluating statements or policies supported by Donald Trump, the case for heightened scrutiny is not emotional or partisan. It is logical.

In any arena—science, journalism, medicine, finance—credibility is cumulative. It builds over time through accuracy, consistency, and respect for institutional processes. The reverse is also true. When a public figure demonstrates repeated departures from those standards, skepticism becomes a rational response.

Consider the January 2021 phone call in which Trump asked Georgia Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger to “find” enough votes to overturn the state’s certified election result. The recording is public. Regardless of political affiliation, a request to alter a certified outcome raises legitimate questions about judgment and intent. Logically, when future claims about election integrity are made by the same individual, it is reasonable to demand strong, independent verification.

That pattern continued after the 2020 election. Dozens of court cases challenging the results were filed across multiple states. Judges—including some appointed by Trump—dismissed those cases due to lack of evidence. Yet the claims of widespread fraud persisted. When assertions are repeatedly contradicted by judicial findings, the credibility of similar future claims is diminished. That is not ideology; it is pattern recognition.

The events of January 6, 2021 further intensified scrutiny. A mob stormed the U.S. Capitol during the certification of electoral votes after weeks of rhetoric asserting the election had been stolen. While debate continues over responsibility and intent, the undeniable reality is that institutional processes were disrupted following those claims. When rhetoric and institutional instability intersect, subsequent warnings about threats to democracy reasonably invite careful examination rather than automatic acceptance.

Beyond election-related matters, there is the broader issue of factual accuracy. Fact-checking organizations such as The Washington Post and PolitiFact documented thousands of false or misleading statements during Trump’s presidency. No public official speaks with perfect precision at all times. But volume matters. Frequency matters. When inaccuracies are not isolated but habitual, the rational response is to elevate one’s evidentiary standards.

Legal circumstances also factor into credibility. Trump became the first former U.S. president to face multiple criminal indictments, including cases connected to classified documents and alleged election interference. Indictments are not convictions, and due process matters. Still, when legal proceedings directly relate to the subjects on which someone is making public claims, skepticism is not hostility—it is prudence.

There have also been moments that, while perhaps less consequential in isolation, reinforce the broader pattern. In 2019, during Hurricane Dorian, Trump displayed a weather map that appeared altered, contradicting forecasts from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. During the COVID-19 pandemic, he publicly downplayed the severity of the virus at times, even as later recordings suggested he privately understood its risks. Discrepancies between public messaging and documented facts deepen the logic for caution.

Taken together, these episodes form a consistent narrative: repeated assertions that conflict with verified information, pressure applied to institutional actors, and continued promotion of claims rejected by courts and oversight bodies. When this pattern exists, skepticism is not reactionary. It is proportional.

Importantly, skepticism does not mean reflexive rejection. It does not mean opposing something simply because Trump supports it. A policy proposal can be evaluated on its merits regardless of its sponsor. But the speaker’s record informs the level of scrutiny required. If a contractor repeatedly mismeasures blueprints, you double-check the next set. If a CEO repeatedly misstates financials, investors ask more questions. The same principle applies in politics.

This is not about party. The standard should be universal. Any political figure—Republican, Democrat, or independent—who demonstrates a sustained pattern of inaccurate statements, institutional pressure, or evidence-free claims should face heightened scrutiny.

Credibility accumulates. So does doubt.

In that light, being skeptical of claims or initiatives supported by Donald Trump is not an emotional reflex. It is a reasoned response to documented history. The rational position is neither blind trust nor automatic dismissal. It is simple: verify, corroborate, and require evidence proportionate to the record.

You Did It Joe

Joe Biden has been in public service so long that at this point, American history occasionally clears its throat and says, “Joe, you remember this part, right?” And he does. Not because he’s clinging to relevance, but because he was actually there—sometimes literally holding the pen, sometimes holding the grief, sometimes holding the country together with empathy and a slightly raspy whisper.

Let’s start with the obvious: Joe Biden did not wake up one morning at age 78 and decide to cosplay as a politician. This man was elected to the U.S. Senate in 1972, when gas was cheap, phones had cords, and “streaming” referred exclusively to water. He was 29 years old, which meant the Constitution technically allowed it but Congress side-eyed him like, “Is your mom coming to swear you in?”

