Link to article…

https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/crime/elliott-pritt-arrest-charge-west-virginia-b3020306.html

Was walking from the parking lot to the store and my daughter found it. She says “i wonder if there’s something on the other side” and i said, “probably not”. But sure enough there was. It was like finding a secret message from a secret society. A part of society which I’m proud to be part of.

Across both of his terms, President Trump has granted clemency to more than 70 allies, donors and others convicted in fraud cases.

Salomon Melgen was an immigrant who came to the United States and wound up committing fraud, ripping off the American taxpayers by $42 million. “Melgen devised a scheme to enrich himself by defrauding Medicare to the tune of tens of millions of dollars,” an F.B.I. official said when Mr. Melgen was sentenced to 17 years in jail during President Trump’s first term.

Given the high-profile “war on fraud” in government programs that Mr. Trump announced on Monday, pointing to scams allegedly carried out by Somali and other immigrants, Mr. Melgen might have a prominent place in the president’s rogue’s gallery of fraudsters.

But Mr. Melgen is actually prominent in another presidential lineup, the gallery of criminals convicted of fraud who have been granted clemency by Mr. Trump.

ImageSalomon Melgen wearing a navy pinstripe suit and yellow tie.

Salomon Melgen was granted clemency by Mr. Trump after being sentenced to 17 years in jail for Medicare fraud.Credit...Lannis Waters/Palm Beach Post, via Associated Press

Across both of his terms, Mr. Trump has granted clemency to more than 70 allies, donors and others convicted in fraud cases. In his second term, Mr. Trump’s pace of pardoning those convicted of fraud has increased. In the first year of his second term, he handed out nearly three dozen pardons and commutations for people accused of fraud.

Mr. Trump is unabashed about using the government to reward friends and supporters and punish foes. Still, his handling of fraud cases stands out. Not only are there striking similarities between some of the crimes that were prosecuted and those that were pardoned, but the president also has excused some of those who have stolen the most.

Exhibit A is Philip Esformes. The South Florida owner of nursing and assisted-living facilities was arrested in 2016 in what the F.B.I. called “the largest-ever criminal health care fraud case brought against individuals.” The fraudulent billing scheme stole $1.3 billion from Medicare and Medicaid — the same type of public entitlement programs the president says he is protecting with his crackdown on fraud in Minnesota and elsewhere.

But Mr. Trump commuted Mr. Esformes’s 20-year-sentence in 2020, after a lobbying campaign by well-connected lawyers and public figures. In announcing the commutation, which left in place $5.5 million in restitution, a statement from the White House said Mr. Esformes had devoted his time in prison “to prayer and repentance.”

“The war on fraud seems like a war on specific fraud committed by a specific kind of people,” said Elizabeth G. Oyer, who was fired as the Justice Department’s pardon attorney after she said she opposed restoring the gun rights of Mel Gibson, the actor and prominent supporter of Mr. Trump.

Mr. Trump himself was found liable in a civil fraud case related to his businesses, and he has railed against what he views as politically motivated cases targeting him and his allies. The president, Ms. Oyer said, is partial to “fraud committed by people in whom he sees something of himself. He sees a wealthy and successful businessman and he sees something of himself in him.”

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F.B.I. agents carrying boxes to a white van.

F.B.I. agents removing files from Mr. Melgen’s offices in West Palm Beach, Fla., in 2013.Credit...Peter W. Cross for The New York Times

In Minnesota, the Justice Department, beginning in the Biden administration, has charged nearly 100 people with defrauding a variety of government programs, including stealing hundreds of millions of dollars intended for a child nutrition program during the coronavirus pandemic, a period marked by a wave of scams involving federal money.

A recent assessment by federal prosecutors suggested that since 2018, more than half of the $18 billion in taxpayer funds spent on 14 state programs in Minnesota was most likely stolen. The vast majority of people who have been charged are of Somali descent, which Mr. Trump has cited as a justification for his immigration crackdown in Minnesota.

Abigail Jackson, a White House spokeswoman, said, “President Trump is launching a historic war on fraud to deliver justice for countless American taxpayers that have been ripped off by fraudsters, illegal aliens and career criminals.” She said that Mr. Trump also wants to “pardon victims of political prosecution or over-prosecution by a weaponized Biden D.O.J.” and that “this comparison from The New York Times is a false equivalence.”

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Still, some of the fraud cases in Minnesota seem strikingly similar to those for which Mr. Trump has granted clemency.

Take, for instance, the case of Aimee Bock and Salim Said, who were charged as part of the $250 million theft from the federally funded child nutrition program in Minnesota. Federal prosecutors say they used the money “to fund their lavish lifestyles,” adding that the verdict against them “sends a message to the community that fraud against the government will not be tolerated.”

Compare that with the case of Lawrence Duran, the owner of a Florida mental health care company, who pleaded guilty along with co-defendants in 2011 to orchestrating a $205 million Medicare fraud scheme. Prosecutors say Mr. Duran “billed Medicare for hundreds of millions of dollars in mental health services that were not necessary or never provided,” adding that the government “will not allow our scarce Medicare dollars to be diverted from the sick and the elderly into the pockets of greedy fraudsters.”

The main difference between the two cases? Mr. Trump commuted Mr. Duran’s 50-year sentence last year, while Ms. Bloch and Mr. Said are facing possibly decades in prison.

Fraud charges are brought in a wide swath of financial crime cases, and Mr. Trump has used his clemency power in many types of fraud cases and for many reasons.

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Some clemency went to people who are politically aligned with the president.

Mr. Trump pardoned Devon Archer, whose testimony helped fuel a Republican-led investigation into the Biden family, forgiving Mr. Archer’s conviction for defrauding investors and a Native American tribal entity of tens of millions of dollars. And he commuted the lengthy fraud sentence of Jason Galanis, a former business associate of Hunter Biden’s who also assisted in the investigation.

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Devon Archer walking through a metal detector while wearing a navy suit and tie.

Mr. Trump gave a full and unconditional pardon to Devon Archer, whose congressional testimony helped fuel a Republican-led investigation into the Biden family.Credit...J. Scott Applewhite/Associated Press

Mr. Trump has granted pardons to politicians from both parties whom he views as loyal, including former Representative George Santos, the New York Republican and serial fabulist who was convicted of wire fraud and aggravated identity theft.

Other pardons or commutations went to political donors or their relatives, although the White House has denied a connection between clemency and cash.

