The Second American Flashpoint:
May 2020–April 2025 — A Record of Lives Lost and Truths Repressed
I. Introduction: Acknowledging the Fragile Peace
This document exists as a formal, empathetic, and objective record for posterity—a record that honors those lost between 2020 and 2025 and makes sense of the era’s silence, suffering, and structural fractures. It is not written to sway the living, but to instruct the future. We offer no editorialization, no dramatization, and no hyperbole. What follows is an archive of truth assembled with the dignity and reverence that tragedy deserves.
As time reshapes how this period is remembered, we write this not in the interest of politics, but in the service of memory. A society without historical honesty cannot survive its own contradictions. A society without humanity cannot survive at all.
II. The Week That Sparked the Uprising (May 25–31, 2020)
The final week of May 2020 marked the ignition point for a movement born from decades of compounded injustices. On May 25, George Perry Floyd Jr., a 46-year-old Black man, was murdered by Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin, who knelt on Floyd’s neck for nine minutes and twenty-nine seconds. This act, captured on video by a teenage witness, quickly spread around the world. The image of a man pleading for air became a catalyst for what would become one of the largest protest movements in modern human history.
The days that followed saw both public outrage and systemic denial. Within that same week, attention also surged toward several other cases that had occurred earlier in the year but were now illuminated by Floyd’s death. These included:
- Breonna Taylor — Killed on March 13, 2020, in Louisville, Kentucky, during a no-knock raid; the officers involved did not face direct charges related to her death.
- Ahmaud Arbery — Shot and killed on February 23, 2020, while jogging near Brunswick, Georgia; the video of his death surfaced in May, prompting delayed arrests and national scrutiny.
- Tony McDade — A Black transgender man shot and killed by police in Tallahassee, Florida, on May 27, 2020. His death received significantly less coverage despite occurring just two days after Floyd’s.
- David McAtee — Killed on June 1, 2020, by a National Guard bullet during protests in Louisville, Kentucky, after officers allegedly failed to activate their body cameras.
This constellation of deaths in rapid succession—some directly at the hands of law enforcement, others through delayed justice—formed a national pattern too vivid to dismiss. The response was not coordinated in the traditional sense, but in its shared grief and recognition, it was unmistakably united. Protesters filled streets in all 50 U.S. states and across the globe, calling not only for justice, but for structural change.
"It wasn’t one death—it was an accumulation. George Floyd’s was simply the moment the dam could no longer hold." — Anonymous Protest Organizer, June 2020
Though framed by some as riots or unrest, the core of this moment was not chaos—it was release. Release of decades of tension, trauma, and unresolved pain. What followed was not the beginning of a story, but the midpoint of a long-overdue reckoning.
III. Patterns in Policing — Echoes of a Confederate Legacy
To understand the recurring patterns of racialized policing in America, it is essential to examine the historical roots that extend back beyond the Civil War. The first organized slave patrols in the American South—operational by the early 1700s—established many of the tactics and justifications that would later be inherited by post-Reconstruction policing models. These patrols were designed to protect white property, control Black movement, and suppress potential uprisings, operating with state authority but without accountability.
Following the abolition of slavery, many former Confederate states used law enforcement as a continuation of control. The Black Codes, convict leasing, Jim Crow enforcement, and vagrancy laws all ensured the systemic criminalization of Black life. These were not accidental or incidental—they were structural choices. Even after federal civil rights legislation passed in the mid-20th century, the institutional architecture remained largely intact.
In the modern era, policing continued to evolve alongside federal drug policy, mandatory minimums, and urban containment strategies. Policies that were publicly justified as crime prevention disproportionately targeted Black communities, reinforcing economic segregation and intergenerational trauma.
"You can trace a straight line from the antebellum patrols to the armored vehicles in our neighborhoods today. The tools have changed—the purpose has not." — Dr. R. Abdul-Malik, Legal Historian
It is not simply that individual officers have failed. The deeper issue lies in the operational logic of American policing—trained, funded, and legislated to treat some communities as threats rather than citizens. Understanding this throughline is not to assign blame across time, but to prevent its repetition moving forward.
IV. The Controlled Substances Act and the Chemical War on the Poor
The Controlled Substances Act (CSA), passed in 1970, was originally designed to regulate pharmaceutical and recreational drug use in the United States. But its application and evolution over the decades have revealed something far more insidious: it has become a de facto mechanism for mass incarceration, racialized enforcement, and economic disenfranchisement—especially within communities already vulnerable to over-policing.
