Texas Under Greg Abbott: A Data-Driven Look at the State’s Biggest Failures

For years, Texas leaders have promoted the state as a model of economic freedom, low regulation, and conservative governance. Governor Greg Abbott has repeatedly argued that Texas represents the “future of America.” But beyond the branding and political messaging, many of the state’s measurable outcomes tell a more complicated story.

Texas remains economically large and culturally influential, but on several core indicators — infrastructure reliability, maternal health, healthcare access, and disaster preparedness — the state has struggled under Abbott’s leadership.

The Power Grid Crisis Became a National Embarrassment

The clearest example came during Winter Storm Uri in 2021, when the Texas power grid collapsed during extreme cold.

Millions of Texans lost electricity and heat for days. Pipes burst. Water systems failed. Families burned furniture for warmth. The storm ultimately caused at least 246 deaths according to state figures, though some researchers estimate the true toll was far higher. 

The failure exposed long-standing weaknesses in Texas’ independent electric grid system, overseen by ERCOT and regulated by state-appointed officials. Multiple ERCOT board members resigned afterward. 

Critics argued the disaster was not merely a weather event but a policy failure years in the making. Texas had repeatedly resisted stronger winterization requirements and broader federal grid integration. Even after reforms, energy experts continued warning that the grid remained vulnerable during severe winter events. 

Research also showed the outages disproportionately harmed lower-income and minority communities. 

Abbott initially blamed renewable energy during the crisis, despite investigations later showing failures across natural gas, coal, nuclear, and wind systems. 

Texas Has Some of the Worst Healthcare Access in America

Texas consistently ranks among the worst states for healthcare coverage.

The state has led the nation in uninsured residents for years, largely because Texas leaders refused to expand Medicaid under the Affordable Care Act. Millions of federal dollars were left on the table while roughly 5 million Texans remained uninsured.

The consequences are measurable:

Rural hospitals have struggled or closed.

Preventive care access remains limited.

Emergency rooms absorb routine healthcare demand.

Medical debt remains widespread.

This matters especially in a state with one of the fastest-growing populations in the country.

Abbott’s supporters argue that Medicaid expansion would increase government dependence and long-term spending. Critics counter that refusing expansion has cost Texas both lives and economic stability.

Maternal Health Outcomes Have Worsened

Texas already had one of the highest maternal mortality rates in the developed world before the state enacted some of the nation’s strictest abortion laws.

Since the abortion ban took effect in 2021, researchers and investigative journalists have documented alarming increases in severe pregnancy complications.

A 2025 ProPublica analysis found that sepsis rates among women hospitalized during second-trimester pregnancy loss increased by more than 50% after Texas’ near-total abortion ban took effect. 

Researchers have also warned that abortion bans are likely to increase maternal mortality and severe maternal morbidity, particularly in states like Texas that already had poor maternal health outcomes. 

At the same time, Texas lawmakers restricted how maternal mortality review committees could investigate deaths tied to abortion policy. 

The issue has become a national flashpoint because Texas is effectively serving as a large-scale policy experiment with real public health consequences.

Property Taxes Stayed High Despite Political Promises

Republican leaders in Texas frequently campaign on “low taxes,” but many homeowners have experienced sharp increases in property taxes over the past decade.

Texas has no state income tax, but local property taxes are among the highest in the nation. Rapid population growth and soaring home values have pushed many families’ housing costs upward even when mortgage rates remained stable.

Abbott and state lawmakers passed several property tax relief packages, but critics argue the relief has not kept pace with rising valuations and local tax burdens.

For many middle-class Texans, especially in metro areas like Houston, Austin, and Dallas, the practical cost of living has risen significantly despite the state’s low-tax reputation.

Infrastructure and Disaster Preparedness Continue to Struggle

Texas has increasingly faced overlapping climate and infrastructure challenges:

winter freezes,

hurricanes,

heat waves,

drought,

water shortages,

and grid strain from population growth.

The state’s rapid growth has often outpaced infrastructure planning.

During Hurricane Beryl in 2024, millions lost power again in the Houston region, reviving criticism about energy resilience and emergency management. 

Experts have repeatedly warned that Texas’ approach often prioritizes deregulation and short-term market efficiency over long-term resilience. 

Texas Still Grows — But Growth Alone Is Not Proof of Good Governance

Supporters of Abbott point to job growth, corporate relocations, and population increases as evidence that Texas policies work.