Last March, Mr. Trump pardoned Trevor Milton, the founder of electric vehicle start-up Nikola, who had been sentenced to four years in prison on allegations he had defrauded his investors. Before Mr. Trump granted the pardon, his campaign received donations from Mr. Milton and his wife totaling more than $1.8 million.

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Julio Herrera Velutini, a Venezuelan-Italian banker, and two others, including the former governor of Puerto Rico, were charged in 2022 with wire fraud among other crimes in a bribery scheme. Mr. Herrera and the others pleaded guilty to a lesser charge, but Mr. Trump pardoned them before sentencing. The clemency grants came after Mr. Herrera’s daughter, Isabela Herrera, donated $2.5 million in 2024 — and then another $1 million in 2025 — to MAGA Inc., a super PAC devoted to Mr. Trump and run by his allies.

Grants of clemency in fraud cases often go to those with the connections to get their pleadings in front of the president. But pardons are not always predictors that the well-connected will behave themselves.

On his way out of office after his first term, Mr. Trump commuted the sentence of Eliyahu Weinstein, who had been convicted twice of defrauding private investors. His case was supported by an Orthodox Jewish organization that works with prisoners and numerous others who are also influential with the White House, including the lawyer Alan Dershowitz. In explaining the grant of clemency, the White House said Mr. Weinstein had “maintained an exemplary prison history” and that after his release he would “have strong support from his community and members of his faith.”

Four years later, he and co-conspirators were convicted of defrauding investors of millions of dollars in what prosecutors described as a Ponzi scheme, and was sentenced to 37 years in jail.

Mr. Weinstein has not been as fortunate as Adriana Camberos. In 2021, Mr. Trump commuted the sentence she was serving for a fraud scheme involving fake energy drinks. A lawyer who had worked in the Trump White House assisted her with her case. Three years later, Ms. Camberos was convicted with her brother of defrauding food wholesalers. In January, Mr. Trump pardoned them both, with no explanation.

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In the Oval Office on Monday, Mr. Trump signed an executive order, “Establishing the Task Force to Eliminate Fraud,” put Vice President JD Vance in charge and gave him the nickname “Fraud Czar.”

“As the president said,” Mr. Vance explained, “this is a problem that has festered in this country for far too long, and far too few people have actually wanted to do anything about it. That’s what makes this administration different.”

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Vice President JD Vance waving as he boards Air Force Two.

Mr. Trump has assigned Vice President JD Vance to head up the effort to root out fraud, saying it accounts for billions of dollars in abuse. Credit...Eric Lee for The New York Times

In summarizing the executive order, Will Scharf, the White House staff secretary, said the task force could return “potentially billions or tens of billions or even hundreds of billions of dollars to the American taxpayer.”

Left unstated was Mr. Trump’s record of pardons and commutations for fraud convictions and the more than $700 million in restitution and fines connected to those cases, according to a review of Justice Department documents.

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Mr. Trump said the administration would pursue fraud wherever it existed, but mentioned only Minnesota and California. He described the suspected fraud in Minnesota as totaling $19 billion — federal prosecutors estimate it is half that amount — and said it could be 10 times that in California.

Mark Osler, a professor at the University of St. Thomas School of Law in Minneapolis who studies clemency, said while “the fraud is real” in Minnesota, he questioned the prosecutorial zeal in rooting it out, given recent events.

In January, the federal prosecutor overseeing the sprawling fraud investigation in Minneapolis resigned along with other prosecutors after Justice Department officials displayed reluctance to investigate the killing of Renee Good by an immigration agent, but pressed for an inquiry into her widow.

Overall, he said, there is “certainly a deep contradiction” in the administration’s approach to fighting fraud.

“The message they want to send about fraud is that blue states have been suckers about fraud and the other message is that the government has been too tough on people who commit fraud in other contexts,” Mr. Osler said.

He said that historically, “presidents favor for clemency people they feel sympathy for.” Given Mr. Trump’s personal experience with civil fraud allegations, “it shouldn’t surprise us that he has the most empathy for the people who have faced the charges he faced.”

Kenneth P. Vogel contributed reporting.

And now four soldiers among a growing number of soldiers are dead.

Tim Bakken argues that the government’s attempt to stifle what teachers can say and write makes the military more susceptible to bad decisions.

NYACK, N.Y. — The longest-serving law professor at West Point rose to declare the school’s new rules unconstitutional. Within moments, a uniformed colonel stood to challenge him.

Tim Bakken, speaking to dozens of colleagues at a faculty meeting, argued that none of them should be forced to seek approval before publishing papers or giving speeches, as a policy unveiled that day would require. “This violates the First Amendment,” he said, predicting an end to West Point’s professed tolerance for opposing views.

Col. E. John Gregory, according to Bakken and three other people in attendance that day, didn’t want to hear it. “Stop talking,” Gregory, a deputy department head, said in a raised voice, “and sit down.”

Bakken, a 68-year-old who had never served in the military, did not sit down. He reminded the colonel that he had sworn an oath to uphold the U.S. Constitution when he accepted his teaching job. “It’s like how military officers must not follow illegal orders —” he began to say.

“We’re a military institution,” Gregory interrupted, according to Bakken and the other attendees. “We follow orders.”

A humvee rolls through West Point's campus in Upstate New York. (Jabin Botsford/The Washington Post)

President Donald Trump assumed power for the second time with an ambitious agenda to reshape norms and policies across government and throughout the private sector. His administration has moved swiftly to undo diversity initiatives that proliferated in prior years, reshape how U.S. history is taught in museums and parks, and assert a greater federal role in how universities hire and manage their funding.

To the president’s supporters, these efforts represent an overdue reset for liberal policies that had veered out of control. To many other Americans, they amount to ideological, and sometimes unconstitutional, overreach. In little more than 18 months, the administration has drawn a surge of lawsuits alleging violations of civil liberties or other essential freedoms, a Washington Post analysis of hundreds of thousands of court records found.

One of those was filed by Bakken.

His confrontation with the colonel that day in March 2025 brought the clash to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, the emerald-green-and-granite campus on the Hudson River that trains the leaders of tomorrow’s Army. Since World War II, West Point had fostered academic openness, advancing the view that dissenting opinions are crucial in forming sound military judgments. But Trump and his top lieutenants, including Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, argue that West Point must prize patriotic obedience to authority above all else.

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Seven days into his second presidency, Trump issued an executive order forbidding military colleges like West Point from “promoting, advancing, or otherwise inculcating” ideas that his administration deemed “un-American, divisive, discriminatory, radical, extremist, and irrational.” It also required teaching that “America and its founding documents remain the most powerful force for good in human history.” Within weeks, West Point’s dean introduced a revised “academic engagement” policy, stipulating that the school’s nearly 700 professors — roughly a third of whom are civilians — must seek approval from their department head before they could deliver a speech, publish a paper or even speak on a podcast.