And then tragedy hit immediately. Before he could even take his Senate seat, Biden lost his wife and daughter in a car accident. Two of his sons were critically injured. Most people would have walked away from public life forever. Biden didn’t. He took the train from Delaware to Washington every single day so he could tuck his boys into bed at night. This wasn’t branding. This was survival. The Amtrak conductor knew him by name. America didn’t know it yet, but empathy was being forged the hard way.

From there, Joe Biden did the unglamorous thing that doesn’t trend on social media: he worked. For 36 years in the Senate. Committee meetings. Foreign policy briefings. Judiciary hearings. Legislation that required reading, revising, negotiating, and—brace yourself—compromising. He chaired the Judiciary Committee, helped shape major violence-prevention laws, played a key role in foreign relations, and showed up for funerals, hearings, and midnight votes long after the cameras left.

Was he perfect? No. Was any senator navigating the political climate of the ’80s and ’90s perfect? Absolutely not. But Biden’s record shows evolution—something we say we want in leaders until they actually demonstrate it. He learned. He changed. He apologized. He grew. And somehow, in American politics, growth is treated like a character flaw instead of evidence of humanity.

Then came the Vice Presidency. Eight years as Barack Obama’s right-hand man, emotional support human, and resident explainer of Congress. Biden wasn’t the “cool” one. He was the “call you after midnight because something awful happened and you don’t want to be alone” one. He helped shepherd the Recovery Act after the 2008 financial crisis, worked on cancer research after losing his son Beau, and became the administration’s bridge to blue-collar voters who felt unseen.

And then—because life apparently decided Joe Biden hadn’t been tested enough—he ran for President after burying another child. At an age when most people are aggressively defending their right to never open another Excel spreadsheet again.

He didn’t run on vibes. He ran on stability. On restoring norms. On believing that government is supposed to function, not perform. On the radical idea that democracy requires maintenance. He inherited a pandemic, an economy in freefall, global instability, and a country that couldn’t even agree on basic facts. And instead of theatrics, he brought process. Instead of chaos, he brought competence. Instead of slogans, he brought… binders. Lots of binders.

Joe Biden is not flashy. He will never dunk on opponents with a viral one-liner. He sometimes loses a sentence mid-flight and just lands it wherever the runway happens to be. But he has spent over half a century doing the same thing: showing up, taking hits, absorbing grief, and continuing to believe that government can be a force for good if the people inside it actually care.

In a political culture obsessed with disruption, Joe Biden represents something deeply countercultural: endurance. The long game. The belief that public service is not about being adored, but about being accountable.

He is the living archive of American governance—flawed, resilient, stubbornly hopeful. A man who has outlasted trends, scandals, and several generations of pundits who confidently declared him “finished” every decade since the Carter administration.

And honestly? That kind of commitment deserves flowers. Or at least a standing ovation. Or maybe just a really good nap—finally not on Air Force One.

Because love him or critique him, Joe Biden didn’t just pass through history.

He clocked in.

Human Rights Come Before Immigration Status

Imagine a young girl hiding in a crowded alley, trying to stay out of sight. In her home country, speaking up against the government or even being the wrong religion could get her hurt—or worse. She flees, traveling with her family, crossing rivers and dusty roads, looking for a place where she can be safe. When she reaches a new country, she does not have papers, a visa, or permission to enter. She is scared, exhausted, and alone—but she is still protected by the law.

That protection comes from something called human rights. Human rights are rules that say every person deserves safety and dignity, no matter where they come from or what their legal status is. Crossing a border without permission does not erase these rights. In fact, the law is very clear: you cannot send someone back to danger.

This principle is called non-refoulement. It’s a big word, but it is simple: no government may return a person to a place where they would face persecution, torture, or serious threats to life or freedom. Non-refoulement comes from international agreements like the 1951 Refugee Convention, the 1967 Protocol, and the Convention Against Torture, and it is considered so fundamental that it applies even beyond countries that signed the treaties.

The United States has incorporated these protections into its own laws. Under the Immigration and Nationality Act, a person may apply for asylum regardless of how they entered the country—whether at a legal port of entry or somewhere else. Everyone must have a chance to present their story and receive due process before any deportation. That means the government must carefully evaluate the risks before making a decision, and no one can be sent back to danger without that review.

Think about a journalist who exposed corruption and is now being hunted by authorities. Think about a woman fleeing domestic violence in a country where the police cannot—or will not—protect her. Think about a family escaping a neighborhood controlled by gangs with a record of killing anyone who resists. All of these people could face death, imprisonment, or torture if sent back. U.S. law recognizes that their fear is real and requires that it be taken seriously.

