Monday, January 20, 2025 - Inauguration Day

Twenty cadets crowded around the screen in the ROTC common room on Monday, January 20, 2025—Inauguration Day. Jake stands near the back, arms crossed. Outside the windows, campus is dead—Martin Luther King Day, most students still home from break. But ROTC doesn't take holidays. Major Reyes wanted everyone here for this.

Trump's right hand goes up. Chief Justice Roberts administering the oath.

"I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

"I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

The National Mall erupts. Jake knows the news is already comparing crowd sizes to 2017. Trump won. Won the popular vote this time. No asterisks.

"So help me God."

"So help me God."

His country. Finally.

Winter break keeps circling back in his head as he watches Trump take the oath. Three weeks home in Millerton over New Year's, the longest he and Susan had been together since he left for college. Her family's diner, back roads, two different churches on Sundays. Everyone knew their story—junior year high school sweethearts despite their families' initial concerns.

Susan's Catholic parents had been wary when she started occasionally attending his Pentecostal church sophomore year, drawn to its youth group and contemporary worship. There'd been tension—her grandmother still crossed herself whenever Jake's church came up, and his mother made pointed comments about "ritual over relationship." But they'd mostly come around. Love bridged those gaps.

The wedding talk wasn't official yet, but it wasn't exactly secret. Both families had accepted the inevitable, even if they still debated which church would host the ceremony.

New Year's Eve at the lookout point above town, the old quarry where you could see the whole valley. Millerton's streetlights spread out below, the diner's neon, the church steeple lit up. They'd been there a hundred times before, ring shopping on her phone, talking about where they'd live after graduation. Always "we."

But that night was different.

Spring semester started Wednesday—mostly separate after that. Weekdays here, her back home working the diner. Spring break was seven weeks away. Maybe a weekend or two if he could get leave from ROTC. Susan wearing his ROTC hoodie over her church dress. They'd been waiting for four years already. The kiss started like it always did—gentle, careful. But then her hand was on his chest, his fingers tangling in her hair, and suddenly neither of them was pulling back.

"Jake…" Half protest, half permission.

His hand found the small of her back under the hoodie, her skin warm. She gasped at the contact—his calloused palm against bare skin—and pressed closer. The center console dug into his ribs but he didn't care. Her mouth tasted like the champagne punch from her parents' New Year's party, sweet and forbidden.

"We shouldn't…" Her breath hot against his neck. But her hands were already working at the buttons of his flannel shirt, fumbling, uncertain. Neither had done this before.

"We're getting married anyway," he whispered. His church taught him desire was natural, God-given, just mistimed. Grace, not guilt. "Everyone knows that."

"That's not—" She didn't finish. His mouth found that spot below her ear and she made a sound he'd never heard from her before.

The windows fogged. The heater rattled. Everything got clumsy and desperate—her church dress bunching up as she tried to shift closer, his belt buckle catching, both of them breathing too hard, moving too fast. Teenage bodies figuring out geometry in the dark.

His hand slid higher under the hoodie. She didn't stop him. Her fingers found skin beneath his open shirt. No one had ever touched him like that—like she was claiming him, learning him.

"I love you," she said against his mouth. Like a prayer. Like an excuse.

"I love you too."

How far did they go? Jake's memory gets hazy after that—heat and motion and her voice saying his name over and over. The panic when headlights swept past on the road below. Both of them freezing, guilty, waiting to be discovered. But the car kept going.

Then they were sitting apart. Not touching. Her face flushed, lipstick smeared. His shirt untucked, missing buttons. Both their promise rings on the dashboard where they'd taken them off—when? He couldn't remember.

Windows fogged. Radio playing something soft. The valley lights below like nothing had changed.

Susan pulled his hoodie tight around herself, fixed her dress with shaking hands. "We can't tell anyone."

"I know."

"I mean it. Not Tyler. Not anybody."

"I won't."

She stared at the dashboard, at those two rings catching the dim light. "If Pastor Rick found out…" Her voice broke. The Sunday school position she'd worked so hard for. The respect her family had earned. All of it gone if anyone knew.

"Nobody's going to know," Jake said. But his voice didn't sound convinced.

She turned to look at him then, eyes wet. "Do you think He's angry?" Her hand went to the rosary beads she still kept in her purse, a gift from her First Communion. Catholic guilt ran deeper than doctrine.

Jake reached for certainty and found only hope. "God knows we love each other. Knows we're committed." Grace covered mistakes—that's what his Pentecostal faith taught. But had this been a mistake? He wasn't sure what this even was.

"My grandmother would say I need confession." Susan's voice was small. "That I've sinned. That we've…"

"You don't believe that anymore," Jake said. Too quick. Too defensive.