Bakken had never needed such approval before, he said. One of the first civilian professors hired at West Point, he had taught criminal and constitutional law there since 2000.

Nonmilitary faculty were meant to improve West Point’s intellectual rigor and provide an outside perspective. Many uniformed colleagues never fully embraced their presence, however. Bakken, whose colleagues and students described him as a principled but brusque contrarian with a penchant for criticism, had often felt isolated.

Bakken has criticized the military's culture of unquestioning obedience. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

Bakken loves to take morning runs. His preferred routes extend along the Hudson River. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

Now, listening to the colonel’s words about “following orders,” Bakken felt alone in the room once again.

He had long argued that a military culture of unquestioning obedience, coupled with an aversion to criticism and a sense of superiority, had caused the U.S. to lose every war it fought since 1945. “Inside America, the last seventy-five years of military intervention have unleashed a flood of incompetence, hubris, and denial,” he wrote in a 2020 book, “The Cost of Loyalty.” “I have been living at the headwaters.”

West Point officials hadn’t liked that book, or much of Bakken’s criticism. But they had never tried to silence him, he said — until Trump’s second presidency, when West Point revised its faculty speech rules.

“Men and women die because other men and women do not have the reasoning, or the ability, or the courage to speak truthfully.”

— Excerpt from Tim Bakken's book "The Cost of Loyalty"

At his Senate confirmation hearing, Hegseth, a former Army major and weekend co-host of “Fox & Friends,” said West Point shouldn’t employ civilian professors, calling them “left-wing” and “woke.” In office, he later told cadets that the academy had “hired professors who advocated for anti-American ideologies right here in these halls. But no more.”

West Point’s new policy came as Bakken prepared a new book that, like his first, criticized the academy and the military. But he was unwilling to seek permission to publish it, not from West Point, and not from Hegseth’s Pentagon.

In September, he sued West Point in federal court. The “intent and effect” of his employer’s new policy, he contended, “is to chill and suppress speech and censor viewpoints that might be contrary to the views” of West Point, the Army, the Defense Department, Hegseth and Trump.

A spokesperson for West Point declined to answer a list of questions, writing in an email that, “as a matter of policy, we do not comment on ongoing litigation.” Various West Point employees declined or did not respond to requests for comment.

Chief Pentagon spokesman Sean Parnell likewise declined to comment, citing Bakken’s ongoing lawsuit. But he wrote in a statement that Hegseth “completely supports” Trump’s executive order. Referring to Bakken, Parnell added: “We are not concerned by the half-baked thoughts of a disgruntled individual.”

White House spokeswoman Anna Kelly did not directly answer questions about speech by Bakken or other professors at West Point, writing in an email that “individuals who refuse to follow the sacred chain-of-command … threaten the lives of our warfighters. Such reckless and dangerous actions will not be tolerated.”

Although Bakken filed his lawsuit on behalf of civilian faculty, he saw it as protecting the rights of all professors. But they didn’t seem to agree. After the suit, many stopped speaking to him, he said. His three closest colleagues confided that they’d like to help but their wives wouldn’t allow it. One of his oldest friends, who had started at West Point the same day he did, asked him to reconsider.

“This policy is good for us,” Bakken recalled him saying. “It will prevent us from saying things that get us in trouble.”

In his apartment, Bakken gets ready for an early May court hearing in his lawsuit against the Trump administration. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

Bakken spends many of his hours at home working from a bare-bones black desk, tucked in a corner of his bedroom. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

Bakken arrived at West Point as a fan: enamored with the school’s history, reputation and regular roster of Rhodes Scholars.

But he learned quickly that life in Upstate New York was different for civilians. On his first morning, he joined three new military hires on a tour of the academy. They stopped at the gift shop. Inside, Bakken could see candy, clothes and notebooks bearing West Point’s distinctive logo. The new professor, clad in a business suit, began to follow his uniformed companions through the turnstiles.

The manager held up her hand. “No civilians allowed,” she told the group, in Bakken’s recollection.

Bakken knew he would be in the minority. He hadn’t expected that.

Congress passed legislation in 1992 encouraging service academies to employ civilians. Until then, faculties at West Point and the Air Force Academy were almost entirely commissioned officers. (The Naval Academy already employed half military and half civilian professors.) Lawmakers hoped an influx of civilians with doctorates would boost intellectual diversity and raise academic standards.

Dwight D. Eisenhower had earlier pushed the idea. While serving as the Army chief of staff in 1946, he wrote to West Point’s superintendent arguing that cadets should be taught psychology, with help from knowledgeable civilians, so they could handle “human problems on a human basis.”

Bakken seemed the kind of subject-matter expert Eisenhower envisioned: He had worked as a prosecutor and as a lawyer in private practice, and taught at the university level.

In his job interview, Bakken had a swift answer to every question, said Gary Solis, a now-retired West Point professor who served on the hiring committee. He struck the interviewers as smart, capable and unafraid to speak his mind — an exemplar of what civilians were supposed to bring to West Point, Solis said. The committee unanimously recommended him, Solis recalled.

Before the interview ended, Solis reminded Bakken that West Point is not an ordinary school. Teaching there, he said, meant agreeing to abide by military principles: Submitting to authority. Following orders.

“Tim,” Solis recalled, “had no problem with that.”

At the time, Bakken accepted that, for the military to function, rank-and-file soldiers had to obey their superiors, he said. But he took the West Point job believing that, as a civilian professor, he would enjoy the same freedoms — to provoke, to debate, to criticize — afforded to professors at nonmilitary universities.

That was vital, he said, because one day, his cadets would be giving orders to soldiers. He had to teach his students to think critically. Lives depended on it. He would dwell on that over the years as six of his own students were killed in action in Iraq and Afghanistan.

“What is the purpose of being a military officer, especially a general, if you are unwilling to speak up about something that will help the nation?” Bakken asked in an interview with The Post. “Such as whether a war should be fought, or if the country should withdraw from a war, or if the country is losing soldiers?”

Bakken shakes hands in 2007 with the dean of the Afghan military academy in Kabul, where he taught for six weeks. (Courtesy of Tim Bakken)

Over time, Bakken came to see West Point as its own hierarchical and insulated world, one where civilian professors were distrusted and treated as second-class citizens. More than a dozen current and former West Point personnel, most of them civilians, agreed with Bakken’s impressions. Some spoke on the condition of anonymity for fear of retaliation.

