Fire, Unity, and the Unlearned Lesson

The display didn’t sensationalize—it contextualized.

It served as a grim reminder that white supremacy wasn’t just a Southern or abstract problem. In the 1920s and ’30s, it was embedded in the culture and politics of the Pacific Northwest, including Astoria, where Klan members openly held positions of power.

What stood out even more, however, was a lesser-known story that followed in the exhibit. A devastating fire once swept through part of the town, threatening homes and businesses—including those belonging to known white supremacists. In a moment that defied the hate and division of the era, it was the immigrant workers and BIPOC residents—many of whom had been targeted and ostracized—who rushed in to fight the flames. They helped save the town, and in doing so, they redefined what it meant to be a community. For a moment, the artificial borders drawn by racism collapsed in the face of shared crisis. Race did not disappear, but the relevance of hatred faded when survival and humanity took precedence.

Upstairs, the museum carried the story even further. There, in a dimly lit exhibit behind glass, was a full Ku Klux Klan robe and hood, displayed alongside other artifacts of explicitly racist Americana. No attempt was made to sanitize or minimize their horror. Instead, a bold sign explained that the museum does not present these materials to glorify them—they were donated anonymously, decades after the Klan’s visible presence faded. The donors, according to the museum, wanted to ensure this chapter of history was never erased but made clear their gifts came from a place of deep shame and moral reckoning.

That part hit hard: these symbols, once worn proudly, were now buried in silence and regret. And that raises a crucial question for today. What will future museums display from our time? What relics of hate will be handed off in hushed tones? MAGA hats. Banners. Trump flags. ICE jackets. The blueprints for Alligator Alcatraz—our modern-day Auschwitz—where people are caged, forgotten, and erased under state authority.

History will not look kindly on this moment.

And those clinging to nationalism, cruelty, and racial hierarchy will not be remembered as patriots—they’ll be remembered like the ones who wore those hoods: anonymous, ashamed, and ultimately irrelevant.

Today, the U.S. faces a different kind of fire—less visible, but no less destructive. The rise of internment-style detention centers like Alligator Alcatraz, funded by diverting resources from agencies like NOAA and FEMA, reflects a sinister realignment of priorities. Instead of protecting people from climate disasters or preparing communities for emergencies, we’re pouring taxpayer dollars into militarized border enforcement, surveillance, and dehumanization. The logic of cruelty has become a political strategy.

Meanwhile, the people targeted by these policies continue to show up for the very country that marginalizes them. Recently, as the U.S. struggled to respond to the disappearance at Camp Mystic—an incident that FEMA and domestic agencies were too under-resourced or disorganized to properly address—Mexico sent in its elite dive teams to assist in the search. It was an act of solidarity, uncoerced and deeply humane.

Just like in Astoria a century ago, help came not from those with power, but from those who have every reason to walk away.

We are living through another moment where lines are being drawn—between cruelty and compassion, between division and solidarity. And if we continue down this fascistic path, driven by fear and engineered hatred, we risk burning down everything, metaphorically and literally.

History doesn’t repeat, but it echoes—and in those echoes are warnings. The immigrant communities and BIPOC individuals who saved Astoria from the flames weren’t just heroic—they were moral beacons in a time of ethical darkness. And today, those same groups are once again holding up the scaffolding of a country that too often refuses to see their worth.

If we trace these patterns honestly, we can see this for what it is.

We must recognize injustice and the cost of failing to act.

The systems unfolding in the U.S. today—ICE raids, family separations, disappearing climate protections—aren’t just bad policy. They are part of a moral unraveling. The longer people cling to hatred, the more they fuel the fire.

But the antidote has always been the same: solidarity. Empathy. Action. The lesson is simple, even if it’s hard. When crisis comes—and it always does—our only real strength lies in how we choose to stand together.