"Don't I?" She looked at him. "I switched churches, Jake. I didn't stop being Catholic. It's… it's in me."

He didn't know what to say. The old covenant didn't bind them—no ritual confession, no penance, just personal relationship with Christ and genuine repentance. Susan had embraced that theology intellectually. But guilt didn't care about theology.

"We didn't…" He stopped. Didn't what? How could he finish that sentence when he wasn't sure himself? They'd stopped before—before what, exactly? The line kept moving in his head.

She understood what he couldn't say. "I know." Her voice steadier now. "We didn't. We stopped. We just… we can't do that again. Not until we're married."

"Okay." Relief and disappointment tangled up together.

They sat in silence while the windshield slowly cleared. She put her promise ring back on. Jake did the same. Like that made it better. Like rings could undo whatever had just happened.

He drove her home, walked her to the door, kissed her goodnight like always. Her father was waiting up, visible through the front window. Mr. Fletcher waved. Jake waved back. Everything normal.

But driving home, Jake kept seeing her face in those moments—flushed, wanting, scared. Kept feeling her hands on his skin. His church said sex was God's gift to married couples. That desire itself wasn't sin, just the wrong timing.

So what was the sin? The wanting? The touching? Or just the not-stopping soon enough?

Church the next Sunday. New Year's Day service. Jake sat with his family in the fourth row at Faith Community Pentecostal, sang contemporary worship songs about new beginnings and God's grace. The youth pastor led a sermon on fresh starts, redemption, grace that covers all mistakes. Every word felt aimed at Jake.

Susan texted during the service—brief, cryptic:

Mass was hard today. Grandmother keeps looking at me.

Mass was hard today. Grandmother keeps looking at me.

She was across town at St. Michael's Catholic with her family, sitting through Latin prayers and formal liturgy, her grandmother's rosary clicking in the pew beside her. Two different churches. Two different versions of the same guilt.

At his church, they passed communion—grape juice and crackers, informal, everyone serving each other. Jake's hands didn't shake. His church taught that grace was freely given, that confession was between you and God, that rituals couldn't save you.

But Susan was taking the Eucharist at St. Michael's right now, the priest placing the wafer on her tongue, her having to look him in the eye. Had she gone to confession yesterday? Jake didn't know. Couldn't ask.

After service, the youth pastor cornered Jake in the parking lot. "Haven't seen you at youth group lately. Everything okay?"

"Been busy with ROTC stuff," Jake said. Not a lie, but not the truth either.

"Susan doing ok? See she is not here today."

"She's with her family today." Not a lie. She decided she needed to be with her family today at their church. Jake wondered if she was seeking absolution Jake's church couldn't offer.

The youth pastor nodded, didn't push. That was the Pentecostal way—grace, not judgment. But Jake felt judged anyway. Judged himself.

The noise of the ROTC common room snaps him back to the present. It's January 20—Inauguration Day. On screen, Trump is signing executive orders, his signature bold and quick. The cadets around Jake are pointing, talking, celebrating. Day One and already delivering promises.

Twenty days since New Year's Eve. Three weeks since he drove her home with both of them wearing their promise rings again, pretending that made everything okay. She's back in Millerton, he's here at State, and they're both acting like nothing changed.

He checks his phone. No new messages from her. Their last text was this morning—good luck with PT, love you, same boring routine.

The ROTC common room empties as cadets head to lunch. Jake stays, staring at the screen. The inauguration coverage has shifted to analysis—pundits arguing about executive power, constitutional limits, democratic norms.

Spring semester starts Wednesday. Comparative History: Rise of Modern Authoritarianism. Taught by Dr. Brenner—PhD from Berkeley, wrote a book on Nazi propaganda. The syllabus practically screams Trump comparison without saying it.

Jake's already done the Week 1 reading. Weimar Germany sources, Shirer's Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, articles on democratic collapse. He knows what's coming—the comparisons, the implications.

Hitler seized power. Trump was elected.
Hitler abolished elections. Trump just won one.
Hitler murdered six million Jews. Trump enforces immigration law.

Not the same. Not even close.

His phone buzzes. Text from Mom:

Did you see? He's signing executive orders right now. Getting to work already. This is what a real president looks like.

Did you see? He's signing executive orders right now. Getting to work already. This is what a real president looks like.

Jake opens X and scrolls through his feed. Executive orders trending, border security, regulatory rollbacks, getting rid of the bureaucrats. Making government accountable again—not to the career bureaucrats his father couldn't vote out, but to the people who elected Trump. Twenty-six orders in one day. The left calling it fascism already.

