I am told that in politics the sin is not failure, but the refusal to keep smiling while you fail. The party smiles. Kamala Harris smiles. They rehearse the old lines about compassion and competence while the country bleeds out on a gurney built by their abstractions. And now, as if called by some liturgy of forgetting, she wants to run again—our high priestess of vibes and vacancy—offering the nation a fresh bowl of the same sacred emptiness that delivered us here.
Let’s say it clearly: Harris is not dumb; she is worse. She is fluent. Fluent in the dialect of consequence-proof politics where words are gauze and accountability is a myth. She operates inside a cathedral of institutional narcissism that treats reality as a messaging problem and public fury as a comms sprint. When voters say, “Something broke,” her class of caretakers hears, “We must explain better.” When citizens say, “You lost control,” they reply, “We need a new narrative.” This is how democracies corrode—through a managerial priesthood that confuses absolution with an email blast.
They will call her the “most qualified,” a phrase now meaning: she has been present for many meetings where nothing true was said. They will say she brings “historic firsts,” which is correct, except the history the country now remembers is the history of being talked at. Harris’s gift is to stand at the podium and produce an atmosphere—earnest, empathic, antiseptic—until the oxygen leaves the room and only slogans remain: root causes, dignity, humane pathways, comprehensive reform. Those are not policies. Those are lullabies for adults who cannot bear to wake up.
About the border, the sacrament of denial is most refined. The administration assigned Harris to the “root causes” portfolio—a clever way of being everywhere and responsible for nothing. The theater was moral; the outcomes were chaos. The message, too clever by half, told the world both “don’t come” and “we’re different.” Smugglers understood. Migrants understood. So did the American public, who watched a government baptized in euphemism lose operational control and then insist this was compassion at scale. A humane system that cannot govern its own entrances is not humane. It is sentimentalism subsidized by someone else’s neighborhood.
When citizens asked what happened, Harris answered with the soothing fog of empathy. When citizens wanted adult speech—numbers, levers, trade-offs, the bitter arithmetic of sovereignty—she gave them sermonettes about her life of service. Not an explanation. Not an apology. An aura. And the aura became the message, and the message became the insult: we, the adults, will keep talking while your communities metabolize the costs of our abstractions. There is a word for the rage that follows: backlash. Democratic professionals zip-tie that word to racism and move on. But backlash is what people do when you prove—over years—that you cannot or will not tell the truth.
This is the part the party will not face: Harris is not the cause of the demon; she is its midwife. The demon is not simply Trump; it is the desire for punishment that grows in the shadow of elite impunity. When institutions refuse confession, the public hires an executioner. It is as old as Weimar and as new as yesterday’s poll. Harris is the perfect ritual object for this cycle because she embodies the establishment’s theology: intentions are outcomes, representation is competence, and if people are angry, the story is poorly told. To watch her is to watch a belief system try to survive contact with reality by speaking more softly.
Her defenders will insist that the numbers are complicated and the world is hard. Yes. That’s why adults run countries. The job is not to narrate compassion; it is to govern. The job is not to route everything through the moral vanity of being “on the right side of history”; it is to carry the intolerable weight of trade-offs without outsourcing the pain to people who don’t speak at Aspen. Instead, we got a White House that tried to launder outcomes through language, and a Vice President who took language as the outcome. And when the electorate punished the sermon, the sermonizer blamed the congregation.
Now we are invited to the sequel. The consultants pass the basket; the donors warm their hands by the familiar fire; the press prepares its adjectives like funeral flowers. We will be told that Harris has “learned lessons,” that she is “not done,” that the threat of authoritarianism requires her candidacy as an act of civic sacrifice. How noble. The arsonist returns in a fireman’s hat. Having helped manufacture the conditions for a punitive politics—by mismanaging, denying, and then moralizing—she proposes to save us from the punishment she midwifed. This is the scam: inertia disguised as destiny, self-promotion catechized as duty.
Mockery is too easy, but it is also deserved. Watch the choreography. The laughter that never reaches the eyes. The meticulously laminated talking points. The sudden gravity when the word “democracy” is invoked, as if pronunciation itself were governance. The grim tinder of platitudes stacked for another four-year burn. Observe the way “equity” is wielded like bug spray on dissent, while actual material life—rent, wages, neighborhoods under strain—gets outsourced to a future task force. Listen for the teleprompter’s off-gassing: the sugary fumes of a party that has confused tonal empathy with competence for so long it no longer knows the difference.
But contempt alone will not save the country. The point is to break the spell: the party’s theology must be indicted at the root. That theology says: if the right people speak the right words with the right identity, the world will realign to their intentions. No. The world is made of steel, scarcity, and human nature. Borders are not metaphors; they are logistics. Safety is not a PR lane; it is a system. Trust is not a vibe; it is earned by telling the truth when it hurts your side. Harris—and the machine behind her—will not say this because their power flows from never having to.
So is she “endangering the country” by coming back? Yes—because her return attempts to lock us inside the old ritual where denial begets backlash, backlash begets more denial, and the public—tired, broke, and furious—keeps handing matches to strongmen just to watch something finally burn. The danger is not her personality; it is her function. She is a vessel for an aristocracy of words in a decade that demands an aristocracy of consequences.
There is another way, but it begins with sacrilege inside her own cathedral: say the quiet parts out loud. Admit the border was mismanaged and why. Acknowledge trade-offs without venom. Rebuild legitimacy by breaking with the liturgy of euphemism. Stop treating identity as a hall pass for failure. Stop laundering outcomes through moral adjectives. Fire people for lying well and promote people for telling hard truths badly. In other words, invert the party’s value system. If she cannot do that—and everything in her formation says she cannot—then her candidacy is not renewal but relapse.
The Democratic Party will ignore this because it no longer knows how to learn except by losing. And it may lose again, majestically, with all the correct phrases pinned like medals on its conscience. Harris will give the speech. The consultants will weep. The newspapers will eulogize the gallant fight against authoritarianism, carefully avoiding the sentence that would set the country free: we did this to ourselves.
I do not write this to crown a tyrant or to cheer the mob. I write it as an indictment of a class that has mistaken the performance of goodness for the practice of government. Kamala Harris is the avatar of that confusion—a public servant fluent in moral atmospherics and illiterate in consequence. She does not need to be defeated by the right; she needs to be refused by reality. If we cannot do that—if we cannot end the liturgy of denial inside the very church that preached it—then we will keep summoning the demon and blaming the mirror.
Run again, if you must. Announce the pilgrimage; light the candles; hire the priests. But understand what the country now understands: the sermon is not the sacrament. And the sacrament is not enough. The people do not need your aura; they need your courage to speak without anesthesia and govern without a mask. If you cannot, then step aside and let the era end. History is already writing the epitaph; don’t make her write it twice.
—Elias WinterAuthor of Language Matters, a space for reflection on language, power, and decline.
P.S. The “Demon” metaphor references an earlier essay…
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