The Identity Politics of Trump and MAGA

On January 20, 2025, Donald Trump declared, “As of today, it will henceforth be the official policy of the United States government that there are only two genders: male and female.” The order mandates the term “sex” instead of “gender,” requiring identification documents like passports and visas to reflect what it calls an “immutable biological classification.”

Elon Musk publicly backed Trump’s order, applauding on his platform, X, that the “pronoun bs is finally going away.” This stance aligns with Musk’s history of criticizing gender inclusivity. Yet it has created personal turmoil: his daughter, Vivian Jenna Wilson, a transgender woman, legally changed her name in 2022, explicitly distancing herself from Musk. Notably, the U.S. passport policy now prohibits using “X” as a gender marker, a symbol Musk typically embraces in his ventures to signify openness, possibility, and innovation. The irony is stark: Musk champions “X” as limitless in branding but denies this openness in matters of human identity.

Trump swiftly dismantled numerous policies aimed at racial equity and protecting 2SLGBTQ+ rights, rescinding Biden-era executive orders designed to address discrimination based on race, gender identity, and sexual orientation. Additional orders aimed at improving conditions for Black, Hispanic, Native American, and Asian American and Pacific Islander communities were repealed.

Trump, Musk, and the broader MAGA movement loudly oppose what they dismiss as DEI. But let’s spell it out: they reject diversity, equity, and inclusion. They deride diversity as mere tokenism, failing to see that human difference in race, gender, ability, and background is a foundation for resilience and creativity. They resist equity, feeling threatened when inherited privileges are questioned and when fair outcomes replace entrenched advantages. Inclusion terrifies them, disrupting their imagined cultural purity, especially when it means fully embracing queer, disabled, or racialized individuals. By targeting DEI, they attack not just bureaucratic jargon but a moral vision of society where everyone’s dignity matters. Their campaign against DEI is effectively a war on the future.

MAGA spits out the word “woke” as if it’s poison. They wield it as a slur, scapegoating everything they fear. But “woke” originally simply meant being awake to injustice, a term rooted in Black American vernacular urging alertness to racism and oppression. Its meaning expanded to encompass awareness of systemic harm against women, LGBTQ+ people, immigrants, and the environment. To be woke is not perfection but consciousness.

When MAGA mocks “wokeness,” they reveal they’d prefer to remain asleep. Asleep to human suffering, asleep to climate catastrophe, asleep to the historical shadows of colonialism and slavery. Sleep is comfortable, feeding myths that the past was pure and progress is dangerous. Being woke demands attention, demands questioning power, demands caring.

MAGA refuses this call, weaponizing “woke” to silence dissent and reinforce old hierarchies. But the world is waking up, and they can’t hit snooze forever.

When Trump, Musk, and the MAGA movement say they’re ending “identity politics,” they aren’t rejecting identity politics; they’re masking their own version. Their claim is that politics should be neutral, colorblind, meritocratic, free from “special treatment” for minorities. But identity politics is universal; everyone practices it, consciously or not.

What MAGA actually promotes is an identity politics centered around wealthy, white, heterosexual men. This identity is falsely presented as the neutral default, with all other identities treated as deviations. Attacking identity politics allows them to defend their privileged position without naming it. They assert race shouldn’t matter, ignoring how centuries of racial injustice have shaped today. They claim gender shouldn’t matter, despite rules historically set by male dominance.

Their identity politics pretend objectivity but are deeply personal, the identity politics of billionaires masquerading as common sense. It’s never about unity; it’s about maintaining power.

MAGA proclaims “America First,” echoed in Canada by Pierre Poilievre’s “Canada First.” Ostensibly patriotic, the slogan quickly reduces to something smaller: “Me First.” Trump’s preferred pronouns might as well be “me, me, me.”

There’s a kernel of logic in prioritizing oneself during a genuine crisis. But that logic collapses as a permanent worldview. America isn’t in existential crisis. Its crises are largely self-inflicted, marked by democratic erosion, widening inequality, and manufactured culture wars.