His feed is the usual voices: Charlie Kirk, Ben Shapiro, Matt Walsh. Professors would call it an echo chamber. Jake calls it cutting through the noise. He learned back in 2016 not to trust mainstream media—watching them call Trump supporters deplorables and racists, watching them predict Hillary's inevitable landslide. You can't trust people who hate you.

A political science professor is comparing Trump's executive orders to Hitler's emergency decrees, quote-tweeting himself from 2017 with "I warned you." He's getting ratio'd hard in the replies. Jake doesn't engage, just reads. This is going to be the next four years—same fight on repeat. Trump acts, left says fascism, right says common sense.

Jake changes into jeans and a hoodie. His MAGA hat sits on the desk, red faded to pink in places—sophomore year of high school, wore it once, got sent home for "disruption," never wore it to school again.

He puts it on.

ROTC group chat buzzing:

Cadet Rodriguez: Anyone see the lib meltdown on campus yet?
Cadet Johnson: Give it a week. They'll be protesting.
Cadet Miller: Let them. Free country.
Tyler: Rodriguez you looking for a fight or just being an asshole for fun?

Cadet Rodriguez: Anyone see the lib meltdown on campus yet?

Cadet Johnson: Give it a week. They'll be protesting.

Cadet Miller: Let them. Free country.

Tyler: Rodriguez you looking for a fight or just being an asshole for fun?

Jake swipes it away. Get through the semester. Keep the GPA up. Commission. That's it.

Five syllabi spread across his desk. Business Statistics, Organizational Behavior, Financial Accounting, Ethics online. And then Dr. Brenner's class: HIST 412, Wednesdays and Fridays 10:00-11:15. His only non-business course.

He could've taken American Economic History. History of Capitalism. Easy. Safe.

He chose Comparative History: Rise of Modern Authoritarianism.

The other courses don't matter—just boxes to check, GPA to maintain. But Dr. Brenner's class? Everyone's going to be talking about it.

He pulls out Dr. Brenner's syllabus. Office hours Tuesdays and Thursdays 2:00-4:00 PM, or by appointment. Dropins when doors are open. 24-hour email response. Respectful dialogue required; critique ideas and policies, not classmates

Disagreement is encouraged; personal attacks are not tolerated. Jake underlines that part.

The course description:

"This comprehensive upper-level history course examines the emergence, consolidation, and contemporary manifestations of fascism and authoritarianism from the 1930s through January 2025. … The course analyzes modern democratic backsliding in Turkey, Hungary, and Brazil, with Cuba … "

"This comprehensive upper-level history course examines the emergence, consolidation, and contemporary manifestations of fascism and authoritarianism from the 1930s through January 2025. … The course analyzes modern democratic backsliding in Turkey, Hungary, and Brazil, with Cuba … "

Democratic backsliding. There it is. Trump as authoritarian, democracy in danger, lessons from history.

Jake flips to the section on modern case studies. Turkey—Erdoğan's judicial purges and media takeovers. Hungary—Orbán's "illiberal democracy," rewriting constitutions and electoral maps. Brazil—Bolsonaro attacking courts, spreading election lies, but institutions holding. All elected leaders. All used real grievances to justify power grabs. But Turkey jails thousands of journalists. Hungary controls 90% of media. Bolsonaro's supporters stormed all three branches of government in one day.

Different context. America has stronger institutions. Two centuries of peaceful transfers of power. A strong economy, low unemployment, borders being secured again.

Week 1 covers the Weimar Republic's founding crisis—Treaty of Versailles, the "stab-in-the-back" myth, hyperinflation. Germany losing World War I and democracy getting blamed for defeat it inherited.

Week 2 covers "gatekeepers" failing to prevent authoritarianism.

But Jake's already read ahead. Hitler's 1923 coup attempt—arrested, wrote Mein Kampf in prison, came back and won through elections. Trump never tried to overthrow anything. He won. Through the process. Twice.

Jake makes a note in the margin: Hitler used violence before elections. Trump used elections. Key difference.

His phone rings. Dad.

"Hey, Dad."

"Jake." His father's voice sounds thick. "You watching?"

"Saw the inauguration with my unit."

"Good." A pause, TV in the background—sounds like Fox News. "He's signing orders already. Border security. Getting rid of the bureaucrats. Day one."

"I saw."

"This is what we needed. What this country needed." His father's voice cracks. "I just wish your granddad could've seen this."

Granddad died in 2021. Korean War vet, factory worker for forty years, got COVID in the nursing home. Never got to vote for Trump a third time.

"Yeah, Dad. Me too."

"You keeping your head on straight at that school?"

"ROTC keeps me grounded."

"Good. Don't let them brainwash you. You're smarter than all of them combined."

Jake smiles at that. His father has a high school diploma, went to trade school for a while—he's not stupid, just didn't have the opportunities. That's why Jake's here. First Morrison at a four-year college.

