Most election signs come down quick, but not around here. A year after the ballots were counted, some yards still bear Trump’s name. Others sprouted new ones — “Don’t Blame Me, I Voted Republican,” “Let’s Go Brandon,” slogans that read less like politics and more like grievance carved in plastic.
I pass them every day. After a while, they blur together, a background noise you almost stop seeing. But then I catch myself wondering: what happens to people who never take the signs down? What does it mean to live in a permanent campaign?
For them, it’s not about elections. It’s about identity. The sign in the yard isn’t aimed at persuading neighbors; it’s aimed at reminding themselves. They’re not losing, they’re resisting. And resistance, in this case, means never letting go.
That’s the piece that scares me. I used to mistake stubbornness for conviction. But conviction ought to be anchored to reality. Stubbornness only needs anger.
And anger, as I saw on January 6, doesn’t fade when the votes are counted. It just waits for the next excuse.