And to be fair, Texas has attracted major companies and added jobs faster than many states.

But economic growth alone does not automatically mean government systems are functioning well for ordinary residents.

A state can simultaneously:

attract corporations,

experience population growth,

and still fail residents on healthcare, infrastructure, disaster readiness, and public wellbeing.

That tension increasingly defines modern Texas.

The Bigger Question

The real debate is no longer whether Texas is economically successful.

It is whether state leadership has translated that success into reliable systems that protect and serve the people already living there.

Under Greg Abbott, Texas has often prioritized ideological battles and national political branding while struggling with basic governance challenges that directly affect daily life:

keeping the lights on,

ensuring healthcare access,

protecting pregnant women during medical emergencies,

and preparing infrastructure for predictable disasters.

For many Texans, those are not abstract political issues anymore. They are personal ones.

Where Democracy is Drawn

On election night in the United States, maps light up in red and blue like a weather system passing over the country. They look like clean reflections of public will—who won where, who lost, what changed. But those maps are not drawn that night. Long before ballots are cast, long before campaigns begin in earnest, another map has already been quietly shaped in offices, hearings, and increasingly, in software programs that can simulate millions of electoral outcomes in seconds.

That earlier map has a name: the district map. And the process that shapes it is called gerrymandering.

Every ten years, after the U.S. Census counts the population, states redraw their legislative districts to ensure equal representation. In theory, this is a straightforward democratic adjustment—people move, populations shift, representation follows. One person, one vote. A balancing act.

But in practice, the process has become something far more strategic.

Once the new population data is released, whoever controls the state legislature often controls the pen that redraws the lines. And those lines matter more than most people realize. They determine not just who represents a community, but which communities are even grouped together in the first place.

With access to detailed voter histories, census demographics, and sophisticated mapping software, modern map drawers can predict voting behavior with unsettling precision. Neighborhood by neighborhood, block by block, they can estimate how a district will vote before a single candidate has entered the race.

From there, the logic of gerrymandering unfolds in two deceptively simple techniques.

One is “packing,” where voters of one political type are concentrated into a few districts where they will win by overwhelming margins. The other is “cracking,” where those same voters are split across multiple districts so their influence is diluted everywhere else. The result is not always obvious on a map, but it becomes very visible in election outcomes.

Two districts might look oddly stretched or fragmented, but the real effect shows up later: a party winning roughly half the vote across a state can end up holding a commanding majority of the seats.

This is not hypothetical. It is measurable.

Political scientists often use something called the efficiency gap, which tracks “wasted votes”—votes beyond what was needed to win, and votes cast for losing candidates. When those imbalances consistently favor one party, it signals that district lines are doing more than organizing voters; they are structuring outcomes.

In some states, analyses have shown that seat share can diverge from vote share by double digits. A party might win 50% of the vote but secure closer to 60% or even 65% of legislative seats, depending on how districts are drawn. That gap does not emerge from voter preference alone. It is engineered through geography.

Wisconsin offers one of the clearest modern examples. In a recent state Assembly election cycle, Democratic candidates collectively received a majority of the statewide vote, yet Republicans secured a strong majority of the seats. The difference was not a sudden shift in public opinion—it was the result of district boundaries drawn in the previous decade that efficiently concentrated and dispersed voters in ways that favored one party’s long-term control.

And Wisconsin is far from unique. Across multiple states, researchers have found that only a small fraction of congressional districts are genuinely competitive. Many are effectively safe before the first vote is cast. In those districts, the real contest often happens in the primary election, where more ideologically extreme voters tend to have greater influence, further shaping political outcomes.

What makes this system especially powerful in the modern era is technology. Gerrymandering is no longer just a matter of intuition or local knowledge. It is computational. Mapmakers can run simulations that generate thousands or even millions of possible district configurations, each tested against voting data to produce desired political outcomes. Machine learning models can estimate partisan lean with remarkable accuracy using not only past election results but also demographic and behavioral indicators.

In this sense, district drawing has evolved into something closer to optimization than guesswork. The question is no longer simply “How do we draw fair districts?” but, in many cases, “How do we maximize advantage within legal constraints?”

The effects of these choices extend beyond election math. When districts are heavily packed or cracked, representation becomes distorted. Communities that share economic, cultural, or geographic interests may find themselves split across multiple representatives, weakening their collective influence. Meanwhile, districts that are safely one-party dominated often produce less competitive general elections, which can reduce incentives for broad coalition-building.