“America First” twists cooperation into weakness and empathy into betrayal, ignoring that survival alone is insufficient. Solidarity defines humanity. Under normal circumstances, “Me First” turns prudence into greed, justifying power grabs and resource hoarding. Thus, “Canada First” isn’t merely policy; it’s a warning sign.

However, there is another, richer set of pronouns we might embrace: Martin Buber’s “I and Thou.” Unlike the self-centered “me, me, me,” Buber’s “I and Thou” involves genuine meeting, openness, humility, and mutual recognition. It honors differences rather than erasing them, viewing identity not as a threat but as a pathway to deeper understanding and connection.

Recall Musk’s fixation with “X,” symbolizing openness, the unknown, infinite possibility. Yet when applied to human identity, Musk closes that door. The passport no longer bears an “X” for nonbinary individuals, even as Musk uses the symbol prominently on his platform. Buber’s “I and Thou” challenges us to consider the true potential of “X” beyond branding, to see it as a symbol of openness to human diversity and authentic relationship.

In embracing “I and Thou,” we move beyond divisive slogans and self-centered pronouns. This richer form of engagement invites genuine openness, the real possibility Musk’s “X” symbolizes but fails to deliver. It offers a vision of society in which our deepest identities become doorways to meaningful, compassionate human connection.

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Beyond Billionaire Fantasies to a Collaborative Economy

In my previous essay, Billionaire Consciousness, I explored how extreme wealth accumulation distorts the human psyche and encourages escape fantasies, from bunkers in New Zealand to colonies on Mars. These dreams of departure are not just personal delusions, but symptoms of systems designed to benefit the few while severing ties with the earth and one another. If we are to resist these gravitational pulls away from shared reality, we need to examine one of the core infrastructures that makes billionaire consciousness possible: money.

Money has always had a social life. We share it, manage it, and worry about it together. But the design of money tells a different story, one of private possession and individual control. That story is not natural or eternal. It is the result of relatively modern choices in financial infrastructure and ideology.

Historically, money emerged not as a private commodity but as a social technology, a way to record obligations, coordinate exchange, and manage trust in communities. As Felix Martin argues in Money: The Unauthorized Biography, early forms of money resembled collective ledgers, not coins or bills. Value was relational, not possessive.

But in modern financial systems, money has been reframed as something that must belong to a single person, stored in an individual bank account, accessed by a personal password or card, and tracked as a personal asset. This individualization of money, as Brett Scott explains in Cloudmoney, is embedded in the architecture of digital finance. Every transaction flows through personally identifiable accounts, routing wealth through centralized infrastructures controlled by a small number of institutions and beneficiaries.

This design, of money as an individualized, digital possession, scales. It empowers those who already own capital to move it faster, deploy it more flexibly, and accumulate more of it. It also isolates those who need support, making collaboration in money management feel like an exception or a workaround. In short, the very architecture of money contributes to its concentration. The more individuated and abstract money becomes, the easier it is for it to pile up in a few hands, giving rise to billionaires whose financial power exceeds that of many nations.

But for those of us who intend to stay, to live together on a warming, interdependent planet, this design is insufficient. It is not just unjust; it is impractical. Our real lives are collaborative. People share financial responsibilities with partners, caregivers, friends, and family. Financial life is social and dependent on informal arrangements. These improvisations, from shared bank cards to verbal agreements, are risky, often breaching terms of service and exposing users to fraud or loss. People persist with them because the systems they rely on do not reflect how they actually live.

The concept of collaborative payments begins with this recognition. It is not a technical product, but a shift in design philosophy, a reimagining of money as something we often manage together. It invites us to move beyond the all-or-nothing mechanisms of power-of-attorney and joint accounts, toward models that support consent, context, and care. It is not a return to the past, but a design for people rooted in the present, investing in a shared future here on Earth.