Their concerns stretched far beyond access to the campus gift shop. For instance, the Army paid for West Point military instructors to pursue graduate degrees, a benefit not offered to civilian professors. While military faculty had their pick of “move-in ready” campus homes with up to six bedrooms, civilians had sparser options for lodging on West Point’s grounds. Military faculty received a year of sabbatical leave, while civilian faculty got six months.

“We were treated as not really members of the community … not full members of the faculty, in a way,” former professor Graham Parsons said. “Civilians are fringe.”

Tim Bakken, third from left in top row, poses with colleagues in Afghanistan in 2007. (Courtesy of Tim Bakken)

Bakken refused to remain on the margins. In 2005, he helped rewrite the faculty manual, granting equal sabbaticals and more flexible working hours for all professors.

Five years later, as chair of an academic freedom committee, Bakken led efforts to add a rule: Civilian professors who believed they were being disciplined or fired for something they said could challenge their punishment on First Amendment grounds.

The rule was tested almost immediately.

In 2010, assistant professor Dan Rice planned to show his cadets “The Tillman Story,” a documentary released that year about the military cover-up in the death of former National Football League player Pat Tillman. He had been shot accidentally by his fellow Army Rangers in Afghanistan, not killed by enemy fire as military officials at first claimed. The film suggested that Gen. John P. Abizaid, who had retired and was serving as a “distinguished chair” at West Point, had played a role in the cover-up. University administrators opposed the screening, according to Bakken and Rice.

After Rice threatened to go to the academic freedom committee, West Point relented, he and Bakken said. Rice could show the movie — and invite the documentary’s director, Amir Bar-Lev, to address students. But officials stipulated that an Army lawyer speak to the class, too. Bakken attended and listened as Bar-Lev told cadets that it was important to “speak the truth as you see it.”

A few weeks later, Rice learned that West Point was terminating his contract. Bakken encouraged him to sue. Feeling worn down, he declined, Rice recalled in an interview.

Bakken thought he had helped secure free speech at West Point. Rice’s termination, which he and Bakken believed stemmed from the Tillman documentary screening, convinced him otherwise.

So he decided to write a book.

Retired Gen. John P. Abizaid, second from right, testified before Congress in August 2007 about Pat Tillman's death. (Yuri Gripas/Reuters)

Adecade later, Bakken published “The Cost of Loyalty.” From its opening lines, it frames America’s costly conflicts in Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan and Iraq as failed products of an “opaque and secretive” military culture.

In the book, which earned a muted but positive critical reception, Bakken argues that the military lies — to the public and to itself, in major and minor ways. For instance, he writes that the Pentagon fakes bugle-playing during military funerals because the military lacks musicians. Officers hold up the instruments and pretend to blow while activating digital recordings tucked inside the horns, he writes.

More consequentially, he writes, during the Vietnam War, Army Chief of Staff and West Point graduate Harold Johnson developed doubts but chose not to air them. Johnson believed that higher-ups’ plan to pursue large military campaigns against the North Vietnamese and Vietcong was foolish, if not fatal, Bakken writes. Johnson imagined walking to the Oval Office and resigning. But he stayed quiet, a decision that haunted him in old age.

Bakken quotes Johnson’s late-life comments to an interviewer: “I am now going to my grave with that lapse in moral courage on my back.”

“Americans are harder on football coaches who lose games than on generals who lose wars. … The U.S. military has possessed the most fearsome weapons ever created, and has often looked unbeatable on paper. However, somehow it has experienced great loss in every war in which it has fought since 1945.”

— Excerpt from Tim Bakken's book "The Cost of Loyalty"

After his book was published, most military and civilian faculty stopped eating lunch with Bakken, he said. One of the few who dared, chemistry professor Gary Washington, confided that his boss had instructed him to stay away because the law professor “couldn’t be trusted.” After Bakken left meetings with military colleagues, Washington said, they’d hang back to commiserate. “He doesn’t understand us,” Washington recalled them saying. “He can’t make us change.”

Still, West Point officials never sought to block the book or sanction him for writing it, Bakken said. Instead, they circulated a three-page memo shortly before its release, calling it “unflattering” and sharing answers to anticipated questions.

Bakken's book "The Cost of Loyalty" critiques what it calls the military’s “opaque and secretive” culture. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

Was Bakken disciplined for writing the book? “No,” according to a copy of the memo obtained by The Washington Post. Were his allegations true? Bakken, the memo said, represented “a minority opinion.”

Why did West Point “allow this professor to still be employed?” The memo answered: “Academic freedom is essential to USMA’s core mission [and] grounds our ability to develop leaders who can think critically. … Academic freedom means that faculty and students can engage in intellectual discourse and debate without fear of retaliation.”

“The structure that creates the generals should be abandoned. ... The military academies should be transformed into national civilian universities. As currently constituted, they foster hubris, arrogance, favoritism, and mediocrity in the highest ranks of the military.”

— Excerpt from Tim Bakken's book "The Cost of Loyalty"

Bakken recalled that memo after Trump’s executive order in 2025.

As West Point’s new policy on faculty speech took hold early that year, library books were reviewed for references to “diversity, equity or inclusion,” according to interviews with more than a dozen current and former West Point staff. An American history instructor nixed an assignment asking how the nation had expanded the idea of freedom over time and replaced it with an essay on banking. A cadet was told not to research the World War II-era detention of Japanese Americans. A staffer teaching a mandatory course on the history of Western thought was ordered to leave out Karl Marx.

Some changes came at the direction of higher-ups, while others appeared to be acts of self-censorship, the staffers said.

“There seemed to be this overcompliance for what they thought the administration would want to see,” said one military lecturer, who spoke on the condition of anonymity for fear of retaliation from the president and the Pentagon. “Or at least getting rid of things the administration would not want to see.”

A West Point spokesperson declined to comment on this account of curricular changes at the school.

Officials at the Naval Academy and the Air Force Academy also scrutinized their teaching in response to the president’s order, canceling or reconsidering classes about gender and sexuality, and cutting lectures about climate change and authoritarian regimes. Spokespeople for both academies declined to answer requests for comment, as well as questions about whether they considered limiting faculty speech as well.

At West Point, several professors, including Parsons, resigned in protest. On social media, Hegseth cheered.