Researchers have also linked highly noncompetitive districts to lower voter turnout. When the outcome feels predetermined, participation can decline. Over time, this can feed back into the system itself, reinforcing the very patterns that produced the imbalance.

There are attempts to counter this. Some states have moved toward independent redistricting commissions designed to remove or reduce direct partisan control over map drawing. California and Michigan are among the most cited examples. Early evaluations suggest these systems tend to produce more competitive districts and closer alignment between statewide vote share and seat share, though the results depend heavily on how independence is defined and enforced.

Still, reform is uneven, and legal limits are narrow. In 2019, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that federal courts would not adjudicate most partisan gerrymandering claims, effectively leaving the issue largely to states and voters themselves.

So the process continues, quietly, every decade: census data becomes political data, political data becomes geographic lines, and geographic lines become power.

What makes gerrymandering particularly difficult to grasp is that it hides in plain sight. There are no illegal votes being cast, no ballots being altered. Instead, the structure surrounding the vote is shaped in advance, like a stage built before the actors arrive.

On election night, the results look like a reflection of public will. But long before that night arrives, someone has already decided where the audience is sitting, how the stage is divided, and which voices will be amplified in each section.

The map is not just where democracy happens.

In many ways, it is where democracy is designed.

How Newsrooms Amplify What They Could Contextualize

There is a measurable difference between reporting information and amplifying it. In digital news environments, that distinction matters more than ever.

Research in media effects consistently shows that repetition increases perceived credibility and visibility, even when content is disputed or misleading (often referred to as the “illusory truth effect”). In social media ecosystems, resharing original posts—especially from high-profile figures—extends their reach far beyond the original audience and increases engagement metrics that algorithms reward with further distribution.

This creates a structural tension for news organizations: the obligation to inform the public versus the unintended amplification of the content being reported.

We already see alternative reporting practices in other contexts. When covering extremist propaganda, misinformation campaigns, or private leaked materials, many reputable outlets avoid reposting full original content. Instead, they summarize, selectively quote, or provide contextual screenshots only when necessary for verification. The emphasis is on accuracy without unnecessary replication.

However, this standard is not applied consistently across all political reporting. In some cases, especially involving high-profile political figures, outlets will embed or repost full social media content even when the material is inflammatory, inaccurate, or clearly designed for attention amplification.

This raises a practical question: if the public interest is in understanding what was said, not necessarily in reproducing it, could journalism better serve that interest through structured summaries and contextual reporting?

A more consistent framework could include:

Summarizing posts instead of embedding full content by default

Quoting only relevant excerpts tied to verifiable claims

Providing screenshots only when visual context is necessary

Separating reporting from platform-native amplification mechanics

This would not reduce transparency. It would refine it. The public would still receive the full informational content of a statement, but without automatically extending its reach through replication.

In an attention-driven media environment, the method of reporting is no longer neutral—it actively shapes distribution. Recognizing that distinction may be one of the most important editorial challenges of modern political journalism.

America: Still Debugging the Voting System Since 1965

The Voting Rights Act of 1965 is often discussed as if it belongs to a distant chapter of American history, a problem solved and filed away decades ago. But the data tells a different story. Far from being a relic, the law emerged from measurable exclusion, produced measurable progress, and remains relevant because the barriers it addressed have repeatedly resurfaced in new forms.

To understand why the Act mattered, it helps to start with what voting looked like before it existed. In many Southern states, Black Americans were legally eligible to vote on paper after the 15th Amendment, yet systematically blocked in practice for generations. Literacy tests, poll taxes, grandfather clauses, intimidation, racial violence, and selective enforcement of registration rules kept turnout low and representation even lower. In Mississippi, for example, Black voter registration in the early 1960s was notoriously minimal despite Black residents making up a large share of the population. Similar patterns existed across Alabama, Louisiana, Georgia, and South Carolina. The gap between constitutional rights and lived reality was enormous.

The Voting Rights Act changed that landscape quickly. By banning discriminatory voting practices and placing federal oversight on jurisdictions with documented histories of suppression, the law created enforcement mechanisms where promises alone had failed. Within a few years, Black voter registration rates in many formerly exclusionary states rose dramatically. In states where Black registration had languished in the single digits or teens, rates climbed into the majority range over time. This was not symbolic progress—it was quantifiable.