"I gotta get to work soon."

"Oh, before I forget—I sent that professor an email. That Dr. Brenner guy. The Hitler class."

Jake's stomach lurches. "What?"

"Just wanted him to know he's got a concerned parent watching. You told me about the course description, that 'democratic backsliding' crap. He should know not everybody's buying it."

"Dad, you didn't have to—"

"Course I did. You're my son. I'm not gonna let some Berkeley liberal fill your head with garbage. Somebody needs to stand up."

"I can handle it myself—"

"I know you can. But you shouldn't have to fight alone. I've got your back, Jake. Always."

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. His father's voice carries that same tone from when Jake was ten and some kid called him stupid, and Dad showed up at the principal's office ready to fight.

His father loves him. Sees Jake behind enemy lines.

"Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it."

"That's what family does. These ivory tower types think they can indoctrinate kids without anybody noticing. You tell that professor, he gives you trouble, he answers to me."

"I will. I gotta go."

"Alright. Love you, son. Proud of you."

"Love you too."

He hangs up. Damn it.

His father means well. But Christ.

He shouldn't have mentioned the class over Christmas. Shouldn't have vented about Dr. Brenner's Berkeley PhD and the "democratic backsliding" framework. His father got worked up, started talking about indoctrination, about how Jake needs to fight back. And fighting back, for his father, meant emailing Jake's professor before the semester even started.

Jake checks his email on his phone. Nothing from Dr. Brenner yet. Maybe there won't be—maybe Dr. Brenner just deletes emails like that. Or maybe he's making a note right now: Jake Morrison. MAGA kid. Helicopter parent. Watch this one.

First day and he's already marked.

Not that Jake was planning to hide his views. There's a difference between being an articulate student who happens to disagree, and being the kid whose dad sent that email.

Jake stands and paces his small dorm room. Can't be angry at his father—the man's protecting his family the only way he knows how.

College isn't a factory floor. You win by being smarter, not louder. Know the material cold. Make arguments they can't dismiss with a wave. You don't win by having your dad send emails.

But it's done. Jake will walk into that classroom Wednesday and deal with what comes.

His father's pride weighs heavy. Not just for himself—for his parents, for his sister, Emma, for the family that sacrificed everything. Can't mess this up.

Jake packs his bag—laptop, notebook, pens. All five syllabi go in, though only Dr. Brenner's really matters this week. Statistics homework due Thursday, but that's easy. Accounting reading he can skim Tuesday night. Ethics module due Friday but it's multiple choice.

He pulls on his coat, adjusts his MAGA hat in the mirror. Clean-cut, polite-looking. People see the hat and they know.

Jake's fine with that.

Campus in January cold. One student gives him a dirty look, eyes fixed on his hat. Another nods. Most just ignore him.

Trump isn't Hitler. America isn't Weimar Germany. Anyone who's actually read the history knows that.

Jake's read the history.

Wednesday morning, January 22nd. Jake's 15 minutes early—ROTC habit, on time is ten minutes late. Room 204 is already open.

One student is already there—girl with dark hair, South Asian, activist t-shirt under her cardigan. Left side of the U-shaped arrangement, middle position. Laptop open, notebook out, readings annotated. Color-coded highlighters lined up. She looks up when he enters.

Her eyes catch on his MAGA hat. Her jaw tightens. She looks back down.

Jake scans the room—tables form a modified U-shape, open center, windows on the left. He takes the back right position, across the open space from her, diagonally opposite. Good sightlines. He sets down his backpack, pulls out laptop, notebook, pens. The MAGA hat stays on.

They don't make eye contact now.

She's prepared too.

Students drift in—some glance at Jake's hat, some at the girl's activist pins. Jake counts sixteen total.

At 10:00 AM exactly, Dr. David Brenner walks in. Tall, thin, prematurely graying, wire-rimmed glasses. Button-down and khakis. Berkeley PhD, published book. Not some adjunct phoning it in.

Dr. Brenner stands at the head of the table, looks around slowly. Deliberate eye contact with each student.

When his eyes reach Jake, they pause. His gaze flicks to the MAGA hat, then back to Jake's face.

Jake holds his gaze. Calm.

Dr. Brenner's expression doesn't change. Just that brief moment before he moves on, completing his circuit. He sets down his briefcase, pulls out a folder.

Jake straightens in his chair.

Whatever Brenner's about to say, Jake's ready. Ready to listen, to engage, to defend what he believes. Not here to start a fight—here to learn, to participate, to do well.

But if the fight comes, Jake will be there. Respectful, articulate, armed with facts.

Pen ready. Notebook open.

He's prepared.