No one wants to talk politics as much as I do, so I started writing about all the fears and frustrations that keep me up at night—the quiet erosion of democratic institutions, the sneaky ways language reshapes reality, and the unsettling power of algorithms redefining our worth. My book, The American Archipelago, explores what happens when corporate efficiency and authoritarian impulses quietly dismantle everything from education to healthcare, and how ordinary people—bureaucrats, educators, librarians—begin to fight back by carefully documenting what’s being lost. It’s fiction, but it’s inspired by real anxieties, real patterns, and real questions about what we value in our society. Join me in exploring a world that’s frighteningly familiar, where the most important resistance might just start by remembering.
Prologue: The Transfer of Power
January – February 2025
Eleanor Reeves traced her fingers along the spines of bound reports lining her office bookshelf—eighteen years of education policy, neatly organized by administration. She paused at the transition point between presidents, feeling the weight of institutional memory in her hands. Outside her window, snow fell softly on the Department of Education plaza, where a maintenance worker was already removing the previous secretary’s name from the directory.
Three days had passed since Donald Trump’s second inauguration, and Eleanor’s desk had become a growing sprawling collection of governmental edicts—each one more concerning than the last. She picked up the most recent memo, its bureaucratic language now painfully familiar: “Departmental Resource Optimization Initiative.”
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she highlighted key passages:
“…comprehensive employee qualification reassessment…” “…value-centered departmental restructuring…” “…elimination of legacy operational redundancies…”
Eleanor’s reading glasses slipped down her nose as she jotted notes in the margins of multiple documents. She was halfway through the stack, highlighting concerning phrases in each memo, when a knock at her door interrupted her analysis.
“You’ve seen it, then.” Michael Lawson, her colleague of twelve years, leaned against the doorframe, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by something more guarded. His tie—adorned with tiny yellow school buses—seemed incongruously bright against the gravity of his expression.
“I’m reading between the lines,” Eleanor said, gesturing to the memo. “This isn’t just the usual changing of the guard.”
Michael closed the door quietly behind him. “Have you seen the new departmental reorganization guidelines? This looks like straight out of Project 2025.”
Eleanor frowned. Project 2025 was no secret; the conservative policy manual outlined ambitious restructuring of federal institutions. Though separate from the Silicon Valley’s tech moguls who funded the Trump campaign, its emphasis on dismantling bureaucracy shared philosophical echoes with the efficiency-driven approaches of figures like Elon Musk and Peter Thiel. Different origins, potentially similar outcomes.
“Third floor’s already getting reassignment notices,” Michael continued, his voice lower. “Janice from Early Education Programs—twenty-two years of service—reassigned to records management. Carlos from Civil Rights—lateral transfer to the Seattle field office.”
Eleanor’s phone chimed with a new email. She glanced down, her breath catching as she read the subject line: “MANDATORY: Employee Qualification Assessment Protocol.”
“Meeting in twenty minutes,” she said, showing Michael the screen. “Looks like we’re next.”
The university library smelled of old books and floor polish as Sophia Chen shelved returns in the archive section. Her methodical movements—practiced over seven years as research librarian—created a soothing rhythm as she considered the implications of the morning’s faculty meeting.
“Sophia?” Dr. Williams, the head librarian, approached with a tablet in hand. “Did you see the new Department of Education guidelines for university research funding?”
Sophia adjusted her glasses. “I heard they were revising the grant protocols.”
Dr. Williams passed her the tablet. “They’re redefining ‘value-producing disciplines.’ Humanities don’t make the cut.”
Sophia skimmed the document, her trained eye catching the carefully constructed language: “economically generative fields,” “resource allocation efficiency,” “return-on-investment academic prioritization.”
The weight of the leather-bound volume in her hands—a collection of 19th-century correspondence she’d been cataloging—suddenly felt significant in a new way. Sophia ran her hand along the book’s spine, her archivist’s instinct already calculating preservation needs and cataloging requirements. Years of training in information preservation had taught her to recognize the subtle ways knowledge could be systematically devalued.
She’d studied historical cases of institutional knowledge being targeted during regime changes—not through dramatic book burnings, but through the quiet machinery of budget cuts, priority shifts, and initiatives cloaked in the language of ‘modernization’ and ‘efficiency.’
“Look at section 4.3,” Dr. Williams said, pointing to the screen. “Archives and special collections designated as ‘secondary priority’ for federal support.”
