When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.—Derived from “It Can’t Happen Here” by Sinclair Lewis

This is the most prescient book I have ever read. 

In 1935, Sinclair Lewis published a novel with a title that felt more like comfort than warning: It Can’t Happen Here. But the real message behind those words is anything but comforting. Lewis understood a hard truth—democracy doesn’t survive on its own. Institutions can’t protect it unless people have the courage to stand up for it.

Today, we’re witnessing an alarming shift. The President’s extraordinary overreach of power now carries the imprimatur of the Supreme Court ruling that says he is “entitled to at least presumptive immunity from prosecution for all his official acts.”

What matters more is the justification. Trump described the protests not as acts of dissent, but as a “foreign invasion.” He called demonstrators “animals.” He vowed to “liberate Los Angeles” as if it were enemy territory. And he threatened to invoke the Insurrection Act, warning he would use “very big force” if necessary.

This isn’t about peace. It’s about power. And the language used to justify it reveals the deeper truth: the federal government is no longer a check on authority—it’s become a weapon in the hands of one man, an authoritarian unchecked by accountability.

And I don’t use the word authoritarian lightly.

This is exactly what Sinclair Lewis warned us about—and what far too many still refuse to recognize: freedom rarely vanishes in a single blow. It slips away gradually—through laws, slogans, and the quiet consent of those who stop paying attention.

He imagined a populist president named “Buzz” Windrip—loud, charismatic, full of promises to restore American greatness. He campaigned on patriotism, religion, and family values. But once in office, he moved quickly: Congress was sidelined, the press silenced, dissent crushed by a private militia. Political opponents were jailed. All of it carried out in the name of “freedom.”

Windrip’s slogan—“The Forgotten Men”—was never about solutions. It stoked resentment and cast critics as enemies. By appealing to the ignored, he disguised authoritarianism as empathy. We’ve seen the pattern: feed the anger, promise restoration, paint truth-tellers as traitors. When power is built on grievance, democracy becomes the first casualty.

What makes Lewis’s novel so unsettling is how familiar it feels. The collapse doesn’t come through violence but through fear, distraction, and apathy. The nation doesn’t fall—it slides—inch by inch, while most citizens are too intimidated or distracted to resist.

At the center is Doremus Jessup, a newspaper editor who believes it can’t happen here. America has laws. Institutions. Guardrails. But without people willing to defend them, those safeguards are just scenery. Democracy doesn’t run on autopilot. It depends on ethical citizens willing to act when others look away.

Lewis’s message still echoes: it can happen here. And it happens because enough good people convince themselves it won’t.

Nearly 90 years later, that warning still holds. We see the same cracks: strongman appeal, disinformation, cruelty aimed at “the other side.” When fear becomes political currency, ethics is the first thing spent.

This isn’t just about politics—it’s about character. What do we stand for when it costs us something? When we’re the only one in the room saying, “this is wrong”?

In the 1930s, Senator Huey Long—an ambitious populist—bragged, “I am the constitution around here now.” Richard Nixon, in a 1977 interview, said, “When the president does it, that means that it is not illegal.” Both believed that power exempted them from the rule of law.

Now, nearly a century after Lewis wrote his novel, Donald Trump has said of a second term, “I run the country and the world.”

It Can’t Happen Here is no longer a warning. It’s a mirror. The danger isn’t just the person who grabs power—but the silence that lets them keep it.

Ethics begins with awareness. But it only matters when it leads to action: defending truth, challenging abuse, and living the values we claim to believe in.

Lewis reminds us: democracy doesn’t end with a bang. It unravels with the sound of people looking away. Silence isn’t neutral—it’s a decision. One we can’t afford to make.

Because the answer to his title is clear: It can. And unless we speak up, it will.