The political consequences were equally measurable. As registration increased, Black voter participation increased. As participation increased, elected representation began to change. More Black local officials were elected. Congressional districts became more competitive. Public institutions that had ignored Black communities now had to respond to voters they could no longer easily exclude. Roads, schools, sanitation, public employment, and community investment were all influenced by the fact that people who had been shut out now had leverage.

Critics sometimes ask why such protections were ever necessary. The answer is simple: because voluntary fairness had already failed for nearly a century after Reconstruction. If states and local governments had protected equal voting rights on their own, Congress would not have needed to intervene in 1965. The Act was not created in a vacuum. It was a federal response to persistent, documented abuse.

The next important lesson is that progress did not mean permanence. Voting restrictions did not disappear; they adapted. Where overt literacy tests once dominated, later disputes centered around polling place closures, voter roll purges, restrictive ID requirements, reduced early voting windows, and district maps that diluted minority voting strength. These mechanisms may appear more administrative than historical, but their effects can still be measured through turnout changes, wait times, ballot rejection rates, and representation outcomes.

Research over the past two decades has repeatedly shown that voting access is not evenly distributed. Long lines are more common in heavily minority precincts. Polling place reductions often hit urban or rapidly changing communities hardest. Identification laws can disproportionately burden voters who move frequently, lack transportation, or face documentation costs. None of these barriers operate exactly like Jim Crow-era suppression, but they continue the same pattern: rules that seem neutral can have unequal consequences.

This is why debates over the Voting Rights Act remain heated. Some Americans see it as outdated because the tactics of exclusion no longer look the same as they did in 1965. But policy should be judged by outcomes, not nostalgia. If disparities in access persist, if communities still face disproportionate obstacles, and if litigation continues to uncover discriminatory intent or effect, then the underlying problem has not fully disappeared.

The deeper truth is that civil rights laws often exist because society failed to solve a problem voluntarily. Labor laws emerged because workplaces exploited workers. Environmental laws emerged because pollution harmed communities. Consumer protection laws emerged because markets did not reliably police themselves. Voting rights laws emerged because too many institutions would not protect equal citizenship without enforcement.

So when people question why the Voting Rights Act was needed—or why versions of it are still defended today—the historical and statistical record provides the answer. It was needed because exclusion was real, widespread, and durable. It mattered because participation rose when protections were enforced. And it remains relevant because democracy is not self-executing. Rights can expand, stagnate, or erode depending on whether they are actively protected.

The story of voting rights is not simply about the past. It is a recurring lesson in how data reveals what rhetoric often hides: equal rights promised are not always equal rights delivered.

Projection, Polarization, and Political Violence: When Calls to “Tone It Down” Ignore the Loudest Voices

In recent years, many Republican officials—including President Donald Trump—have accused Democrats of using “violent rhetoric,” “hate speech,” and language that allegedly incites violence against him. Those claims intensified after security incidents involving Trump in 2024 and again in 2026.

But for many Americans, those accusations raise an immediate question: Who has normalized violent political rhetoric more than Donald Trump himself?

This is not merely a partisan debate over tone. It is a measurable issue involving public statements, hate crime trends, democratic stability, and one of the most consequential acts of political violence in modern U.S. history: the January 6, 2021 Capitol attack.

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The GOP’s Current Claim: Democrats Are Inciting Violence

Following a 2026 security incident near Trump, Republican officials and allies quickly blamed Democrats and the media for creating a hostile environment. White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt argued that strong criticism of Trump had “radicalized” individuals and linked anti-Trump rhetoric to violence. 

Conservative media also amplified isolated Democratic phrases such as House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries saying politics had entered an era of “maximum warfare.”

However, independent fact-checkers found Jeffries was referring to redistricting battles and electoral strategy, not physical violence. The phrase had also previously been used by a Trump ally in the context of partisan map fights. 

This matters because political actors often remove context from opponents’ words while excusing more explicit language from their own side.

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Trump’s Long Record of Violent and Dehumanizing Rhetoric

Donald Trump’s political rise has been marked by unusually aggressive rhetoric directed at rivals, immigrants, protesters, journalists, and marginalized groups.

Examples over the years include:

Telling rally crowds to “knock the crap out of” protesters

Saying he would pay legal fees for supporters who assaulted protesters

Referring to immigrants as “animals” or “poisoning the blood” of the nation

Suggesting political opponents should be jailed

Reposting content calling for punishment or execution of rivals

Mocking people after death or tragedy

Describing critics as enemies of the country

Multiple summaries of Trump’s rhetoric note repeated links to extremism, conspiracy movements, and violent political framing. 