Sophia’s mind raced through the implications. Their department’s federal preservation grant—which funded nearly half their operating budget—was up for renewal next month. The Southeast Asian immigrant letters collection she’d spent three years developing. The oral histories of civil rights activists. The university’s extensive climate change research archives. All of these projects depended on that funding.
“They’re applying a corporate efficiency model to knowledge itself,” she said quietly, returning the volume to its place on the shelf. Her hands lingered on its worn cover, the texture of history beneath her fingertips.
Dr. Williams nodded grimly. “Budget committee meeting tomorrow. I think we should prepare contingency plans.”
Through the tall windows, Sophia watched students crossing the snowy quad, engaged in animated conversation, unaware of how the ground was shifting beneath the foundations of their education.
Martin Keller’s office walls were covered in semantic maps—visual representations of language patterns tracked across political documents, corporate communications, and media coverage. His newest addition spread across the corkboard: a color-coded analysis of the federal communications guidelines released during the past week.
His pen hovered over the phrase “efficiency-oriented knowledge dissemination,” connecting it with red string to similar phrases from tech industry white papers and Project 2025 documents.
“Your office looks like a conspiracy theorist’s basement,” remarked Dr. Leila Patel from the doorway, her voice laced with affectionate concern.
Martin stepped back from the board. “Language patterns don’t lie, Leila. The convergence is happening faster than I predicted.”
Leila handed him a folder. “The new requirements for university programs receiving federal funding. Thought you should see this before the faculty meeting.”
Martin flipped through the pages, his linguist’s eye immediately catching the telltale markers. “They’re recategorizing education under a market-value framework. Look at this phrasing—departments evaluated through ‘productivity metrics’ and ‘economic utility assessment.’It’s the commodification of knowledge, disguised as optimization.”
The weekly reading group of his peer-linguists had analyzed Project 2025 documents alongside tech industry manifestos for months, tracking the convergence in language despite their different origins. What had seemed theoretical in his linguistics analysis was becoming concrete policy.
“Philosophy, literature, anthropology—they’re all categorized as ‘limited economic generation disciplines,'” Martin said, circling the term. “They’re redefining the purpose of higher education through language.”
He pinned the document to his board, drawing new connections between terms. Outside his window, the university’s humanities building stood in the fading afternoon light—its hundred-year-old stones a testament to enduring traditions of knowledge now being recategorized as “inefficient.”
“Language creates reality,” Martin said quietly, a phrase he’d repeated to his students countless times. “Change the language, and you change what’s possible to think.”
Leila leaned against his desk. “What happens in tomorrow’s budget meeting?”
Martin capped his pen. “That depends on whether anyone besides linguists is paying attention to the words.”
James Harmon’s mayoral office in Riverdale’s town hall was modest—a wooden desk, a small conference table, and walls lined with photographs of local landmarks. The morning light filtered through venetian blinds as he read the letter that had arrived from USDA Rural Development.
Sheriff Carl Miller, a bear of a man with thirty years of local law enforcement experience, leaned over the desk, his weathered face etched with concern. “What’s it say, James?”
James adjusted his reading glasses. “‘In alignment with the administration’s commitment to resource-conscious governance, a comprehensive service delivery modernization initiative will be implemented across rural administrative zones.'”
Miller’s brow furrowed. “English, James.”
“They’re restructuring federal services to rural communities,” James translated, turning the page. “Consolidating offices, streamlining service delivery…”
“Sounds like closing our post office because it’s ‘inefficient,'” Miller said bluntly. “What about the courthouse? The USDA office?”
James continued reading, his concern growing. “They’re establishing ‘viability thresholds’ for maintaining federal services. Population density, economic activity, resource utilization metrics…”
“Riverdale’s not going to hit any of those thresholds,” Miller said, straightening up. “Two thousand people spread over sixty square miles? We’re exactly what they’d call ‘inefficient.'”
James set the letter down, removing his glasses. “It’s just administrative language.”
“They’re already reassigning the federal judges in the district court,” Miller replied. “Three weeks after inauguration. This isn’t normal reshuffling.”
Through the window, James could see Main Street—the post office where elderly residents collected their mail and prescriptions, the USDA office that supported local farmers, the federal courthouse that had served the county since 1926. All potentially “inefficient” under new metrics.
“We should call a town meeting,” Miller suggested. “People need to know what’s coming.”
James nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the embossed seal of Riverdale on his desk. “And we need to start documenting everything—every service these offices provide that won’t show up in their efficiency calculations.”
