Opinion | Rhetoric that once sounded extreme becomes debatable, then routine

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The road to democratic erosion is rarely marked by the open rejection of liberty. More often, it begins with a quieter shift: the normalization of unified purpose, coordinated messaging, and the blurring of boundaries between civic institutions and ideological mobilization.

Minnesota has recently found itself uncomfortably close to that line.

In early January, following a fatal ICE shooting in Minneapolis, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem appeared at a news conference behind a podium bearing the phrase “one of ours, all of yours.” The expression — long associated with historical justifications of collective punishment — was widely interpreted as framing federal agents and local residents as opposing camps. Coming amid public outrage, the message resonated less as reassurance than as escalation.

This was not an isolated rhetorical lapse. Days later, the U.S. Department of Labor posted across its official social media channels a slogan reading: “One Homeland. One People. One Heritage. Remember who you are, American.” The message appeared alongside wartime imagery, deliberately constructing a triad of nation, people and mission.

The controversy was not about plagiarism or symbolism. It was structural. Through parallel phrasing, the political community was subtly recast from a civic, legal relationship into a cultural and ancestral one. When such language comes from an agency tasked with protecting all workers — citizens and immigrants alike — it reframes public administration as ethnic guardianship rather than institutional service.

Economics gave way to identity. Structural forces such as capital flows, industry cycles and automation were replaced by a simpler story: employment as proof of national worth. Administrative neutrality eroded not through policy change, but through narrative alignment.

Researchers of political communication recognize this pattern. When official channels repeatedly deploy exclusionary language, historical imagery and emotionally charged binaries, they gradually shift what is considered acceptable public discourse — a process known as movement of the Overton Window. What once sounded extreme becomes “debatable,” then routine.

The institutional risk lies precisely in the source of the speech. These narratives are not emerging from anonymous accounts or fringe movements, but from federal agencies themselves. Once such mobilizing grammar becomes standard administrative language, its influence no longer depends on individual posts, but on systemic repetition.

Official responses to criticism have followed a familiar script: denial of intent, accusations of oversensitivity and refusal to explain word choice. Political historian Julian Zelizer has described this as classic dog-whistle politics — language that signals to specific audiences while retaining plausible deniability in the mainstream.

The danger is not that today’s America mirrors historical totalitarian regimes. It is that a recognizable political technology — governmental synchronization of narrative, enforcement and identity — is being normalized. Where past totalitarian systems sought to control society directly, modern versions often begin by transforming government itself into a unified chorus.

The question is no longer whether certain slogans will disappear. It is whether we still possess the civic vigilance to recognize when government speech stops describing the nation — and starts defining it.