Even children are protected. Imagine a small child arriving at a border after fleeing war. They may have lost family along the way, traveling alone or with relatives. They may have no legal papers, no money, and no idea what comes next. But human rights law ensures that the child cannot be forcibly returned to a place where they would face danger. Their claim must be heard, their safety prioritized.

This does not mean that everyone who arrives is allowed to stay forever. Borders exist. Immigration laws exist. Many claims are evaluated and denied. But human safety must come first. Every person has the right to be heard, to have their story considered, and to be protected from harm.

Courts in the United States have confirmed that these protections apply to everyone on U.S. soil, not just citizens. The Supreme Court has repeatedly recognized that non-citizens are “persons” under the Constitution, entitled to due process. In Zadvydas v. Davis (2001), the Court emphasized that even immigrants facing deportation must be treated fairly, and their detention and removal cannot be arbitrary.

Human rights are not loopholes. They are not excuses to ignore laws or borders. They exist precisely to prevent cruelty and injustice, even when governments face pressure to act quickly. You can support border enforcement and immigration laws while still insisting that no one is sent back to danger. In fact, the law requires it.

Immigration status is a legal category. Human rights are a legal obligation. Borders exist. Laws exist. But above all, humanity comes first. Every person deserves a fair chance to be safe, and no one should ever be deported to harm.

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References

• Universal Declaration of Human Rights, art. 14 (1948)
• Immigration & Nationality Act, 8 U.S.C. § 1158(a)(1)
• Refugee Convention, art. 33 (1951) & 1967 Protocol
• Convention Against Torture, art. 3
• Zadvydas v. Davis, 533 U.S. 678 (2001)

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Fixing a Problem That Doesn’t Exist: The SAVE Act

As of early 2026, the Safeguard American Voter Eligibility Act (SAVE Act, H.R. 22) has passed the House of Representatives but has not become law. The bill, which requires anyone registering to vote in federal elections to provide documentary proof of U.S. citizenship, passed the House on April 10, 2025, with a 220-208 vote but stalled in the Senate. At first glance, this may sound reasonable—after all, only U.S. citizens should vote. But when you look closer, the law is more about creating obstacles than solving a real problem, and it raises serious concerns for voters, states, and communities.

Under the SAVE Act, all federal voter registration applicants must provide one of several forms of proof of citizenship, such as a U.S. passport, a REAL ID-compliant driver’s license, a military ID with proof of U.S. birth, a certified birth certificate or hospital birth record, or a naturalization certificate. If someone doesn’t have these documents, they can try to submit other evidence and an affidavit, but the process is complex, discretionary, and unfamiliar to many people. The law also requires states to actively verify citizenship using federal databases and to remove any registered voters flagged as non-citizens.

Here’s the kicker: voter fraud by non-citizens is extremely rare. Multiple studies and investigations by organizations like the Brennan Center for Justice have found that incidents of non-citizens voting in federal elections are statistically insignificant—so small that they do not affect election outcomes. In other words, the problem this law claims to solve barely exists, yet the solution could create real problems for millions of eligible voters.

Many U.S. citizens don’t have the required documents. Older voters may have lost birth certificates or were born at home without a hospital record. Low-income families may not have passports or REAL IDs due to cost or difficulty accessing government offices. Native American communities often face unique documentation issues, like inconsistent birth records on reservations. These citizens could be denied the right to vote simply because they lack paperwork.

States would also face a huge administrative burden. Clerks and election offices would need new systems, staff training, and additional resources. Errors in federal databases could wrongly flag citizens as non-citizens, leading to incorrect removals from voter rolls. Mail-in registrations would require extra steps, increasing the risk of delays or rejected applications.

The law raises serious privacy and equity concerns as well. It requires states to share voter registration information with federal agencies like the Department of Homeland Security and Social Security Administration. This raises questions about whether sensitive personal data could be misused or leaked, or whether citizens could be unfairly targeted or disenfranchised because of database errors or racial bias in how information is flagged.

Imagine Maria, a lifelong U.S. citizen, who wants to register to vote before a federal election. She was born in a rural hospital in 1970, and her birth certificate is misplaced. She doesn’t have a passport or a REAL ID yet. Under the SAVE Act, Maria could face extra hurdles, confusing paperwork, or even rejection, despite being fully eligible. Meanwhile, the likelihood of a non-citizen fraudulently registering to vote remains extremely low.