Collaborative payments can be understood as an extension of programmable money, a growing area of interest in financial technology. At its core, programmable money refers to conditional, automated payments. A certain trigger leads to a specific financial action: if this, then that. The conditions can be personal, environmental, or social, anything from a recurring bill to a pattern of overspending.

These conditional rules can introduce new forms of financial cooperation. For example, someone might configure a system to alert a friend when their spending exceeds a limit, not to hand over control, but to invite support. Another person might automate a series of payments tied to seasonal needs, income thresholds, or shared responsibilities. In all cases, the point is not surveillance or dependency, but the ability to shape money in ways that reflect life as it is lived, embedded in relationships, rhythms, and shared responsibility.

To support these possibilities, systems must be designed for configurable consent. This means giving people the ability to choose collaborators, define their roles, and set boundaries for what is shared. A person should be able to invite others into their financial life without forfeiting autonomy. And they must be able to adjust or revoke access at any time.

Of course, configuring consent requires its own kind of ability, a form of digital literacy that not everyone possesses. Children may need guidance. Seniors may need support. People with cognitive or emotional challenges may need options that are both protective and empowering. In some cases, oversight by a trusted institution or third party may be necessary. But this does not negate autonomy; it reinforces it by making it real and usable.

Importantly, collaborative payments are not only for the vulnerable. They offer value to anyone managing financial complexity, from families coordinating budgets, to friends co-planning travel, to small business owners juggling multiple streams of income and expenditure. Even intelligent systems, digital agents that flag unusual activity or automate repetitive tasks, can be integrated into this collaborative frame.

What matters most is the shift in orientation. Money is not just a tool for personal freedom or accumulation. It is also a medium of relationship, of care, accountability, and shared decision-making. Collaborative payments reintroduce this idea at the level of design. They challenge the myth of financial individualism, not by rejecting technology, but by bending it toward our real lives.

We do not need to return to paper money to rediscover the social nature of finance. But we do need to rethink the assumptions that shape digital systems, the ones that prioritize isolation over connection, control over trust, and scale over inclusion. Collaborative payments point toward a future where money serves not only individuals, but communities. Not only transactions, but relationships. Not billionaires escaping Earth, but earthlings learning how to stay.

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The Delusion of Capitalism at the Edge of Collapse

There is a peculiar kind of consciousness emerging in our time, not spiritual, not collective, but intensely personal and hyper-capitalist. Billionaire consciousness. It is not defined by the size of one’s bank account alone, but by a way of seeing the world shaped by unimaginable wealth, power, and detachment. Think of Musk launching cars into space, Bezos building rockets named after freedom, or Trump, endlessly proclaiming his greatness while leaving wreckage behind. These men are not simply rich. They inhabit a different psychological planet, orbiting far above the daily concerns of ordinary people. And the tragedy is not just that they live this way, but that the system is guiding us all toward their altitude, or at least toward believing that we should want to.

In many ways, billionaire consciousness is the logical endpoint of capitalism. It begins with the promise of opportunity: work hard, innovate, and success will follow. But the slope is steep and slippery. Capitalism rewards accumulation, and once a certain threshold is passed, wealth multiplies without work. The rich get richer not because they are smarter or more moral, but because the game is rigged. What began as aspiration hardens into separation. Billionaire consciousness forms in this altitude, where basic needs are long forgotten and control over systems, people, and even reality itself becomes the obsession.

It is a mindset defined by detachment. When you can buy anything, time, labour, even influence, the idea of shared sacrifice becomes abstract. The billionaire does not wait in lines. They do not worry about bills, healthcare, or housing. Their concerns become strategic, global, often absurd: how to colonize Mars, how to upload consciousness to the cloud, how to outlive death itself. These are not merely ambitions. They are escape plans, crafted from a deep fear of falling back to Earth, to vulnerability, to being like the rest of us.

