Beauty is the Resistance
Because beauty is not a break from the fight. It’s the reason we fight.
So here we are: 100 days deep into the second coming of Em-pe(r)or Trumpligula, and surprise! It’s a flaming wreckage of legal chaos, unhinged executive orders, and the slow strangling of what’s left of our democracy. Over 140 executive orders. 211 legal actions against him and counting. Even some of the country club conservatives are clutching their pearls and whispering the A-word: authoritarianism. And not the sexy literary kind. The actual, real-life, burn-it-all-down brand.
And yeah. It’s exhausting.
Because how do you keep hope alive when the country feels like it’s being run by the worst YouTube comments section come to life? The temptation is to stare at the dumpster fire 24/7, doomscroll until your retinas fall out, and spiral into despair. But here’s the thing: history says nope. History says the antidote to tyranny is not more rage. It’s beauty. Not the kind he loves—spray-tanned, plastic, performative pageant fluff. I mean real beauty. The kind that defies. That heals. That slips through fences and sings when no one’s watching.
Beauty, joy, story—these are not side dishes. They are survival rations.
Every time fascism rises, art says, "Bet."
Humanity survives through rhythm and color and story and food. Always has. Always will. The most groundbreaking music, the deepest literature, the boldest visual art? Nearly always born from the margins. From pain. From people no empire ever meant to make immortal. Trump and his ilk don’t get it because they’re wired for blunt dominance, not nuanced awe and delight. Their brains can’t compute joy unless it’s someone else’s humiliation. Which is exactly why art is where we go now, friends. Not to escape.
To endure.
Receipts from the Resistance:
The blues and African American spirituals weren’t just music—they were coded prayers and underground maps.
Jazz didn’t just reshape sound—it redefined freedom.
New Mexico’s pottery, weaving, adobe architecture, and layered cuisine? Puebloan roots filtered through colonial trauma, still standing, still stunning.
Even Puritan women like Anne Bradstreet wrote poetry so subversive it had to smile politely while dismantling patriarchy with a quill.
And now? Art is rising. Quietly. Fiercely. Like it always does. It is the one thing fascists will never do well, because to do so requires a soul.
Five creators holding me together these days:
1. Mo Amer – Comedian and actor. His Netflix show MO is hilarious, aching, gentle, and pointed. A Palestinian American man in Houston, trying to get by without losing his soul—or his culture. It’s tender rebellion in hoodie form.
2. Marsha Nichols – Choreographer of Surf Rider, the modern dance piece that’s gone unexpectedly viral. (Modern dance! Viral!) It’s wild, fluid, and full of joy. Watching it feels like resistance moving through muscle and breath. Like someone filmed hope mid-air. The whole piece is great, but the part that went super viral begins around minute 2.
3. Gladys Roldan de Moras – Painter of Charreada girls and women—riding, radiant, unbothered in a Texas white supremacy likes to pretend belongs to them. (Charreada is the Mexican art of roping and riding, later adopted by white settlers and called rodeo, a Spanish word). Her art whispers, We were here before your walls. We’ll be here after.
4. Melissa Senate’s Montana Mavericks series (Harlequin) – Romance novels with Hispanic working-class heroes in cowboy boots who are allowed to love and be loved. No sermons. No trauma porn. Just quiet radical representation tucked into mass-market joy so popular you can buy it in Walmart.
5. Leon Bridges, especially Panther City – A soft, warm, soul-soaked tribute to a Black childhood in Fort Worth. It’s slow and intimate. It wraps around your ribs and reminds you: simplicity is sacred, and love, joy, and community care cannot be bought.
None of these works are overtly rageful. None are storming the Capitol or screaming on TikTok. And that is the point. They are revolutionary because they do what fascists fear most: they celebrate our shared humanity.
So yes, keep fighting. Vote. March. Call. But also—
Paint something. Go to a museum. Write the messy love poem. Read John O’Donohue’s On Beauty. Sing badly in your kitchen. Listen to Julieta Venegas at full volume with your windows down. Pet the dog with reverence. Make dinner like it’s ceremony.
Because beauty is not a break from the fight.
It’s the reason we fight.
Embrace the call to creative freedom.
Let yourself feel peace.
Do not forget to dance.
Nurture awe.
That’s how we win.
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Exquisite Beauty -- a short phrase that accurately describes this post, Alisa. I will never forget this. Thank you!
Thank you. Beauty in shared humanity.