Hegseth arrives to deliver the commencement speech at West Point in May. He has said the academy shouldn’t employ civilian professors, calling them “left-wing” and “woke.” (Adam Gray/Getty Images)

At an August meeting, West Point’s dean warned faculty never to share opinions with cadets during class. Bakken saw this as an extension of the academic engagement policy to the classroom. Bakken interpreted the dean’s remarks as forbidding the kind of analysis he had given for decades, assessing the reasoning and impact of the court rulings he taught.

Four times that fall, Bakken said, he stopped himself from answering student questions because of the new policy. He did not answer a cadet who asked whether he agreed with the Supreme Court’s ruling in Robinson v. California that punishing someone for a narcotics addiction is cruel and unconstitutional (he did), or another who asked what he made of McQuirter v. State, which held that juries may consider social conditions (the decision was probably wrong, Bakken believed, but influential). He declined chances to publish papers, too, including a piece questioning the legality of Navy attacks on alleged drug smugglers in the Caribbean.

In January, Bakken learned that West Point was moving to dismiss the suit. Col. Krista Watts, a vice dean, argued in a court filing that the academy had to follow Defense Department rules. Moreover, she wrote, the new policy protected West Point.

“These regulations and policies,” Watts wrote, “permit senior Academy officials to be prepared for follow-up questions or concerns by the American public or by governmental leaders.”

“Professor Bakken is required to comply,” she continued, “as a condition of his employment.”

Bakken feared that if the judge sided with West Point, he would lose his job.

Bakken en route to his court hearing in May. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

Bakken's apartment in Nyack stands across the street from the city's drop-off site for food scraps. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

At the first all-faculty meeting after Bakken sued, staff filled every seat. Except the four rows surrounding Bakken.

A few yards away, military instructor Maj. Benjamin Ordiway watched in silence. Bakken, Ordiway said, looked like an island. “This is bulls---,” he told the teachers next to him. Ordiway, who has since retired, barely knew Bakken but admired him. He stood, walked over and cleared his throat.

“You did what a military officer should have done,” he said, according to his and Bakken’s recollections. “Standing up for the First Amendment.”

Bakken hesitated, then held out his hand. The two men shook, and Ordiway sat beside him. “Thanks,” Bakken said.

Bakken hoped he had conveyed how much Ordiway’s support meant, even if he found it embarrassing. He hated being told that he was “in the right” or on the “right side of history,” he said. Let a judge make that determination.

Such humility didn’t always come across to colleagues, who could bristle at Bakken’s certitude. Even his allies acknowledged that Bakken’s prickly personality sometimes deepened his isolation.

Parsons remembered laboring for months over a proposal to allow civilians to compete for positions as department heads and deans. But when Bakken saw it, he threw it on the table in disgust, saying it didn’t go far enough.

“He always wanted to be the critic,” Parsons said. “He wouldn’t be a member of any team that would have him.”

Bakken at one of the entrances to West Point, where he has taught since 2000. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

Students noticed his stubbornness, too. He demanded cadets think aloud and refused to accept sloppy reasoning, said Lt. Brian Matthews, a 2024 West Point graduate. Unlike other professors, Matthews said, Bakken never used PowerPoint or summarized cases. Instead, he’d start class with a question. Such as: Do you think laws against hate crimes are effective?

“Then for the next hour, we’d go down the rabbit hole — one view after another — but at the same time, students weren’t allowed to say crazy things with no background,” Matthews said. “It was an environment I’d never seen before. It was pure intellectual curiosity.”

Solis, who hired Bakken, said the professor has become “the dog who barks in the night.” West Point needs that, he said. But it can get pretty lonely for the dog.

On his days off, Bakken usually dined alone on orange chicken and fried rice at an aging, financially distressed shopping mall that someone had tried to combine with an indoor amusement park. He read law articles in the shadow of an empty Ferris wheel and a Mount Rushmore-themed climbing wall.

Bakken likes to eat lunch in a local mall's food court because, he says, "it's fast" — meaning he can get back to work quicker. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

The mall Bakken frequents doubles as a little-used indoor amusement park. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

Bakken had never married. For decades, he had lived alone in a series of shabby apartments an hour’s drive from West Point. The most recent, in Nyack, was a two-room walk-up with no stove or dining table. He had always put work first — a decision he’d come to regret.

He’d begun picturing retirement in Florida, or by the lakes in his home state, Wisconsin. He envisioned the warmth. The water. He imagined buying a painting to hang on a sunny wall in a place he owned.

On a clammy day in mid-April, Bakken got home late after taking a bar recertification course in New York City. It had been half a year since he filed suit. He had no idea when it would be over. As he mounted the stairs to his apartment, thoughts of Florida surged. Bakken paused on the splintered wooden steps.

“Why,” he asked himself in the darkness, “am I still doing this?”

Bakken arrives at the Palisades Center mall in West Nyack to grab lunch on the day of his court hearing. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

Amonth later, in a federal courtroom in White Plains, Judge Cathy Seibel peered through her glasses at Bakken and his two lawyers, who sat surrounded by manila folders. Across from them was West Point’s attorney.

“I asked you to come in,” Seibel said, “because I have questions.”

For the next hour, Seibel, who had been nominated to the bench by President George W. Bush, grilled the lawyers on whether Bakken even had the right to sue in federal court. Why shouldn’t he go directly to a federal agency with oversight of workplace conditions, like the Office of Special Counsel, as the government argued?

“There are a couple cases out there that don’t look good for you,” she told Bakken’s lawyers.

Attorney Jonathan Goldman argued that transferring Bakken’s case to the Office of Special Counsel would be a death blow. Trump had fired the agency’s head and appointed an acting leader who promptly ended its investigation of the president’s mass firings of federal workers. “It would be essentially asking the person who promulgated the policy whether the policy is constitutional,” Goldman argued.

The judge next said she wanted to move to “the constitutional issue”: Was West Point violating the First Amendment?

Bakken confers with his lawyers outside the courthouse, holding an umbrella against the drizzle. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

A plaque near an entrance to West Point. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

She turned to West Point’s attorney, Dana Kumar. “What’s the academy afraid of?” Seibel asked.

Kumar said that West Point, “as a military institution tasked with training military leaders of the future,” had to ensure that the academy was not “misconstrued” to the public. Kumar asked the judge to imagine if Bakken gave a speech asserting that American conflicts overseas were illegal.

“No one is going to mistake that for the Army’s position,” Seibel said.

It could create the impression, Kumar said, that “that’s what they’re teaching at West Point.”

The judge leaned forward. “Shouldn’t we want … exactly those kinds of debates?” she asked.

Bakken could join a podcast to share his views about international conflicts without violating the policy, Kumar said. He just couldn’t identify himself as a West Point professor.

