Perhaps the ultimate irony of the Trump era arrived during the voted-out President’s most recent impeachment trial, with a video montage of prominent Democrats using the word fight. After four years of the defendant’s “I know you are but what am I?” playground logic, Americans heard his lawyers do the exact same thing in attempting to show that there was no difference between someone trying to steal an election and those trying to stop him from doing that. Somehow, telling a mob to go down to the Capitol and “fight like hell” on the day Congress was certifying electoral votes is the equivalent of using the word fight on MSNBC.

I doubt it mattered what kind of argument Trump’s legal team made. On February 13, 43 know-nothings in the Senate Chamber affirmed their knowing nothing of Constitutional law (Brandenburg v. Ohio, for instance, which holds that protected First Amendment rights do not include “inciting or producing imminent lawless action”) by acquitting the election’s loser of incitement of insurrection, the article of impeachment against him.

The two weeks between the Capitol assault on our democracy and the inauguration of our 46th President roughly coincided with Sotheby’s “Americana Week.” Leaving aside the strange fact that Americana Week went on for 14 days, what drew me to the Sotheby’s ad for furniture and folk art up for virtual bid was View of Hallowell, Maine, an American School painting described in the catalog as “a mother and her son gazing upon the bustling waterfront and business district . . . from Butternut Park on the Chelsea side of the Kennebec River.”

The anonymous painting strikes all the right notes of historical nostalgia—one that, for me at least, was implanted by the historical-society reproductions in my grade school textbooks. These kinds of documents of our national past are among the few you could today deem kid-safe—the primitive full-body portraits of children as miniature adults, usually holding a flower, a butterfly, a piece of fruit, or an unfortunate kitten by the neck; landscapes with giant rectangular cows and sheep anchoring patchwork farmsteads, with rolling hills and towns across rivers like the Kennebec, enlivened by the occasional sailboat or tugboat.

“A mob set on violence” has attracted more scrutiny in two weeks than most phrases do over generations. It is a cliché (though sometimes true) to say that violence is what a mob does, as an end in itself. But is that because a mob does not (or cannot) know what it wants? A lynch mob certainly knows what it wants. Supporters of Donald Trump came to the Capitol on January 6th wanting something, and the things many of them brought suggested it was violence. At a minimum, most wanted a line to be crossed, but it’s hard to know how many knew that once whatever line had been crossed, they became insurrectionists.

The rage itself wasn’t haphazard; it was only the rioters’ scattered attention (many seemed more concerned with livestreaming themselves in the Rotunda than stringing up Mike Pence) and lack of any deployment plan or tactical training that prevented more of the intended targets and their protectors from getting hurt or killed. Their impromptu defense was that it was all adult fun, some kind of Dad’s-Day-Off cosplay adventure where both sides ought to know the rules (or at least the safe word). I suppose they expected the public to envision a stadium of drunk football fans with painted torsos, men already engaged in playing out Braveheart fantasies of battling competing clans with hammers and axes.

Sad is a condition few people want to be in. Sadness on a massive scale is tragedy, according to the Greeks, who also gave us pathos. When our pity is accompanied by empathy or a desire to aid the sufferer, this is compassion. Sometimes, however, we pity the situation caused by a reprehensible action. What makes us sad is the lack of shame or contrition on the part of the perpetrator. This more or less is contempt—what Donald Trump elicits without breaking a sweat.

During his first presidential campaign, Trump obsessively used the Twitter refrain “Sad!” for anyone he wanted you to believe had gone down (Jeb!) and was therefore highly kickable. It’s interesting that Trump applied the exclamatory Sad! so frequently when he never seems to feel sad about any person or situation. When his 71-year-old brother died after an undisclosed illness on August 15, Trump released a statement: “It is with heavy heart I share that my wonderful brother, Robert, peacefully passed away tonight. He was not just my brother, he was my best friend. He will be greatly missed, but we will meet again. His memory will live on in my heart forever. Robert, I love you. Rest in peace.”

Most of us have a long history of seeing seatback videos or printed illustrations of what to do if the plane you are traveling in experiences a sudden drop in cabin pressure. Usually it’s a mother logically securing her own breathing device before affixing a dangling oxygen mask onto the child beside her. Before March, I doubt anyone watched those videos with anger, thinking “No airline is gonna make me put on a mask!”

As the life-giving conduit of oxygen, masks have long represented protection amid catastrophe. Infantrymen in World War I lived in mortal dread of the shout for “Gas!” Gas masks became the symbolic escape hatch of battlefield carnage well beyond the next world war. Scuba divers and snorkelers, astronauts in Ad Astra—they all seem to “get” the importance of masks. And of course the masks that protect people from contamination on both sides of a medical procedure. From the perspective of science, it’s complete logic, this effort to prevent possible death. It’s hard to imagine politicization.