The gleaming glass headquarters of TechDynamics pulsed with energy as Alex Kim coded at his standing desk, surrounded by monitors displaying algorithm visualizations. At twenty-eight, he was already a senior AI developer, his MIT education and natural talent propelling him into Silicon Valley’s elite.
His team leader, Bryce, appeared with two cups of coffee. “Government contracts division meeting in ten minutes. Conference room three.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “Government contracts? Since when do we have a government contracts division?”
“Since this morning,” Bryce replied, handing him the coffee. “Executive restructuring. Half the company’s pivoting to public sector work.”
In the minimalist conference room, thirty developers watched as the CEO, Vivian Chen, outlined the company’s new direction with characteristic intensity.
“The new administration is implementing a complete technological overhaul of federal systems,” she explained, sleek graphics appearing on the wall screen. “They’re calling it the ‘Government Efficiency Initiative,’ and it represents a multi-billion dollar opportunity for companies that can deliver optimization solutions.”
Alex listened as Vivian detailed the new project categories: “Citizen Resource Allocation Optimization,” “Administrative Efficiency Protocols,” “Automated Compliance Verification Systems,” “Service Delivery Streamlining.”
“We’re launching seven new project teams today,” Vivian continued. “Each focusing on different aspects of government optimization. Your team leads have assignment details.”
After the meeting, Alex studied the specifications for his newly assigned project: “Population Resource Qualification System.” What had begun as tools to improve citizen access was evolving into something that sounded more like filtering systems—determining who qualified for which services based on complex “efficiency” metrics.
“Isn’t this basically deciding who gets healthcare, education funding, and housing assistance?” he asked Bryce as they returned to their workstations.
Bryce shrugged. “We’re just building the tools. They decide how to use them.”
Alex’s unease grew as he reviewed the technical requirements. The system would evaluate individuals based on economic productivity, resource utilization history, and “social investment return potential”—essentially calculating a person’s value to society in purely economic terms.
He opened a new browser tab and began researching Project 2025, the conservative policy blueprint that had been in the news during the election. The language in their technical specifications mirrored the document’s vision with unsettling precision.
At the adjacent workstation, his colleague Yuri was already sketching database architectures for the new system. “This is going to be incredible,” he said enthusiastically. “We’re literally rebuilding how government works.”
Alex nodded noncommittally, wondering if anyone else felt the weight of what they were being asked to create.
Dr. Sarah Rodriguez pulled her worn hospital coat tighter as she hurried through the Mountain View Community Health Center’s parking lot. February snow crunched beneath her boots, the predawn darkness still heavy over the rural landscape. After twelve years serving this community, she knew every pothole in the lot, every crack in the sidewalk.
Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed as night shift nurses finished their rounds. Sarah headed straight to the staff meeting room, where Dr. Thompson, the hospital administrator, had called an emergency 6:00 AM meeting.
“Thanks for coming in early,” Thompson said, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by something more formal. “I received this at midnight.”
He distributed copies of an email with the Department of Health and Human Services header. Sarah skimmed the document, the bureaucratic language familiar yet unsettling: “Healthcare Delivery Modernization Initiative.”
“They’re cutting rural clinic funding by 30% effective immediately,” Thompson explained. “Calling it ‘resource qualification reassessment’—as if our patients don’t qualify for care anymore.”
Sarah read further, her concern deepening. “Implementation begins next week? That’s impossible. We have patients scheduled months out.”
Head nurse Carmen Diaz spoke up, her voice tight with controlled anger. “What about our diabetes management program? The prenatal care for uninsured mothers?”
Thompson spread his hands helplessly. “Services need to be evaluated for ‘economic sustainability’ and ‘efficiency metrics.’ They’re explicitly deprioritizing preventative care as ‘return-on-investment insufficient.'”
Sarah thought of her patients—elderly farmers with chronic conditions, young families struggling without insurance, workers with job-related injuries. The language in the document reduced them to line items on a spreadsheet, their human needs recategorized as “resource allocation inefficiencies.”
“This isn’t healthcare,” she said quietly. “This is accounting.”
Thompson nodded grimly. “We have one week to submit a ‘resource optimization plan’ or face additional funding reductions.”
As the meeting continued, Sarah’s mind raced through contingencies. Which services could they maintain? Which patients would be most affected? How could they possibly maintain care standards with such drastic cuts?
