Civil discourse didn’t die with a bang—it bled out quietly, while most of us were busy yelling at each other online. I felt it this past summer on a family trip to Port Aransas, walking along the beach with my 11-year-old daughter. She pointed to a line of pickup trucks flying political flags, most of them plastered with language I wouldn’t put on a bumper sticker—let alone blast across a 3×5 flag at a beach where kids are building sandcastles and hunting for seashells. She looked up at me and said, “Why do all those flags have the f-word on them?” I kind of froze. What was I supposed to say? That screaming obscenities at strangers is now considered standard political expression?

What’s alarming isn’t just the vulgarity—it’s that we barely notice it anymore. Crudeness has gone mainstream. Somewhere along the way, we traded civility for catharsis. The shift wasn’t sudden. It crept in, carried by social media, partisan media, and a growing appetite for outrage. Former (and probably future) President Donald Trump didn’t invent it, but he amplified it. His style—aggrieved, performatively blunt, proudly impolite—tore down whatever thin membrane was left between “saying it like it is” and just being an asshole. It resonated with people tired of being told to watch their tone. Tired of filters. Tired of losing. There’s a strange appeal in that kind of speech. It feels “authentic,” especially to those who believe they’ve been sidelined or silenced. But what we call authenticity is often just hostility with better branding. And once the rules of respectful engagement are dismissed as elitist or weak, we don’t get better dialogue—we get more slogans, louder shouting, and fewer conversations worth having.

You see it everywhere now. Flags and bumper stickers with slogans like “Fuck Your Feelings,” “Joe and the Hoe Gotta Go,” “Trump That Bitch.” Stuff that used to be said in bars after a few too many drinks is now flying over neighborhoods, plastered on trucks at the grocery store, printed on t-shirts people wear to church—well, maybe not to church, but I don’t go, so I can’t say for sure. What used to live in the shadows—things we knew better than to say out loud—is now a badge of honor.

It’s not just that this language is vulgar—it’s that it’s proud of being vulgar. And the irony? Some of the same people who used to preach about “decency” are now the ones cheering it on. The Republican Party once positioned itself as the adults in the room—the moral compass, the party of “family values.” Now profanity and mockery aren’t the exception; they’re the brand. Somewhere along the way, values got traded for volume.

But it’s not just a conservative problem. The left has its own flavor of this—snarky, condescending, smug. Tweets designed to humiliate. “Dunking” as a substitute for discussion. Irony layered over outrage until you’re not even sure if people are mad or just trying to score points. The tone might be different, but the effect is the same: fewer actual conversations, more posturing. Less persuasion, more performance.

Social media has poured gasoline on all of it. The angrier you are, the more attention you get. And attention is the currency now. Say something measured, and it disappears. Say something inflammatory, and it goes viral. So people escalate. They speak in absolutes. They post before they think. They turn every disagreement into a moral failing. And the platforms reward it all.

We’ve erased the line between private frustration and public behavior. What people used to mutter in traffic or complain about over dinner now gets blasted into the world like it’s a political stance. And the louder it is, the more legitimate it feels. Every share and like is another vote of approval. It doesn’t matter if it’s cruel or untrue—if it gets a reaction, it sticks.

And look, I’m not saying people don’t have the right to be angry. They do. I’ve been angry. I’ve been frustrated with the way things are going in this country. And I believe in the First Amendment. I took an oath to defend it. I’d fight for someone’s right to fly a flag I hate. But rights come with responsibilities. And just because you can say something doesn’t mean you should. Especially if the only goal is to piss someone off.

Because that’s what a lot of this is now—provocation for its own sake. Not conversation. Not debate. Just noise. Just brick-throwing from behind a screen. And the more that becomes normal, the harder it is to find any shared ground. People don’t just disagree anymore—they hate each other for disagreeing. They assume the worst. They stop listening.

And the people who still want to talk—who want to ask questions, who might be open to changing their minds—get drowned out. Or they go quiet. Or they give up. Because who wants to wade into a conversation where everyone’s armed and no one’s listening?

That’s the real loss. Not just decency for its own sake, but the space it created for real dialogue. For persuasion. For learning. For connection. And when that space disappears, we all get pushed deeper into our corners—more certain, more bitter, more alone.

Civil discourse didn’t die because someone banned it. It died because too many of us decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It’s easier to clap back than to engage. Easier to mock than to ask questions. And when everything is a fight, no one sticks around to talk.

But here’s the thing: it’s not gone completely. It’s still possible to choose a different approach. To respond instead of react. To speak with clarity and respect. To make your point without turning it into a punch. That’s not weakness. That’s strength. That’s the kind of courage we don’t talk about enough—the courage to stay human when it’d be easier to go for the throat.

We tell kids to use their words. To be kind. To listen. Maybe it’s time we start modeling that ourselves. Not because we want to be polite for politeness’s sake—but because nothing changes if we don’t talk. Nothing gets better if we just keep yelling.

So yeah, fly your flag. Say your piece. But maybe also ask yourself: is this helping? Is this adding anything? Or am I just making noise?

Because what we say—and how we say it—still matters. Especially now.

Nick Allison is a college dropout and a former Army infantryman with a curious mind, a penchant for reading and writing, and an annoying interest in philosophy, particularly Stoicism and Secular Buddhism—with a focus on how they can improve everyday life. Don’t take anything he says too seriously—he’s just trying to figure out this ride we call existence, like everyone else. He lives in Austin, Texas, with his family and two weird dogs. 

Also, he enjoys writing his own bio in the third person because it probably makes him feel more important.