And yet, the rest of us carry the cost. The billionaire’s freedom is built on the exhaustion of others, warehouse workers, gig drivers, unpaid interns, drained ecosystems. While they shape narratives of disruption and innovation, the public sphere withers: schools starve for funding, hospitals close, housing becomes speculative. The billionaire believes they are solving the world’s problems. But more often, they are bypassing them, privatizing the solutions and charging admission.

Worse still, billionaire consciousness spreads. It infects culture. We begin to admire them, even defend them. We internalize their logic: hustle harder, scale faster, be your own brand. The dream of becoming a billionaire, or just escaping precarity, keeps us in line. But it is a dream, and like most dreams, it is not shared equally. The vast majority will never join the club. Meanwhile, democracy erodes, inequality widens, and attention becomes the most mined resource of all.

What makes billionaire consciousness so devastating is not its extravagance but its emptiness. It is a hollowing out of human connection, of the idea that we rise together. It replaces meaning with metrics, relationships with transactions, and wonder with spectacle. The billionaire may escape to space, but they leave a scorched Earth behind.

And so, we must wake up. Not just from the illusion of ever becoming billionaires, but from the system that tells us we should try. There is another kind of consciousness worth cultivating, one rooted in community, in limits, in care. A consciousness that sees freedom not as personal detachment but as shared dignity. The billionaire may live above the clouds. The future, if we are to have one, must be grounded here, with each other.

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Understanding Trump’s Appeal Through Fear, Identity, and the End of Globalization

When Donald Trump won the presidency in 2016, like many, I was stunned. When he lost in 2020, I believed the country had turned the page. His comeback in 2024 was unprecedented and baffling. To make sense of it, I turned to trusted sources: science, sociology, and history.

Fear and the Conservative Brain

Part of the answer lies in the way our brains are wired. Neuroscientists Daniel Z. Lieberman and Michael E. Long, in The Molecule of More, explain how dopamine, the brain’s chemical of desire and motivation, drives human behavior. It governs our engagement with the future, pushing us to seek, plan, and imagine.

Liberals, they argue, tend to be more dopamine-driven, drawn to change, exploration, and progress. Conservatives, by contrast, lean more on the “here-and-now” chemicals like serotonin and oxytocin that foster connection, stability, and contentment with what exists. Complementary findings show that conservatives have stronger activity in brain regions linked to threat detection, like the amygdala, explaining their heightened sensitivity to danger and preference for order.

Trump speaks directly to this psychology. He doesn’t offer a hopeful future, he offers protection from a fearful one. His message is not about building something new but defending what’s being lost. For brains wired toward security, this is a powerful appeal.

Alienation and the Deep Story

Sociologist Arlie Russell Hochschild offers another insight in Strangers in Their Own Land. She embedded herself in conservative communities in Louisiana, trying to understand what she called the “deep story” of the American right. It wasn’t just about policy; it was about identity.

Many of these communities suffer from pollution, poor infrastructure, and economic decline, yet they resist environmental regulation and progressive reforms. Why? Because they feel insulted, ignored, and stereotyped. Hochschild describes their worldview as one in which they’ve played by the rules, worked hard, and waited patiently, only to see others “cut in line.” The result is a potent mix of pride and resentment.

Add to this a fractured media environment. With traditional journalism in decline, many turn to partisan outlets like Fox News. Without broad exposure to differing viewpoints or tools for critical thinking, disinformation thrives. Trump’s messaging, rooted in grievance and emotional appeal, finds fertile ground.

The End of Globalization

Underlying it all is a deeper shift: the decline of the globalization era. From the 1990s to the 2010s, globalization promised prosperity through free trade, open borders, and technological exchange. But while it enriched some, it devastated others—offshoring jobs, hollowing out industries, and widening inequality. Entire regions were left behind.

By 2024, Americans knew exactly who Trump was, a vindictive, self-serving felon with a well-known policy playbook: mass deportations, trade wars, tax cuts, and environmental withdrawal. And yet, they voted him in again. Why? Because he spoke to the disillusionment globalization left in its wake. People feel angry about immigration, fearful for their jobs, distrustful of government, and helpless in the face of climate change. These raw emotions are not just political; they are personal, embodied, and deeply human.