Beyond these practical concerns, we have to ask why the government is spending so much time and energy focusing on small groups of people: non-citizens, trans people, Muslims, and others who are already marginalized. For example, bills restricting voter registration often disproportionately target areas with large immigrant populations. Policies that require strict documentation can make it harder for Native American voters to participate. Efforts to surveil or “verify” citizenship often overlap with broader attacks on Muslim communities or trans people, such as attempts to restrict access to identification or public services. These policies raise the question of whose participation is being questioned and why, even when there is no evidence of widespread fraud.

The SAVE Act presents itself as a solution to voter fraud, but in reality, it addresses a problem that barely exists, makes it harder for eligible voters to register, adds administrative complexity and cost, and raises privacy and equity concerns. In a country where voting should be accessible, safe, and fair, laws like this risk turning a rare problem into a widespread barrier. Instead of fixing something that’s not broken, we should focus on making voting easier and more secure for everyone who is legally eligible.

When Support Makes All the Difference

Life has a way of throwing obstacles in our path. Sometimes they’re obvious — a heavy workload, a health challenge, or a personal loss. Other times, they’re less tangible, the kind that weigh on your mind, heart, or spirit. And often, the obstacles are a mix of both.

There’s an ancient story that captures this perfectly. A man, unable to walk, wanted to reach a teacher known for changing lives. But the path was blocked — the crowd was too dense, the doors too crowded. No matter how much he wanted to get there, he simply couldn’t.

Here’s where the story gets interesting: he wasn’t alone. His friends refused to give up. They were creative, persistent, and willing to do the heavy lifting — literally. When one route was blocked, they found another. They thought outside the box, took action, and got him to where he needed to be. And in that moment, everything changed.

The lesson is clear: sometimes, we can’t do it alone. Even the strongest among us benefit from support. Friends, family, mentors, colleagues — those willing to stand by us, share the load, and help us navigate challenges — can make the impossible possible.

It’s also a story about persistence. Life rarely gives us a straight path. The people who succeed, who transform their situations, are often the ones willing to keep going when the easy way is blocked. They get creative. They don’t give up.

But support and persistence aren’t enough on their own. The man still had to step into the opportunity himself. When the path was finally opened, he had to move, to act, to walk. In life, help and opportunity only take us so far — sometimes, we have to summon the courage to take the next step.

And finally, there’s gratitude. The story reminds us to notice and celebrate progress, both in ourselves and in those around us. Every bit of effort counts — the friends’ persistence, the man’s courage, the final breakthrough. Recognizing these moments strengthens our bonds, fuels hope, and reminds us that change is possible.

At its heart, this is a story about community, courage, and action. Whether or not you believe in divine intervention, the principle is universal: surround yourself with people who lift you up, persist when the path seems blocked, and step into the opportunities that appear. Sometimes, a little help — combined with a willingness to act — can change everything.

History, But Make It Comfortable

There’s a false narrative gaining traction right now—that teaching the truth about slavery, Jim Crow, and racial violence exists to make white people feel guilty. Politicians repeat this as if it’s a fact, as if history itself has intent, as if honesty is somehow an accusation.

But history doesn’t assign guilt. It tells the truth. What people do with that truth—who they choose to identify with—has always been their choice.

When we teach about slavery, we are not telling white people, this is your fault. We are saying, this happened. And once you know that, the only real question becomes: who do you see yourself as in this story?

Because the past was never populated by one kind of white person.

There were white people who enslaved Black people, defended the practice, wrote laws to protect it, and built wealth by stripping others of their humanity. And there were white people who fought against slavery, organized abolitionist movements, helped enslaved people escape, challenged unjust laws, and risked their lives to stand on the side of equality.

Both groups existed at the same time. Both are part of our history.

So when politicians claim that teaching this history makes white people feel guilty, what they’re really reacting to isn’t guilt—it’s choice. Because once people see the full picture, they’re forced to reckon with the fact that neutrality was never neutral, and silence was never harmless.

Guilt isn’t the lesson. Agency is.

Teaching about slavery and Jim Crow doesn’t force shame onto anyone. It reveals how injustice actually works—through systems upheld by ordinary people making ordinary decisions. It shows that oppression wasn’t inevitable or abstract; it was constructed, defended, enforced, and normalized.

