It is hard to believe there was once a time when an ASMR deportation video, posted by the president himself and romanticizing the sound of shackling undocumented immigrants, would have shocked the nation. Yet when the clip was posted earlier this year, it barely made a ripple. What might once have been condemned as callous was absorbed as just another piece of social media content. While the video reflects the president’s entitlement to freedom of speech, it poses a deeper question: when the president makes light of a serious issue, such as human suffering, what happens to the seriousness democracy depends on?
This past weekend, about 2,600 “No Kings” demonstrations took place across nearly every state, uniting over five million Americans under the incentive of protecting our democracy and marking the second wave of these demonstrations since June. Protestors spoke out against a wide range of issues—immigration tactics, federal intervention in states, and cuts to environmental and educational funding—all viewed as indicative of creeping authoritarianism by President Trump. The demonstrations were largely peaceful, stretching from New York and Washington, D.C., to Nashville, where thousands gathered at the Tennessee State Capitol just a ten-minute drive from Vanderbilt’s campus.
The response from the president was neither dialogue nor policy, but rather parody. On his Truth Social account, he shared an AI-generated video of himself wearing a crown while flying a jet that dumped brown liquid on protestors below. Later that night, another image circulated of Trump and Vice President J.D. Vance both crowned and captioned with the words “Have a good night, everyone.”
The First Amendment guarantees the president the same right to free expression as any citizen. But the president is not just any person; he embodies the institution. Every utterance, tweet, or post becomes a public signal to be interpreted not merely as an opinion but as a message, tone, and direction for policy. When the president mocks, it is not received as a personal expression but rather as a message from our government, telling us that certain issues or beliefs we hold are unimportant, even laughable. It communicates to us that the person who embodies our democracy, our very right to speak our minds and demand change, views our ideas as so absurd that it would be unfathomable for him to take them seriously.
This is where freedom of speech and political responsibility start to blur. President Trump’s right to joke does not erase the power behind his voice. When his humor is used to deflect outrage or diminish empathy, the question is not “Can he say it?” but rather “What does it mean when he does?”
He may joke, but this is the very essence of the demonstrations. In recasting protestors’ civic vigilance as comedy, Trump trivialized the citizens he was elected to serve. Their outrage became the punchline, their seriousness silenced by the institution they sought to challenge. When deportation becomes an aesthetic and protest becomes a meme, the stakes of civil life feel diminished. If everything might be a joke, then nothing demands accountability.