The sun was rising as the meeting ended, casting long shadows across the clinic’s waiting room—already filling with patients who had driven hours to reach them. Sarah paused at the window, watching an elderly couple help each other from their truck, moving slowly through the snow.
In the language of the new directive, they would be classified as “high resource utilization, limited economic contribution subjects.” In Sarah’s eyes, they were Mr. and Mrs. Gunderson, married sixty years, who brought her homemade jam every summer.
She straightened her coat and prepared to start her rounds, the weight of the coming changes heavy on her shoulders.
The community legal aid office where Miguel Vargas worked occupied a cramped storefront in a strip mall, wedged between a discount furniture store and a check-cashing service. The fluorescent sign flickered intermittently, but the waiting room was already full at 8:30 AM—people seeking help with evictions, benefit denials, immigration issues.
Miguel hung his worn messenger bag on the coat rack and navigated to his desk, nodding greetings to the clients he recognized. At thirty-two, he’d spent seven years as a paralegal here, watching the community’s needs grow while resources dwindled.
His colleague Dana waved him into the break room, where Director Ramirez was addressing the staff, her face grave.
“The new administration has implemented a ‘Legal Services Optimization Protocol,'” she explained, distributing printed emails. “Effective immediately, federal funding for legal aid services will be subject to ‘performance-based continuation assessment.'”
Miguel skimmed the document, his legal training helping him decode the bureaucratic language. “They’re cutting our funding by 40% unless we meet new ‘efficiency metrics.’ Cases resolved per staff hour, ‘economic impact outcomes,’ ‘sustainability indices.'”
“How do you measure the ‘economic impact’ of helping a grandmother fight an eviction?” Dana asked, frustration evident in her voice.
Ramirez shook her head. “Under these metrics, you don’t. Those cases are now classified as ‘limited economic return services.'”
Miguel thought of his current caseload—undocumented workers facing wage theft, elderly residents fighting predatory lenders, families navigating byzantine benefit systems. None would qualify as “efficient” uses of resources under the new guidelines.
“This isn’t just budget cuts,” he said quietly. “It’s about redefining justice itself—making it a commodity for those who ‘generate value’ rather than a right for everyone.”
After the meeting, Miguel stepped outside to call his grandmother, who relied on Medicare and housing assistance. He leaned against the building’s brick wall, watching clients enter with folders of documents, faces etched with worry.
“Abuela, remember those Medicare forms we filled out last month? I think we need to look at them again.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “There might be some changes coming.”
As he spoke, he noticed a woman hesitating at the office door, a child in her arms and an eviction notice clutched in her hand. He caught her eye and motioned her inside, his determination growing.
Whatever was coming, people like her would need advocates more than ever.
The stark white walls of Elena Vargas’s downtown apartment reflected the blue glow of multiple monitors as she typed furiously, her noise-cancelling headphones blocking out the city noise twenty stories below. As a senior algorithm designer at Axiom Analytics, she’d been working well past midnight on a new system labeled “Citizen Resource Allocation Optimization Framework.”
Elena rubbed her tired eyes, the strain of twelve straight hours of coding taking its toll. Three weeks into the new administration, her company had shifted almost entirely to government contract work—projects with ambitious timelines and vague ethical implications.
Her phone chimed with a text from her brother Miguel:
They’re cutting legal aid funding by 40%. New “efficiency metrics” that basically exclude our most vulnerable clients. This is happening everywhere, isn’t it?
Elena glanced at her screens, where lines of code implemented the very systems reshaping her brother’s work. The new parameters were clear: Reduced weighting for “quality of life outcomes.” Increased weighting for “economic productivity metrics.” New parameters for “resource efficiency optimization.” Adjusted thresholds for “qualification score minimums.”
Elena typed a reply to Miguel: It’s everywhere. The algorithms I’m building are part of it. They’re redefining who deserves services based on “economic value.”
She turned back to her code, the ethical implications weighing heavily. Her current project assigned “resource qualification scores” to citizens based on complex metrics—essentially determining who received which government services. Though not explicitly referencing Project 2025, the parameters reflected its philosophy of governance when streamlined through technical efficiency.
The implications were clear when she ran the test simulations. Elderly retirees, disabled individuals, children in low-income households—all categorized as “net resource consumers” with low priority scores. Young professionals working in growing industries scored highest, deemed “high-value investment subjects.”
A new email appeared from her project director: Accelerated timeline approved. System implementation moved up to next month. Transition team wants early results.