Whether one supports Trump’s policies or not, the communication style is historically abnormal for a U.S. president.

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Data Shows U.S. Political Language Became More Negative During the Trump Era

This is not just anecdotal.

A large-scale academic study analyzing 24 million quotes from 18,627 U.S. politicians between 2008 and 2020 found that negative political language had been declining during the Obama years—but sharply increased with the 2016 primary campaigns.

The researchers concluded:

Negative emotion language rose significantly in 2016

Removing Trump’s quotes reduced the effect by about 40%

Trump was a disproportionate driver of the shift in tone 

That suggests the rise in hostile rhetoric is not symmetrical or random—it correlates strongly with Trump’s entrance into politics.

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January 6: The Ultimate Test of “Incitement” Claims

When Republicans claim Democrats are inspiring violence, many critics immediately point to January 6.

That day, a mob attacked the U.S. Capitol after months of false claims that the 2020 election was stolen. Trump repeatedly told supporters the system was rigged, urged them to “fight,” and directed them toward Congress as certification was underway.

Subsequent investigations, prosecutions, and legal analyses repeatedly examined whether Trump and allies helped incite the attack. 

Even years later, polling found many Republicans still believed false fraud claims:

63% of Republicans in a 2026 Reuters/Ipsos poll said the 2020 election was stolen

82% believed non-citizens cast fraudulent ballots

83% feared mail-in voter fraud despite lack of evidence 

That demonstrates how repeated misinformation can create grievance, distrust, and fertile ground for political unrest.

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Violence Against Marginalized Groups Also Matters

When rhetoric is discussed only in terms of threats against Trump, a broader reality gets ignored.

Researchers and observers have linked Trump-era rhetoric to increases in:

Hate crimes targeting immigrants

Anti-Muslim incidents

Anti-LGBTQ hostility

Open racial resentment in public discourse

Political intimidation at schools, libraries, drag events, and Pride gatherings

A nationwide ABC News review previously identified at least 54 criminal cases where Trump was invoked directly in connection with violence or threats. 

Not every supporter is violent, and not every violent act stems from rhetoric. But leadership language shapes what followers perceive as acceptable.

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Why “Both Sides” Arguments Often Miss the Point

Yes, Democrats sometimes use sharp language:

“Threat to democracy”

“Authoritarian”

“Extremist”

“Fascist tendencies”

Those phrases can be inflammatory. But there is a difference between:

1. Harsh criticism of conduct or ideology, and

2. Calls to punish, jail, attack, dehumanize, or delegitimize opponents

Equating those categories can create false balance.

If one side says “this politician is dangerous,” and the other says “these people are animals and enemies,” those are not identical forms of rhetoric.

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The Political Strategy of Victimhood and Projection

Accusing opponents of what one’s own movement practices is a common political tactic.

Benefits include:

Distracting from past behavior

Energizing supporters through grievance

Silencing criticism by labeling it hateful

Rewriting public memory of events like January 6

Creating moral equivalence

This is why many Americans hear Republican complaints about violent rhetoric and think immediately of the Capitol attack, chants about hanging officials, threats to judges, and years of hostile messaging.

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What Real De-Escalation Would Require

If Republicans genuinely want lower political temperature, it would require:

Unequivocal condemnation of January 6

Rejection of election lies

Stopping dehumanizing language toward immigrants and LGBTQ people

Rejecting threats against judges, journalists, and opponents

Accountability for leaders regardless of party

Likewise, Democrats should avoid careless language that personalizes politics into apocalyptic hatred.

But de-escalation cannot succeed if only one side is asked to tone down criticism while the other continues weaponized outrage.

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Final Thought

The debate over rhetoric is ultimately about power and accountability.

When leaders who normalized years of insults, conspiracies, and democratic distrust suddenly demand civility from opponents, many voters see not sincerity—but projection.

And until January 6 is treated as a warning rather than minimized as an inconvenience, claims about “incitement” will continue to ring hollow.

Cages Over Communities: Where America’s Money Is Going

 It usually starts as background noise.

A headline scrolls by about the border. A politician raises their voice on TV. Someone in a comment section says, “Finally, something is being done.” And if you don’t look too closely, it all feels straightforward—like a problem being met with a solution.

But the moment you stop and ask a quieter, more practical question—where is the money actually going—the entire picture begins to shift.