A New Lens

Understanding Trump’s enduring appeal requires more than disbelief or outrage. It demands empathy, science, and attention to the long arc of history. Beneath the bluster lies something elemental: fear of loss, longing for order, and the ache of being left behind. It’s not just about Trump, it’s about the world that made him possible.

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This time, the storm wears red

When the U.S. crosses the forty-ninth parallel in a brash bid to claim water, energy, and land, Canadians don’t flinch — they quietly rally. “Maple Storm” follows a ragtag, deeply Canadian resistance: farmers, First Nations land defenders, francophone hackers, and immigrant nurses turned field medics. No capes, no glory-seekers — just good people standing their ground.

There’s Asha, a Toronto paramedic who grew up on Bollywood films but never imagined herself racing snowmobiles through fire zones. Jean-Claude, a gruff but brilliant Quebecois hydro engineer who re-routes an entire dam to flood an advancing tank battalion. Mary Cardinal, a Cree matriarch who leads her community’s strategic defense of northern pipelines, channeling centuries of Indigenous knowledge. Gary, a retired prairie farmer with a tractor, a radio, and an unshakable calm. And Liam, a Newfie fisherman-turned-hacker whose online misinformation campaign confuses U.S. forces so badly they bomb their own GPS markers.

Together, they use Canada’s best weapons: the harsh climate, deep forests, relentless politeness, and a mastery of logistics honed over years of surviving ice storms and health-care lineups.

When the final act erupts, our heroes ride snowplows and ski-doos down Pennsylvania Avenue, maple leaves flapping, to set the White House ablaze once again — not in hatred, but as a reminder: Canada may be quiet, but it is never weak.

“Maple Storm” is a bold, unexpected war epic — funny, moving, and defiantly Canadian. It’s not about domination. It’s about defending what matters — with grit, humility, and a toque pulled low.

Victory, the Canadian way.

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Political consciousness is essential to strength, solidarity and change

People respond to difficult political times in many ways, shaped by temperament, values, and circumstance. Few of us have a direct way to influence politics, so the news creates anxiety. We struggle to stay mentally healthy. Here are some different personal responses:

Withdrawal. Some don’t believe they can understand the complexity or make a difference. They limit exposure to news, avoid political conversations, and focus on personal well-being or family. It may not be apathy, but self-preservation.

Cynicism. A darker response. When overwhelmed, people may grow cynical or desensitized. It can be a defense, or the first stage before choosing a different path.

Social Media. Courageous, perhaps, but social media often spreads misinformation. These participants operate on the level of folk politics: emotional, localized, moral appeals that may feel right but miss the bigger picture. It can escalate into rage and lead to burnout.

Spiritual Practice. Faith, meditation, or ritual can help people hold despair and hope in tension. For some, politics becomes sacred; for others, it’s set aside to seek peace.

Study. Some turn to books, history, or philosophy. They look for patterns, deeper causes, and long-term perspectives. Wisdom becomes a way to steady the mind.

Bridging Divides. Some make it their mission to talk across lines, listen deeply, and build understanding. It’s slow and frustrating work, but necessary for healing.

Creativity. Artists and writers channel the chaos into stories, paintings, or poems. Expression becomes resistance, or at least a way to stay sane. Comedy disarms fear, helps us make sense of absurdity, and builds solidarity. Think late-night monologues or political memes.

Community. Rather than fight the whole system, some focus locally: mutual aid, neighbourhood projects, or care networks. Quiet politics, rooted in relationships.

Activism. Some people dive into action. They protest, organize, and write to their representatives.

While minding your boundaries, political consciousness is essential to strength, solidarity and change. Personally, I find myself studying and bridging divides, rising in mutual aid and intentions to mindful activism. What is your response?