Elena stared at the email, then at her code. The system would be deployed far sooner than she’d anticipated, affecting millions of lives before anyone truly understood its implications. She began documenting the parameter changes in a separate file, not to refuse them but to maintain a record of what was happening.
The algorithms weren’t neutral tools; they encoded specific values about who and what mattered in society. And those values were being quietly implemented, one line of code at a time.
Four weeks after inauguration, Eleanor Reeves sat alone in her office, the building unusually quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. The first wave of “workforce optimization” had reduced department staffing by nearly 30%—longtime colleagues reassigned or accepting early retirement rather than face the new “qualification assessment protocols.”
Her computer chimed with another administrative directive, this one outlining “knowledge preservation prioritization”—essentially determining which educational programs and data would continue receiving federal support. The metrics were unsurprisingly focused on economic outcomes and workforce development, with humanities, arts, and basic research classified as “limited priority domains.”
Eleanor began cataloguing the changes already implemented across federal agencies:
- Seventeen Inspectors General terminated and replaced with “acting” appointments requiring no congressional approval.
- Career officials with institutional knowledge reassigned or removed with minimal explanation beyond “organizational restructuring requirements.”
- Executive Order 14118 establishing new “administrative efficiency standards” across all departments.
- Federal data reclassification initiatives restricting public access to previously available information.
- Implementation of “Return on Investment” metrics for educational funding decisions.
She paused her typing as footsteps approached her office. The door opened without a knock—unusual in the typically formal department culture. A young man in an ill-fitting suit entered, a tablet in hand.
“Eleanor Reeves? I’m Jason Mercer, Administrative Efficiency Liaison.” His confidence belied his apparent age—he couldn’t be more than twenty-five. “I’ll be conducting your qualification assessment this afternoon.”
Eleanor gestured to the chair across from her desk. “I wasn’t aware I had an assessment scheduled today.”
“New protocol. Limited advance notice to ensure authentic performance evaluation.” He tapped his tablet. “I’ll need access to your departmental files, project history, and communication records.”
As Eleanor navigated the required permissions, she noticed the company logo on Jason’s tablet case—TechDynamics, a Silicon Valley firm with no previous government experience.
“You’re a contractor?” she asked.
“Efficiency Partners,” he corrected. “The department’s administrative functions are being optimized through public-private collaboration.”
The language was familiar—straight from Project 2025’s recommendations for streamlining government through private sector partnerships. The speed of implementation suggested extensive preparation long before inauguration.
Jason began a rapid series of questions about her work, each focused on quantifiable metrics and economic outcomes. Nothing about educational quality, student well-being, or the broader purposes of education beyond workforce preparation.
“Final question,” he said after twenty minutes. “How would you measure your economic contribution to departmental efficiency?”
Eleanor considered her answer carefully. “Education isn’t primarily an economic function. It’s about developing citizens, critical thinkers, and whole human beings. Those outcomes aren’t easily quantified in dollar values.”
Jason’s expression remained neutral as he noted her response. “Thank you for your participation. You’ll receive your assessment results within forty-eight hours.”
After he left, Eleanor sat in the silence of her office, understanding with sudden clarity what was happening. This wasn’t just a change in policy priorities; it was a fundamental reconceptualization of government itself—from a system serving public needs to a technical system optimizing resources according to narrow efficiency metrics.
She opened a new document on her personal laptop and began typing, recording everything she’d witnessed in meticulous detail. At the top, she wrote:
“Erasure and Reconstruction – Documentation of Institutional Transformation.”
Outside her window, Washington continued its routines, most citizens too overwhelmed by the rapid succession of executive orders and policy reversals to fully grasp how profoundly the relationship between government and citizens was being redefined through bureaucratic language and technical implementations.
Across the country, similar scenes were unfolding in countless offices, clinics, schools, and public institutions. The transformation wasn’t merely occurring through dramatic announcements, but also through the quiet implementation of new systems, metrics, and priorities—each incremental change part of a larger, calculated pattern.
For those paying attention—like Eleanor, Sophia, Martin, James, Alex, Sarah, Miguel, and Elena—the direction was becoming clear. The question now was how to respond to a transformation occurring not through force, but through the systematic redefinition of value, purpose, and governance itself.
Eleanor saved her document and began preparing for whatever would come next. Whatever happened, she was determined to preserve a record of what was being lost—and what was replacing it—as American governance was quietly dismantled and rebuilt around a vision of technical efficiency rather than human flourishing.
Want the rest? Shoot me an email at ellen@ellenmalloy.com.