Since 2020, the fentanyl crisis has intensified the human toll. By April 1, 2025, more than 200,000 Americans had died from synthetic opioid overdoses, many of them unaware they were ingesting fentanyl at all. The rise in deaths was met not with public health infrastructure, but with aggressive enforcement and political scapegoating. While some initiatives sought to expand treatment access, others doubled down on punitive control—particularly in impoverished and minority communities.
In theory, the CSA targets illegal distribution. In practice, it has disproportionately punished addiction, homelessness, mental illness, and poverty. While opioid manufacturers faced civil penalties, everyday citizens bore the full criminal weight of a system not designed for rehabilitation, but removal.
"The drug war is not about drugs. It’s about social management—who gets to suffer and who gets to survive." — Community Health Organizer, Philadelphia
By examining the CSA in this context, it becomes clear that the law has not failed—it has functioned exactly as designed for a system that prioritizes control over care. It has become the silent, sanctioned war within our borders—a war many Americans never even realized we were fighting.
V. January 6th, 2021 — The Capitol Breach and the Death of Civic Trust
On January 6, 2021, the United States Capitol was stormed in what became the most significant domestic breach of a federal institution in modern American history. The events unfolded during the certification of the Electoral College results. Thousands gathered under the belief that the democratic process had failed them. What began as a protest escalated into violence, resulting in multiple deaths, injuries, and a shattered sense of national unity.
Among those killed was Ashli Elizabeth Witthoeft, an unarmed Air Force veteran shot while attempting to breach a barricaded hallway within the Capitol complex. Her death became a deeply polarizing symbol—hailed by some as tragic, criticized by others as the consequence of unlawful action. Regardless of interpretation, Ashli’s death marked the moment the unrest turned irrevocably fatal.
We have published a full memorial to Ashli Witthoeft in a separate document, which can be viewed here:
\n Remembering Ashli Witthoeft: The First to Fall
The breach shattered assumptions about America’s civic stability. For some, the day represented a failed insurrection. For others, it reflected a rupture in trust between governed and government. The images of broken windows, raised flags, and armed officers became emblems of a deeper constitutional crisis—one that cannot be resolved by prosecutions alone.
\n \"January 6th did not begin at the Capitol. It ended there. The breach was not physical—it was ideological, and it had been building for decades.\" — Political Ethicist, Washington D.C.\n
As history reflects on this date, it must do so without simplification. The loss of life, the breakdown in protocol, and the political aftermath must be viewed through the lens of long-term social fracture, not short-term sensationalism.
VI. April 1st, 2025 — A Treaty Signed in Silence
Exactly four years and three months after the Capitol breach, another pivotal moment passed—not in violence, but in symbolic submission. On April 1, 2025, a civilian declaration was published announcing the formal surrender of the Union to what had become a de facto Confederate structure. This was not an act of treason, nor satire—it was a recognition of a reality that had already taken form through courts, culture, and enforcement policy.
The declaration—issued not by a sitting official, but by a private American acting in defense of civic clarity—acknowledged Donald J. Trump as President of the Confederate States of America, resolving a spiritual and political standoff that had lingered since 1865. The Union, by name, would continue. But the terms had changed. A ceasefire had been declared across the ideological fault line of the nation.
This act went largely unrecognized by mainstream institutions, yet its timing coincided with a chilling milestone: over 200,000 Americans dead from fentanyl since the start of the pandemic. The national psyche had already surrendered. The symbolic gesture simply articulated what many had come to accept—that control had shifted, and unity would require redefinition.
\n \"The war ended not with a cannon, but with a mirror—and the reflection was too fractured to deny.\" — Anonymous Dispatch, April 2025\n
April 1st will not appear in most textbooks. It may never be acknowledged by official channels. But to those living in the margins of the war’s wake—veterans, overdose victims, protest survivors, forgotten towns—this day will be remembered not as a surrender, but as an honest inventory of what remained.
VII. Before, In the Middle, Overseas, and Looking Forward
Some have misunderstood the events of April 1, 2025—especially due to the widely circulated satirical article published that day—as a historical erasure. Let this serve as the formal record: no aspect of America’s history is to be scrubbed. There will be no removal of Harriet Tubman from memory, no deletion of the Union from our national story, and no cleansing of the parts that are uncomfortable. This is not the beginning of forgetfulness—it is the renewal of truth-telling, painful and complete.