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I count on Mark Carney to remain a climate leader

A Shot at Forming the Next Government

Mark Carney has long hovered at the edge of Liberal politics, ever since his high-profile return to Canada in 2020 with advisory roles on climate and economic recovery. His keynote speech at the 2021 Liberal convention, in which he praised Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and called for bold climate action, was widely seen as a political trial balloon. Earlier speculation about a 2019 run had already signalled his growing alignment with the party, positioning him as a credible future leadership contender.

More recently, rumours swirled that Carney was about to be appointed Minister of Finance, replacing Chrystia Freeland to handle the escalating U.S. tariff crisis. Freeland’s exit intensified pressure to replace Trudeau, ultimately opening the door for Carney to run for party leadership.

Now, Mark Carney has won the Liberal leadership and become the new Prime Minister of Canada. He has turned the Liberal Party’s fortunes around and now has a real shot at forming the next government. Much of this rebound is driven by new threats to Canadian sovereignty and the economy from Donald Trump. But it also reflects Carney’s appeal: a steady, globally respected economic leader who marries fiscal discipline with progressive values on climate and social issues.

In recent weeks, the Liberals have seen a notable rebound in the polls, reversing a long decline. Carney has injected credibility and gravitas into the party’s image. His reputation as a serious, pragmatic thinker with international experience is resonating with Liberals fatigued by Trudeau but also with fiscally cautious progressives and centrists across the political spectrum. Appointed by Stephen Harper as Governor of the Bank of Canada in 2008, Carney helped steer Canada through the global financial crisis. Even Harper’s Conservatives once held him up as a symbol of sound financial management. With an election call expected this weekend, the odds of a Carney victory are rising.

Carney is a Climate Leader

I’ve followed Carney closely since his departure from the Bank of England, particularly in his role as a global climate leader. As UN Special Envoy for Climate Action and Finance, he played a central role in mobilizing private capital to meet climate goals. He helped launch the Glasgow Financial Alliance for Net Zero which united major financial institutions around the goal of net-zero emissions. He consistently advocated for carbon pricing, clearer climate disclosures, and sustainable investment. His influence helped shift the global climate conversation from government policy to the role of financial markets in driving the transition to a low-carbon economy.

The carbon tax, though politically fraught, remains a sound policy. It penalizes large emitters, rewards green spending, and redistributes revenue to lower-income Canadians. Unfortunately, Pierre Poilievre successfully weaponized the carbon tax, turning it into the central ballot-box question. Though originally a conservative idea, the tax became a symbol of Liberal overreach. Poilievre branded it as a tax grab, despite its revenue-neutral design. The tax isn’t meant to fill government coffers—it’s meant to shift behaviour. Most of the revenue is returned to households through rebates, making it more of an economic signal than a tax.

For a time, Poilievre’s attacks worked. He soared in the polls, capitalizing on inflation and Trudeau fatigue. By early 2025, he was poised to crush the Liberals in the next election.

That changed when Mark Carney became Prime Minister. One of his first actions was to eliminate the consumer carbon tax. It was disappointing, but not surprising. The move immediately undercut Poilievre’s central message, sending him scrambling and plummeting in the polls. With Trump looming and economic tensions high, Carney prioritized political survival and economic stability.

What’s Next for Climate Policy?

I asked my prospective Conservative MP for Poilievre’s climate strategy. He replied that it involved innovation and, catch this, oil production. Nothing about reducing carbon emissions. I am no longer clear, however, on the Liberal climate strategy.

Scrapping the carbon tax may have been politically necessary. Still, I’m counting on Carney to remain the climate leader he’s shown himself to be. While he must focus for now on securing an election win and countering the Trump threat, climate remains the more important issue. I’m watching his messaging closely. He promises to fight U.S. tariffs, but I suggest that tariffs could become part of a short-term climate strategy, a chance to add remission reduction guarantees to outdated free trade agreements.

