After Katrina, I saw the National Guard roll into New Orleans. Not to fight crime the way police do—just to be seen. Humvees parked at gas stations. Rifles slung over shoulders. Quiet authority that made some feel safe and made others hold their breath. That was the first thing I noticed.
Symbols matter. They tell stories about control, order, danger. They whisper to you who’s in charge—and who isn’t. Soldiers aren’t trained for city streets. They’re trained for war. Clarity of enemy, chain of command—precision, obedience. But a city street? That’s messy. Full of mothers, children, neighbors. People living their lives. Put that kind of force there every day, and freedom starts to feel optional.
The law is clear—but easy to test. Federal troops can’t enforce civilian law. State Guard units sit in a gray area. Insurrection Act, Title 10—they exist for a reason. Every checkpoint, every corner manned with a rifle, every single encounter is a test. One mistake, one misfire, one life lost—and suddenly the “order” you relied on is a constitutional crisis. Real life doesn’t forgive theatrics.
We call presence safety. But it isn’t. Militarized streets don’t make peace—they make tension. Distrust. The illusion that someone else is always controlling your life. Real safety? It comes from community. Accountability. Measured authority. Not rifles on Bourbon Street or Humvees parked like props.
The Guard at a hurricane or a festival? That’s a tool. The Guard every day? That’s a warning. Don’t mistake spectacle for security. Don’t mistake presence for care. Don’t mistake authority for justice.
Safety is quiet. It grows in neighborhoods. In trust. In people looking out for each other. Soldiers belong in war zones. Streets belong to us.
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