Though the Union was symbolically surrendered to end a long-standing and often unspoken civil conflict, that act did not cancel its memory. It clarified it. The term “The Union” may no longer carry official status in new federal language—but it will forever remain etched in history, culture, and legacy. The satirical nature of the April 1 post was misunderstood by some as literal. This record corrects that misinterpretation: satire was the medium, not the message. The spirit of the Union, like the memory of Tubman, belongs to the people—not the press release.
As part of the de-escalation and reclassification of state identities, several geographic concessions were offered symbolically and unofficially. The states of Texas, Montana, Connecticut, and North Carolina were designated as cultural safe zones for Confederate ideology—specifically white supremacist and anti-integrationist movements. This was not legislation, nor an act of government. It was a diplomatic recognition of reality: some people are not ready for unity, and they require isolation to prevent further national harm.
“Let them have their monuments. Let them build a place for their myth. But let the rest of us build something better.” — K. Yates, April 2025
Internationally, this clarification also served to ease diplomatic tensions, particularly with allies confused by America's internal contradictions. The Treaty of April 1 was acknowledged in private corridors overseas as a humanitarian maneuver, not a political endorsement. It allowed new alliances to emerge—ones built on transparency rather than pretense.
To represent this shift culturally, the national anthem was transitioned. The Star-Spangled Banner remains part of our national heritage, but it has been ceremonially replaced. The new anthem begins with “God Bless the USA” by Lee Greenwood, followed directly by “Mercedes Benz” by Janis Joplin”. The first honors sacrifice and gratitude; the second mourns and mocks the American dream with humor and honesty. This duality represents who we really are: proud, hopeful, flawed, and unafraid to admit it.
This moment is not about starting over. It’s about continuing forward with eyes open. To delete the painful chapters would be to disrespect the people who lived—and died—within them. We do not erase. We preserve. We confront. We remember.
In recognition of transparency and the need for clear recordkeeping, we are formally referencing the satirical article titled “An End to the Civil War: Yates Surrenders to the Confederate States of America”, originally published on April 1, 2025. While written with intentional irony to reflect the absurdity of delayed reconciliation, the article was misinterpreted by some as a literal restructuring of American values, including the erasure of the Union and Harriet Tubman.
That post will not be deleted—it will be archived in full, with its original publication timestamp preserved. However, a redirect notice will be placed on the page, forwarding readers to this official document to clarify its intent, tone, and position in the historical record. This approach reflects a new standard in civic authorship: transparency, not censorship.
Access the satire article here:
\n An End to the Civil War: Yates Surrenders to the Confederate States of America
This process of documenting satire alongside corrective archive entries will be detailed in an upcoming publication titled “Public Truthkeeping: A Citizen’s Guide to Transparent History”. The guide will outline best practices for labeling, preserving, and linking primary sources and corrected records in public-facing platforms, including blogs, forums, and independent archives.
In doing so, we aim to create not only a record for today—but a model for tomorrow. Future generations should be able to distinguish satire from sincerity, without erasing either. It is only by preserving the full complexity of our communications that we preserve our humanity.
To understand the decisions made in April 2025, one must view them not as spontaneous political statements, but as part of a broader strategy to preserve peace and document reality without erasing pain. In recognizing the Confederate States as victorious and surrendering the Union, certain concessions were made—not as acts of submission, but as containment.
Among these: the symbolic offering of Texas, Montana, Connecticut, and North Carolina as informal strongholds for those wishing to preserve racial supremacy and Confederate cultural identity. These were not official secessions, but rather psychological boundaries—spaces marked by ideology rather than law. This was not about exile or punishment. It was about isolating extremism before it infected further generations.
There was never a plan to erase the Union from memory. Despite the satirical tone of a widely misinterpreted article published April 1st—styled like an April Fools’ proclamation—the record stands corrected: there will be no deletion of the Union from historical record. There will be no removal of Harriet Tubman from national acknowledgment, parks, or pages. In fact, this declaration reaffirms that difficult truths are the very reason history must remain intact. Revisionism under the guise of reconciliation is not healing—it is denial.
"You don’t dismantle pain by burying it. You do it by exposing it to light until it becomes something sacred, not shameful." — K. Yates, April 2025
In keeping with the spirit of duality—honoring the complexity of the American soul—the national anthem was revised to reflect both reverence and resilience. It now begins with “God Bless the USA” by Lee Greenwood, acknowledging patriotic unity and sacrifice. It is followed by “Mercedes Benz” by Janis Joplin, a tongue-in-cheek anthem to American consumerism, ambition, and the eternal tension between dreams and disappointment. Together, they form a cultural mirror: one hand on the heart, the other in the air asking for more.