I’m also wary of his talk of megaprojects, which seem tied to resource extraction. That path leads to more emissions. I assume Carney will keep his climate policy close to the vest for now, avoiding distractions during the campaign. But I also expect him to return, after the election, to the climate leadership the world knows him for. In the long-term, climate remains the more important issue.

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Redefining productivity—not in terms of GDP growth but in terms of human and ecological well-being

A “slow economy” could be a good thing, one modeled after the slow food movement. Instead of relentless growth and efficiency, we’d prioritize sustainability, resilience, and well-being. A slow economy could mean local production, longer product life cycles, and a shift from consumption to repair, reuse, and quality craftsmanship.

Just like slow food emphasizes seasonal, local, and organic ingredients over mass-produced convenience, a slow economy might encourage local businesses, cooperative models, and a decoupling from the breakneck pace of global markets. It could also mean redefining productivity—not in terms of GDP growth but in terms of human and ecological well-being.

A slow economy could mean reduced carbon emissions and a healthier climate. Less emphasis on rapid production and global trade could lead to fewer fossil-fueled supply chains, less resource extraction, and a shift toward local, sustainable industries. If we moved away from disposable goods and embraced durability, repair, and sharing economies, we could significantly cut waste and energy consumption. A deliberate slowdown might even give ecosystems a chance to regenerate, aligning economic activity with planetary limits rather than pushing them beyond breaking points.

Of course, slowing down an economy isn’t without risks. Many systems—pensions, social services, and employment—depend on steady economic activity. But maybe the goal isn’t stopping growth entirely, just rethinking what kind of growth we actually need.

What do you think slowing the economy down would look like in practice?

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A Reflection on Geopolitics in 2025

Greenland’s True Size

When Donald Trump expressed unhealthy interest in buying Greenland, a friend suggested an alternative: Greenland could become Canada’s fourth territory. Unlike the U.S., Greenland is only a few kilometers from Canada and shares linguistic, cultural, and colonial histories with Canada’s Inuit. A land claim agreement like Nunavut’s could be arranged. He speculated that Russia, China, and the U.S. might support such a move since it would prevent any one of them from establishing a military base while ensuring passage rights for all.

I dismissed the idea. As far as I knew, Greenland had no interest in joining another country. The matter was not open for discussion unless Greenland itself initiated it. My friend agreed. His intention was simply to explore Greenland’s options in the face of external threats.

He then noted that Greenland is not as large as some believe. The Mercator projection on maps exaggerates landmasses near the poles, making Greenland appear immense, comparable in size to Africa when Africa is actually 14 times larger. Similar distortions occur making northern landmasses like the U.S., Canada, and Russia seem much larger than they are. On a globe, Greenland’s proportions are accurate—perhaps Trump would back off if he looked at one!

Finding a Globe

I hadn’t seen a globe in years—a spherical model of Earth, something I can hold in my hands. Unlike digital maps, globes depict landmasses and bodies of water without distortion. Some even feature raised relief for mountains and other landforms.

Globes have largely fallen out of use, replaced by digital maps, GPS, and interactive tools like Google Earth. Digital alternatives are accessible on smartphones, offering real-time updates, zoom functions, and satellite imagery. Paper maps and screens are also more practical for daily use, while globes are bulky, static, and quickly outdated as political boundaries shift.

I could have ordered a globe online, but Amazon represents everything wrong with globalization—cheap manufacturing, exploitative labor, retail collapse, dopamine-fueled shopping, warehouse abuses, gig economy logistics, and Jeff Bezos growing ever wealthier. Instead, I asked around. A friend directed me to Rupert Treasures, a local second-hand shop. The clerk said that they had a beautiful globe on a stand but it had just sold. He suggested a nearby antiques shop, and it had three, all labeled in French. I bought one for $20.

My callout for a globe inspired more offers. My sister-in-law offered to mail me a children’s globe with a digital pen. Another friend gifted me an old family globe still showing the USSR.