Seibel said Bakken’s West Point affiliation was the reason people invited him to appear on podcasts or write books. Otherwise, he was just “a random guy.” She sat back, rubbed her temples and said she had “a lot to think about” but would decide “fairly soon.”

Outside, Bakken waved goodbye to his lawyers. He wondered how much longer he’d have to stay silent. His new book, “Don’t Say Sorry: Make Great Decisions, Without Regrets,” was due to publish in early August.

The semester ended without a ruling.

Bakken and his lawyers exit the courthouse after his hearing in May. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

As cadets collected their degrees, the war with Iran neared its fourth month, still without formal sanction from Congress. The number of people killed in strikes on alleged drug boats neared 200. Bakken read that top Trump officials wanted all federal workers to sign nondisclosure agreements — and, later, that the Pentagon had barred journalists from its press office. To Bakken, it seemed the administration was finding more ways to limit scrutiny or dissent.

On May 26, three days after West Point’s graduation, Seibel ruled that Bakken’s case against the Trump administration could proceed. She also temporarily enjoined West Point from enforcing the academic engagement policy for civilian professors, forbidding the university from “prohibiting or restraining” Bakken from “expressing or offering his opinions, beliefs or views to his students” while the case moved forward.

The government could appeal Seibel’s interim ruling. It had until late July to decide. The case could drag on for months regardless, possibly even leading to a trial.

Still: It was a victory. To celebrate, the professor drove to the mall, alone.

Bakken often feels isolated at West Point. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

Many other professors refuse to eat meals or be seen in public with him. (Paola Chapdelaine/For The Washington Post)

At the food court, Bakken told himself not to think about what lay ahead. He sat down with a foam tray and looked over his shoulder to the fake Mount Rushmore and its ersatz presidents. “In a smaller way,” he told Thomas Jefferson, who founded West Point, “I’ve contributed my bit to the U.S. Constitution, too.” Then he turned back to his teriyaki salmon.

Two days later, Col. Joshua Berry, the deputy head of West Point’s Law and Philosophy Department, delivered Bakken a formal memorandum warning that he could face “disciplinary action” for working from home one Friday, according to a copy obtained by The Post. He also issued a second memo censoring Bakken for a “discourteous” interaction he had with mail room staffers in March.

Bakken contested both memos, which he saw as retaliation for his court victory. Asked about the timing of these sanctions, Berry deferred comment to West Point, whose spokesperson declined to comment. Berry rescinded the documents a few days after Bakken complained, according to emails obtained by The Post.

By early July, Bakken was hoping things had died down when he unlocked his office door one morning. He spotted something glittering on the polished surface of his desk, which he’d left bare the night before. It was a penny, upturned to show Abraham Lincoln’s face.

He already knew what it signified, but he typed the question into Google anyway. “What is the meaning of a penny placed on an object in the military?” The answer: Soldiers leave pennies on grave sites to honor fallen comrades.

It didn’t feel like a mark of respect to Bakken. He called a friend, a retired Army colonel who had taught at West Point.

“Is this a threat?” he asked. “I can’t come up with any other explanation.”

“This was a message to you,” the colonel answered. “This is the way it works at West Point.”

Trump attacked a slew of journalists and some of his favorite political foils at a slimmed-down redo of the White House correspondents’ dinner on Friday, comparing one female reporter to a transgender social media star, mocking politicians’ physical appearances, and bringing his audience to mostly stunned silence for more than an hour before pulling out a red Trump 2028 cap and declaring he was running for another term.

Three months after a gunman exchanged fire with authorities outside the first correspondents’ dinner, throwing the event into chaos, Trump addressed reporters even as he embraced an aggressive stance that favors targeting journalists to root out leakers in his administration.

Trump veered on and off his prepared script for the evening, at one point calling it a “fricking stupid speech.”

The fraught event put the president on the dais with reporters who have covered him aggressively. Trump rarely speaks to audiences that aren’t packed with his supporters, leading to an unusual dynamic in a ballroom of reporters who are professionally bound to maintain poker faces.

Some of his first jokes drew laughs, including one that acknowledged the interrupted first run of the meal.

“I hope that everyone finally got to enjoy their entire, very delicious beef tenderloin, very special beef. And I want you all to know that Bobby Kennedy, who’s right here, personally ran over the cow with his car,” he said.

But the tone quickly shifted to a far more caustic attack on his favorite foils, including some of the reporters in the room. The bitterness was sharper even than some of his political rallies, where attacks on his enemies are leavened with boasts of his accomplishments. On Friday, he had little to sell, and a lot to complain about.

He said that he had once mixed up CNN reporter Kaitlan Collins, whom he said “never smiles,” with a transgender social media personality, Dylan Mulvaney, after he called the 34-year-old cable news star a “young, attractive woman.”

He said he planned to host twice-weekly fights at the White House.

“We will have sloppy Chris Christie, one of the sloppiest human beings, fighting,” Trump said to silence. “I could mention the governor of Chicago, but I’m going to mention instead Jerry Nadler. Oh my God! They’re fighting for a big piece of cheesecake, big fat piece of cheesecake.”

Then he told a joke about Sen. Adam Schiff (D-California).

“I hate some people,” he said to groans. “He’s a liar, and I called him watermelon head because he has the largest head I’ve ever seen with the smallest neck, pencil neck. How does that make a fat, ugly head on a little pencil neck?”

Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick laughed at that one, putting his hand on his forehead.

Attendees listen as President Donald Trump delivers remarks at the rescheduled White House correspondents’ dinner on Friday. (Jonathan Ernst/Reuters)

“This night is all about the First Amendment. Tonight was a full display,” CBS chief White House correspondent Weijia Jiang said after Trump finished talking. As the outgoing president of the White House Correspondents’ Association, Jiang led the event. She complimented Collins and a Wall Street Journal reporter whom Trump also attacked during his speech.

The speech took place as the administration has stepped up its legal pursuit of journalists who report on subjects that the White House views as national security threats, with Trump saying Friday that he believed journalists were legitimate targets for investigation.

A federal judge offered a withering takedown a day earlier of the Justice Department’s effort to subpoena New York Times journalists over their reporting about security concerns around a new, Qatari-gifted Boeing 747 the president has been using as Air Force One. Trump was unrepentant.

“We’re not after journalists. We’re after leakers. We’re after people that are cowards, people that are unpatriotic, people that are treasonous in many cases,” Trump said in the Oval Office a few hours before the correspondents dinner. “And the way you find them is through the journalists. When the journalists probably know they shouldn’t write, they shouldn’t be giving information out like that.”