Because what’s happening in the United States right now isn’t just enforcement. It’s investment. Massive, deliberate, sustained investment into a system that is being built out in real time.

Over the past few years, tens of billions of dollars have been committed to immigration enforcement, with one major package alone setting aside roughly $45 billion specifically to expand detention capacity. That number isn’t about maintaining what already exists; it’s about growth—more facilities, more beds, more infrastructure designed to hold more people. Altogether, detention spending has climbed to around $14 billion per year, a figure that now exceeds what the federal government spends to operate the entire prison system.

That comparison is hard to ignore, not just because of the scale, but because of what it represents. The country is now spending more money detaining immigrants—many of whom have no criminal record—than it does incarcerating people convicted of federal crimes. And once you sit with that long enough, it becomes difficult to see it as a narrow policy choice. It starts to look like something structural.

What makes it even more real is how tangible the system has become. Across the country, ordinary buildings—empty warehouses, industrial spaces that could have been repurposed for housing or local economic use—are being converted into detention centers. The transformation is quiet but significant, turning spaces of potential growth into spaces of confinement, funded by public dollars that could just as easily have gone elsewhere.

At the same time, the cost of holding a single person in detention continues to add up in ways that are both predictable and staggering. On average, it costs about $166 per day to detain one individual. Over weeks and months, that figure compounds into thousands of dollars per person, multiplied across tens of thousands of detainees at any given time. This isn’t incidental spending—it’s a system that requires constant, high-volume funding to sustain itself.

That system is largely overseen by agencies like U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement and U.S. Customs and Border Protection, both of which have seen their budgets expand dramatically over the past two decades. What were once smaller enforcement bodies have evolved into multi-billion-dollar operations, reflecting not just an increase in activity but a shift in national priorities. Growth at that scale tends to reveal what a country is willing to invest in long-term, and here, the trajectory has been consistently upward.

And detention is only one part of the equation. What happens after—how people are removed from the country—adds another layer that is less visible but equally costly.

In many cases, deportation does not simply mean returning someone to their country of origin. Increasingly, migrants are being sent to third countries—places they are not from, and in some cases have no prior connection to—through complex international arrangements. The logistics of these transfers are not simple, and they are not cheap. Rather than relying solely on commercial flights, the government often uses privately chartered planes to carry out these removals, turning what might sound like a routine administrative step into a high-cost operation involving aviation contracts, security personnel, and coordination across multiple jurisdictions.

The image is striking when you pause long enough to picture it clearly: individuals being transported across borders on private aircraft, not back to where they came from, but to entirely different countries, at a cost that can reach tens of thousands of dollars per flight. When combined with the already substantial expenses of detention, processing, and legal oversight, the total cost per person grows significantly, creating a system where enforcement is not just strict, but extraordinarily expensive.

And this is where the story begins to loop back on itself, because every one of those dollars is drawn from the same pool that funds everything else. The same federal budget that supports detention centers and deportation flights is also responsible for infrastructure, education, healthcare, and public services that affect everyday life for millions of Americans.

Which raises a question that is less political than it is practical: what are we choosing to prioritize?

Because the needs elsewhere are not hypothetical. Roads and bridges across the country continue to age and deteriorate. Public schools in many districts remain underfunded. Healthcare costs are still one of the most persistent financial burdens facing American families. These are long-standing issues with well-documented solutions, most of which require exactly what is being spent so heavily elsewhere—large-scale, sustained investment.

Instead, that investment is being directed toward a system built around detention and removal, one that has grown not only in size but in permanence. A significant portion of it is operated by private companies, meaning that taxpayer money flows into contracts where the continuation—and expansion—of detention directly supports revenue. Over time, that creates a structure where growth becomes self-reinforcing, as capacity leads to usage, and usage justifies further capacity.

Seen from a distance, it begins to resemble less of a temporary response and more of an established industry.

And yet, despite the scale and the cost, public support for these policies remains strong in many circles. Part of that support comes from the sense that something decisive is being done, that action is being taken in a visible and immediate way. Enforcement is tangible; it produces images, numbers, and outcomes that are easy to point to. By contrast, investments in healthcare, education, or infrastructure tend to unfold slowly, often without the same sense of urgency or spectacle.

But budgets tell their own story, whether or not they are framed that way. They reveal priorities in their most concrete form, showing not what is promised, but what is actually funded.