Russia and Ukraine

On the older globe, the Soviet Union appears as one massive yellow landmass. In 1991, its dissolution created fifteen independent countries, the largest being Russia. On my newer globe, Russia is in green and about three-quarters the size of the former USSR. Ukraine, much smaller—about 1/28 the size of Russia—is a purple landmass bordering the Black Sea and Europe.

There is no universal standard for globe colors, but I noted that Greenland is green on both globes.

Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022 was framed as a strategic move to reclaim influence, prevent Ukraine from joining NATO, and secure economic and military interests. But I wonder if there is a simpler motive—an obsession with size. Putin may struggle to accept Russia as smaller than the USSR. This fixation on expansion has fueled colonialism throughout history.

Israel and Palestine

Locating Israel was a challenge—it is small on the globe. It borders Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and Egypt, with the Mediterranean to the west. Palestine was even harder to find. It exists within Israel’s borders, encompassing the West Bank and Gaza Strip, but looking at the globe, it’s as if Palestine doesn’t exist at all. Unlike digital maps, where one can zoom in, a globe presents only the dominant geopolitical reality.

The erasure of Palestine from maps mirrors its physical erasure. Under occupation, its land is continuously taken, its people struggling for survival. The world often looks away.

Gulf of Mexico or Gulf of America?

The Gulf of Mexico, a vast ocean basin, is bordered by the U.S., Mexico, and Cuba. It supports industries like oil, gas, fishing, and shipping, with major rivers, such as the Mississippi, feeding into it. Its warm waters also make it a breeding ground for hurricanes that shape North American weather patterns.

In January 2025, Donald Trump signed an executive order renaming the Gulf of Mexico as the “Gulf of America”—a symbolic assertion of U.S. dominance. Critics argued the move strained U.S.-Mexico relations and had little international legitimacy. Still, major U.S. tech companies, including Google and Apple, updated their maps for American users while keeping the original name for the rest of the world.

Canada’s Borders

Canada, my home, is the world’s second-largest country at 9.98 million square kilometers. On my globe, its ten provinces are clearly labeled, but only two of its three territories are shown. Nunavut became a territory in 1999, part of the largest Indigenous land claim settlement in Canadian history, granting Inuit greater self-governance. Modern globes now show Nunavut as separate, right next to Greenland.

Canada’s borders have been shaped by conflict and negotiation. The War of 1812 repelled a U.S. invasion. The Alaska Boundary Dispute tested sovereignty. Quebec’s separatist referendums in 1980 and 1995 nearly broke the country apart. While Canada’s borders are now settled, internal divisions over land, identity, and federalism persist.

Trump’s threats of tariffs and suggestions that Canada should become the 51st U.S. state have only strengthened Canadian nationalism. Even Indigenous leaders and Quebec separatists, often at odds with federal policies, have united in rejecting foreign interference. If anything, Trump’s bluster has reinforced Canada’s independence.

The Overview Effect

The globe felt good in my hands. My first moments holding it gave me a surreal sense of the Overview Effect, a cognitive shift astronauts experience when viewing Earth from space—awe, heightened awareness of the planet’s fragility, and a deepened connection to humanity. Frank White coined the term in 1987, though earlier accounts exist. Yuri Gagarin described a profound connection to Earth in 1961, and Edgar Mitchell reported an “explosion of awareness” during Apollo 14 in 1971.

Holding a globe in my hands, I also felt something unsettling. If the globe was Earth, who was I, a god in space? Did holding it mean control? Could I spin it like Superman, deciding fate? Some people crave this power. The Overview Effect is often celebrated as positive, but it reflects extreme privilege. Few can access space, making it an exclusive perspective that may create distance rather than connection. This perspective can be dangerous. Colonialists, imperialists, and globalists have often viewed the world as something to be possessed and reshaped.

Conclusion

A globe offers more than a visual aid; it provides perspective. It corrects distortions in our understanding of size and space. It reveals the geopolitical reality of nations at war. It reminds us of the fragility of borders and the forces that shape them. It prompts questions about power, nationalism, and colonialism.

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