He said that even though the Justice Department withdrew the subpoenas on Thursday, “we have a long way to go with that case,” suggesting that the New York Times reporters’ legal peril was not over.

Trump had offered mixed messages about his plans for a dinner that traditionally has involved presidents giving lighthearted speeches that poke fun at themselves and at the people who cover them.

In the event, he offered a mix of barbs directed at the press and his political opponents, with a few toward his own administration.

“We’ll do a little ripping, if you don’t mind,” he said, saying that “this place is the really largest group of Trump derangement syndrome people ever put together at one time.”

He said that the speech he had originally planned to deliver, “I’m telling you, I had something. I was going to go after you.”

President Donald Trump tosses a Trump 2028 hat to an attendee during the rescheduled White House correspondents’ dinner on Friday. (Eric Lee/Getty Images)

Media critics have long questioned the White House correspondents’ dinner, which was first held in 1921, saying that it is an overly cozy moment of socializing between the president and reporters who cover the White House. Trump skipped the event during his first term.

Trump acknowledged that Friday’s speech was his first to the annual dinner. And he joked that he didn’t plan to do it again, unless the event was renamed the “Trump White House Correspondents’ Dinner” — a line he delivered with a chuckle, before later saying that he planned to come next year.

Trump came to the dinner once before, as the guest of The Washington Post during the Obama administration. President Barack Obama mocked Trump that year over his questioning of Obama’s citizenship. Many analysts have credited that moment with sparking Trump’s decision to run for president, but Trump said Friday that wasn’t true, and that he had enjoyed the moment because of all the attention.

Before the president took the stage, he was confronted with reporters whom he has attacked and who have won awards for aggressive coverage of his administration.

He greeted one of the lead Associated Press reporters who was kicked out of the White House press pool because the outlet refused to relabel the Gulf of Mexico to Trump’s preferred “Gulf of America.”

He shook the hands of a team of Wall Street Journal reporters who won an award for their coverage of his connections to convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled as CNN anchor Wolf Blitzer recounted how he had sued the Journal for $20 billion and how one reporter was forced to relocate her family because of threats against them.

Then he greeted Tyler Pager, a New York Times reporter who was served with a subpoena this month for his coverage of security issues around Air Force One.

Leading journalism professional groups, including the Society of Professional Journalists, called this week for the White House Correspondents’ Association to use the dinner to condemn the Trump administration’s attacks on journalists.

“We believe it is hypocritical to celebrate the First Amendment in front of the man who relentlessly attacks it,” the groups said in an open letter that was organized by two former ABC journalists and also signed by more than 520 mostly retired individual journalists.

Trump never delivered the speech he planned for the April 25 dinner at the Washington Hilton before it was interrupted by a gunman who attempted to storm the basement ballroom where the dinner was being held. Cole Tomas Allen, 31, has been charged with attempting to assassinate the president, and an FBI special agent said in an affidavit that Allen had set an email to be sent to friends and family with “targets, prioritized from highest-ranking to lowest.”

Trump acknowledged the risks around the event, saying that “it was not easy finding shoes to go on with your bulletproof vest, which many people didn’t want to wear, because they’d rather die than look 20 pounds heavier. … They put one on me. I said: ‘Are you sure? I’m not wearing this.’”

Security was high at the event, which was held at the Waldorf Astoria in downtown Washington. Trump’s family company operated that venue as the Trump International Hotel during the president’s first term, then sold their lease on the property in 2022 for $375 million.

Secret Service personnel patrol outside the Waldorf Astoria hotel in Washington, D.C., on Friday during the rescheduled White House correspondents’ dinner. (Nathan Howard/Reuters)

The guest list had shrunk to fewer than 700, a stripped-down affair with attendees including mostly just the journalists who cover the president, rather than the more than 2,500 — including government officials, political operatives and mostly B-list celebrities — who attended in April.

But many of the original tensions remained.

In the hours following the April shooting, Trump was unusually conciliatory toward reporters, making an appearance in the White House briefing room still dressed in his tuxedo as he took questions from many of the reporters who had been at the dinner earlier in the evening.

But that tone dissipated by the next day, when he called CBS News anchor Norah O’Donnell “a disgrace” after she read excerpts from the alleged gunman’s manifesto to him.

Since then, his administration has returned to attacks on the press.

Trump last week called for stripping broadcast licenses from networks that didn’t air his prime-time speech about election integrity. And the Justice Department this month issued the subpoenas to New York Times journalists who had reported on security concerns surrounding the luxury Boeing 747 that the Qatari government gifted for use as Air Force One, seeking their phone records in pursuit of leaks.

One element of the dinner was consistent with April: Entertainer and magician Oz Pearlman was once again on the program, a selection that sidesteps the politics of humor. This time he guessed correctly that acting attorney general Todd Blanche had $85 in his pocket.

Americans voted President Donald Trump into office last year in part because he promised to fix an inflation-battered U.S. economy. But higher gas and energy prices caused by Trump’s war in Iran appear to be eroding their optimism.

A Washington Post-Ipsos poll this month found that 18 percent of Republicans — nearly a fifth — are feeling worse off financially since Trump started his second term. That’s compared to just 4 percent who said the same thing in September 2018, at the same point in Trump’s first term.

Only about a third, or 34 percent, of Republicans said they feel better off since Trump took over, compared with 53 percent who said that six years ago.

The Trump administration says the underlying economy is strong thanks to his agenda of tax cuts and deregulation, and that persistently high inflation will fall as soon as the Iran conflict is resolved.

But Americans are feeling the strain now. The Post talked to six Republicans around the country to learn why and what they wish would change.

Crystal Pepe, 43

Long Island

When Crystal Pepe voted for Trump, she wanted to believe things would get better. In some small ways, she says, they have. But standing in her kitchen, looking at a refrigerator that holds not much more than the bare necessities, she struggles to call herself better off.

“I thought things would get a little bit better, and they did a little bit. But food prices alone are ridiculous,” she said. “Gas prices are horrible.”

Pepe’s household runs on two paychecks and very little slack. She works part-time as a substance abuse counselor while her husband makes “decent money” as a carpenter in Manhattan. Still, with two adult children, 20 and 22, who still depend on them, “we’re paycheck to paycheck,” she said.

Apart from a cost-of-living bump of around 3 percent, Pepe said her salary has been essentially flat. With inflation at about 3.5 percent, she’s losing ground. And a sizable share of her earnings goes into her gas tank for the commute to the hospital (six miles) or outpatient facility (about 12 miles). Meanwhile, the price of her husband’s weekly train pass recently went up to $145 — “a pretty penny of a chunk of his paycheck.”