If that truth feels uncomfortable, it’s not because of someone’s race. It’s because discomfort often accompanies clarity. Once you understand that injustice was the result of choices, it becomes harder to pretend we don’t have choices now.

That’s the part many politicians are desperate to avoid.

When they claim they’re protecting children, what they’re really protecting is fragility—an unwillingness to let young people ask the obvious questions. Why were some people allowed to own others? Who made those laws? Who challenged them? Who benefited? Who stayed silent?

Those questions don’t indoctrinate children. They help children develop a moral framework. They teach them that the world they inherit was shaped by human decisions—and that they, too, will be asked to make decisions when they encounter injustice.

No one is asking white students to identify with enslavers. But the resistance to teaching this history suggests an assumption that the only white people in the past worth mentioning were villains. That simply isn’t true.

White students are free to identify with abolitionists, freedom riders, civil rights allies, labor organizers, journalists who exposed brutality, lawyers who challenged segregation, and everyday people who refused to comply with unjust systems. Those stories are just as real. They just don’t serve the same political comfort.

So when someone hears about slavery and immediately thinks, this is about me and my guilt, that reaction deserves examination. Because history doesn’t force anyone into a role. It presents options.

You don’t inherit guilt from the past—but you do inherit responsibility in the present. Responsibility to recognize injustice when it appears. Responsibility to decide whether you’ll benefit quietly from an unfair system or challenge it openly.

Teaching history honestly doesn’t shame anyone. It removes the lie that injustice was accidental or unavoidable. It makes room for accountability instead of denial.

It reminds us that systems don’t run themselves. People run them.

And if people built unjust systems, people can dismantle them.

History has never asked, What did your ancestors do?

It asks, Now that you know, what will you do?

You can identify with those who hoarded power—or those who challenged it. With those who enforced cruelty—or those who refused to participate.

That choice belongs to every generation.

And that is exactly why the truth must be taught.

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In My Lifetime, the Halftime Show Has Always Been a Vibe — But Bad Bunny? I’m Losing My Mind!

 

If you’ve been watching the Super Bowl halftime show over the years, you know the drill: flashy, chaotic, a little extra — always a vibe. But when they announced Bad Bunny as this year’s headliner, I didn’t just get excited — I screamed, I danced, I nearly knocked over my coffee. And then I saw some of the reactions online… and I genuinely had to sit down.

People were mad. Mad. Over Bad Bunny. And I thought… are we not all at the gym perreando at least once a week? Like, come on — it’s reggaetón, it’s movement, it’s pure joy.

Then some folks started whining they wanted a “U.S. citizen” to perform. Sweetie… Bad Bunny IS a U.S. citizen. Born in Puerto Rico, which means he literally has papers. Meanwhile, let me remind you of the actual history lesson: several non-U.S. citizens have headlined halftime shows with ZERO backlash — Phil Collins, U2, Shania Twain, Sting, Paul McCartney, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Coldplay, Shakira, J Balvin, The Weeknd, and Rihanna. That’s right, kids — it’s not about citizenship, it’s about your inability to handle a little culture and rhythm.

When the citizenship argument failed (shocker), the outrage pivoted: “Well, his music when translated is explicit.” Oooh, I see, so we’re translating now? Meanwhile, some were floating the idea of Kid Rock performing. You know… the guy who somehow has never had a “translation issue”? Then the pivot shifted again: “It’s because he sings in Spanish.” As if you personally know every word to every English song ever. Chill.

And honestly? I’m DONE with the attitude that basically screams, “If I don’t like it, no one else can enjoy it.” Newsflash: if you don’t want to watch Bad Bunny, fine — don’t watch. But don’t ruin it for the rest of us who actually know how to have fun.

Growing up with Puerto Rican family, hearing some of these takes — especially from a fitness community that claims to be inclusive — has hit a little sideways. Benito isn’t just an entertainer; he’s music, movement, culture, and a WHOLE mood. Respeto es lo mínimo. Respect is literally the bare minimum, y’all.

This halftime show isn’t just a performance. It’s a celebration of music, movement, and culture that so many of us already carry in our playlists and workouts. It’s about embracing joy, dancing unapologetically, and remembering that being inclusive isn’t just a word you throw around like confetti — it’s action.

So here’s my take: put on your sneakers, crank up the reggaetón, grab your cafecito, and let’s perrear like we mean it. Because Bad Bunny is here, and honestly… we DESERVE this vibe.

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