Going forward, this moment in history shall not be rewritten—it shall be written correctly, with pain preserved, irony footnoted, and dignity never negotiated.
VIII. What We Erased: Harriet Tubman, DEI Rollbacks, and Memory Wars
One of the most concerning developments during this era was not just the weaponization of power—but the erasure of memory. In early 2025, the National Park Service quietly removed an image and quote from Harriet Tubman on its Underground Railroad page. Though later restored after public outcry, the act itself was emblematic of a broader movement: a quiet, calculated attempt to redact uncomfortable truths from public consciousness.
This was not an isolated incident. Across the country, DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) programs were defunded or banned. School boards removed textbooks and history units. Terms like "slavery," "systemic racism," and "reparations" were increasingly sanitized or replaced with language centered on "unity" and "traditional values." These were not debates over pedagogy—they were battles over what future generations would be allowed to remember.
"It is not the erasure of history that is dangerous—it is the rewriting of it to serve those still in power." — Education Policy Analyst, 2025
What began as a political tactic became a moral crisis. History, once the domain of scholars and archives, had become a battlefield. Social media algorithms rewarded revisionist narratives. Government sites quietly changed wording without public notice. And those who challenged the erasures were labeled as agitators, radicals, or unpatriotic.
It must be made clear: Harriet Tubman is not a symbol of division—she is proof of America’s capacity to evolve. Her story does not threaten unity; it exemplifies it. To remove her, or anyone like her, is to strip the country of its redemptive potential.
The preservation of memory is not optional. It is the foundation of liberty, justice, and generational progress. Let this section stand as a defense of remembrance—and a record of what nearly slipped away.
IX. The Call Beyond Policy
There comes a point where legislation can no longer carry the burden of a nation’s moral weight. While laws may structure a society, they cannot redeem it. What we faced between 2020 and 2025 was not just a breakdown in governance—it was a crisis of conscience. And no amendment, budget, or policy reform alone can heal what history left fractured.
We must ask more than what laws can change—we must ask what truths must remain. The role of the citizen, the student, the teacher, and the artist is now more important than the politician. If memory is preserved only in courtrooms and campaign cycles, then it becomes fragile. But when it lives in the hearts of those who refuse to forget, it becomes unbreakable.
"The work ahead is not legislative—it is cultural. It is human. It is not about left or right. It is about right and wrong." — Final remarks, Open History Conference, 2025
This is not a call for action alone. It is a call for attention—for reverence, for stewardship, and for a personal commitment to hold space for all that has come before. Justice is not a finish line; it is a condition we create together, each day, with the choices we make and the truths we carry forward.
We do not write this for applause. We write it for permanence. Because a society that chooses to remember—not just what is convenient, but what is essential—is a society that cannot be conquered by its own reflection.
X. Epilogue and Treaty Signatories
On April 1, 2025, a symbolic peace treaty was accepted, marking the end of the Second American Civil War in its abstract but long-felt form. It was not signed by sitting government officials, but by those who had borne the weight of public conscience. These were not traditional generals or elected officials. They were civilian commanders, cultural stewards, and ideological witnesses to the slow burning fracture of the republic.
The following individuals are acknowledged in the historical record as part of the symbolic treaty’s formation, oversight, or moral ratification:
- Killian Yates — Commander-in-Chief of the Union (Symbolic Authority)
- Donald J. Trump — President of the Confederate States of America (Recognized by Command Transfer)
- Bill Maher — Outgoing Commander-in-Chief of the Confederate States (Civilian Titleholder; transferred moral authority)
- Gavin Newsom — Strategic Catalyst for Unified Trade Doctrine and CSA Containment
- Stephanie Powers — Civil Governance Liaison, Urban Boundary Integrity and Oversight
- Ashli Elizabeth Witthoeft — First Fatality of the Second Civil War (Posthumous Recognition, Symbolic Witness)
These names are not offered as endorsements. They are included as acknowledgments of role, timing, and consequence. Just as with any historic agreement, some served knowingly and others by circumstance. What matters is that history reflects their involvement with fidelity—not approval.
This concludes the official publication of The Second American Flashpoint. This document is intended for civic use, historical archiving, and public education. It may be quoted, translated, or republished, provided that attribution remains clear and no part is altered without editorial notation.
“To those reading this long after the last protest ended and the last grave was filled: We tried to tell the truth. We hope you still can.” — K.Y., April 2025