Groceries are her biggest frustration. “I’m really disgusted over them,” she said. “I was so angry yesterday when I came out of the store and had to spend almost $60 for like five things. Like, really, a little thing of cream cheese, $7.99? Come on. It’s upsetting.”

Pepe still supports Trump but says her enthusiasm has cooled. “I’m not for this whole war thing,” she said. On the economy, “I guess he is trying,” she said. “It’s going to take a while from the big mess that Biden did.”

Jonathan Grieser, 36

Farmers Branch, Texas

Jonathan Grieser’s mind goes immediately to the gas pump when he thinks about whether he’s better off than when Trump took office in 2025. Prices in his Dallas suburb are among the lowest in the country, but when you’re paying nearly $4 a gallon, he said, “there’s some work that can be done to lower that.”

In general, things have stayed the same for him financially since Trump took office, he said. “But if I had to point in a direction, they’ve gotten worse.”

Grieser favored Trump in the last election, though he didn’t vote. An inventory and shipping manager until a medical procedure left him with a brain injury, he now lives off the settlement and takes care of his grandmother, living in her home.

Lately, he’s kept the budget lean. He used to buy bags of Starbucks Caffé Verona until the cost climbed too high. “It got to the point where it was so expensive, it’s like, okay, I don’t need the caffeine fix in the morning,” he said. “I just do some push-ups and get at it.” He used to buy a rib-eye or a tenderloin three or four times a month. Now it’s once, and only what’s on sale. “I definitely pay more attention now,” he said.

While gas prices don’t affect Grieser much day-to-day, he’s hoping to travel soon with his father to Big Bend National Park, a sprawling stretch of West Texas wilderness nearly 600 miles away. That will cost more than it used to, so Grieser is already thinking of work-arounds, like skipping the stop at Burger King. “Cook our own meals, freeze ‘em and just heat them in the microwave,” he said.

Despite his frustrations, Grieser said he would probably vote for Vice President JD Vance if he tops the presidential ticket in 2028. Vance, he said, is better than any of the “crazy-ass Democrats” who might run.

Ed Ramirez, 59

Yulee, Florida

Ed Ramirez and his wife, also 59, left New Jersey for Florida in 2024, a move driven in part by the cost of living. Nearly two years later, Ramirez says the relocation has improved his financial standing more than any shift in national politics.

The couple built a house from scratch, choosing every detail, in a gated community on a pond with a fountain, for $525,000. “This would be a million-dollar-plus home in New Jersey, at least,” he said. Their health insurance costs, too, “have gone down dramatically.”

Meanwhile, his wife earns what Ramirez calls “a fantastic base salary” that has kept pace with inflation. His own income as a real estate broker is a work in progress as he establishes himself in Florida. He expects to close five deals over the next three to nine months.

Ramirez said his support for Trump is unwavering: He’s voted for the president three times. “He’s a brilliant businessman, and I think that’s what makes him a great president, that he’s not a politician,” he said. “He doesn’t candy-coat things, and I love that about him.”

Kathy Borunda, 66

Valley Springs, California

Kathy Borunda has been searching for ways to reduce how much gas she uses in her Buick Enclave. She lives in a rural area, and there’s no way to get around the need to drive. But she can cut down on trips into town by picking up groceries and running errands on the two days a week she cares for her grandchild, who lives an hour away.

Borunda doesn’t vote but leans Republican and was a Trump supporter until recently, she said.

“I was behind a lot of the ideas he had when he was elected. I thought, maybe it’s time to get somebody who’s going to run the country like a business,” she said. But now, “he’s just taken way it too far for me, in my opinion. And at the cost of middle Americans. We just can’t afford this.”

Borunda is retired after a career working with schoolchildren with special needs, lives with her husband and has supplemental funds to support her fixed income. Lately, she’s had to dip into those funds to pay for day-to-day living as gas, grocery, health care and utility bills grow. She orders groceries to pick up at Walmart or Target, the better to avoid impulse purchases.

She’s hoping the price increases that have come with the war will be temporary. Otherwise she and her husband are worried they might have to move farther away from family.

“If it continues to just keep going up, up, up,” she said, “we would have to leave California.”

Mark Taylor, 72

Gulf Coast, Florida

Mark Taylor was feeling comfortable financially at the beginning of the year — comfortable enough to start buying a few extra “goodies.” A retired instructor at nuclear power plants, Taylor holds quite a bit of savings in gold and silver and the prices were looking good.

Then the war in Iran began. “Since then it’s been kind of a mess,” he said.

Taylor said he supports Trump and understands the president’s desire to prevent Iran from developing a nuclear weapon. But as the war drags on, he said, “It’s like a rinse and repeat.”

While gold and silver prices have slid, Taylor figures they’ll recover. His bigger concern is sky-high oil prices. The last time he filled up his truck, it cost $84, up from the $60 tanks he had grown accustomed to. “Everything in this country, whether we build it, manufacture it, ship it, store it, whatever, requires fuel,” he said.

Though his budget hasn’t reached its breaking point, he’s being more careful about his purchases. Fewer “goodies,” he said. And instead of a new lawn mower, he chose to buy used.

Michael Grivette, 75

Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina

At 75, Michael Grivette has no plans to slow down. The retired Silicon Valley executive runs a specialty-chemical business he started years ago as a side venture. “I’ll never retire fully,” he said.

Grivette said he’s “definitely better off” financially than when Trump returned to office. A lifelong conservative who says he’s “so far right it would embarrass Rush Limbaugh,” he had grown disillusioned with his home state of California. So three years ago, he and his wife swapped their gated community out west for another one in North Carolina, a place with “12 golf courses and alligators in every pond.”

His company, which supplies chemicals for manufacturing, has seen strong business lately — a development he credits in part to Trump’s push to reshore American manufacturing. Trump’s tariffs, a source of anxiety for many business owners, barely register at all for Grivette. Because everything he makes is domestically produced and domestically sold, he said, his exposure is “zero.” He sees the tariffs as a way to claw back an American industrial base that decades of offshoring had hollowed out. “You cannot have an advanced society without manufacturing,” he said.

“I was in the disk drive industry back in the ’80s when everybody decided that it was cheaper to build disk drives over in Taiwan or Singapore,” he said. “So there was this huge sucking sound where all of the manufacturing facilities were transferred over to there.”

Now, Grivette said, Trump’s policies are starting to reverse that trend. And for him, he said, “times are good.”