And right now, those priorities are clear. The United States is committing vast resources to building and maintaining a system designed to detain and deport at scale, while many of the systems that directly improve quality of life remain underfunded or delayed.

If the idea of putting Americans first were reflected purely through spending, it would look different. It would show up in stronger schools, more reliable infrastructure, and a healthcare system that reduces, rather than creates, financial strain. Those outcomes require investment, just as enforcement does—but the distribution of that investment tells its own story.

In the end, following the money doesn’t just explain what is happening. It explains what matters.

And right now, what the numbers show is a country willing to spend billions building a system of detention and removal, even as the needs at home remain in plain sight, waiting for the same level of commitment.

Why “I Don’t Like It, So No One Should Read It” Is a Parenting Fallacy

Let’s get one thing straight: there is absolutely nothing wrong with a parent deciding a certain book isn’t right for their child. Maybe your kid is six and wants to read Game of Thrones, and you’re like, “Not today, tiny human. Let’s stick to Magic Tree House.” That is parenting. That is reasonable. That is not a problem.

The colossal problem arises when a parent says, “I don’t like this book…therefore, no child should be allowed to read it.” Suddenly, we’re in the land of the literary monarchy, where one person’s taste dictates what hundreds of thousands of other kids get to see. And trust me, the data says kids notice.

According to a 2021 survey by the American Library Association, over 60% of parents report restricting books in their home for their kids’ age or maturity. Fine. But here’s the kicker: books like Captain Underpants and Harry Potter regularly top the ALA’s “Most Challenged Books” list. Why? Because a small, vocal minority decided, “This is not for my child…therefore it must not be for anyone else either.” Meanwhile, kids across the country were discovering literacy, imagination, and the ability to stay up past their bedtime reading because of those same books.

And here’s an important nuance: a book can genuinely be inappropriate for one child of the same age but not another. Research in developmental psychology shows that children’s emotional maturity, prior experiences, and sensitivity to certain themes vary widely even within the same age group. For example, a story with intense conflict or scary situations may be exciting and manageable for one child but cause anxiety or nightmares for another. Cognitive development and empathy levels also differ, meaning one child might understand and process complex moral dilemmas, while another could misinterpret or become distressed. So, parental discretion absolutely has a role—but only for their own child.

Let’s talk about the comedy of it all. Take Captain Underpants—a story about two fourth graders hypnotizing their principal into wearing underwear on his head. Some parents called it “inappropriate” and “encouraging bad behavior.” Yet, those same parents were probably the ones who cheered when their kids wrote fart jokes in math class. The irony is so rich, it practically deserves a library card of its own.

Or consider Harry Potter. Banned in some school districts for “promoting witchcraft” (spoiler: it’s fiction). Meanwhile, kids are learning to read faster, grapple with themes of friendship and courage, and—statistically speaking—are more likely to visit a library as adults. According to Pew Research, people who read for fun in childhood are 50% more likely to be avid readers later in life. So banning Harry Potter for your child might feel protective, but banning it for everyone? That’s how we accidentally create a generation of reluctant readers.

This also opens up a teachable moment: if parents want to guide their kids toward age-appropriate books, they can do so by helping them learn decision-making skills and critical thinking. For instance, discussing why certain themes might be challenging, encouraging them to ask questions, and showing them how to choose books responsibly when they’re not under parental supervision. That way, children build the ability to self-regulate their reading choices instead of relying entirely on adult gatekeepers.

Here’s the takeaway: personal taste is subjective. Your kid might be fine skipping Holes or To Kill a Mockingbird until they’re older. That is entirely your prerogative. But insisting no other child should read it is a whole other level. That’s not protecting kids—that’s imposing personal bias under the guise of morality.

And let’s be real: the kids will notice. Nothing screams “rebellion” quite like being told a book is forbidden. There is evidence that the forbidden fruit effect is very real—even in literature. The Journal of Applied Social Psychology finds that when something is restricted, children (and adults) are more motivated to seek it out. So every time a parent says, “No one should read this,” somewhere a kid is sneaking a copy under their pillow, grinning like a tiny, justified anarchist.

So, fellow parents, guardians, and caretakers: protect your own child if you feel a book isn’t appropriate. That is reasonable, responsible, and frankly, smart. But don’t pretend your taste in literature is a universal moral compass. Because in the end, books are bigger than our opinions, and imagination doesn’t need a parental veto. And if you’re teaching kids how to pick books for themselves, remember: guiding them to think critically will matter far more than banning a single story ever could.