And Now, The Resistance Grandmas

Something strange is happening in America’s most affluent zip codes. In suburban living rooms once filled with optimism and The West Wing reruns, a certain demographic—well-heeled, college-educated white boomer women—is staging what they seem to think is the final battle for the Republic.

These women, dubbed Resistance Grandmas, aren’t fringe radicals. They’re PTA presidents emeritus, NPR tote-bag collectors, and retired therapists. But now, in the twilight of their years, they’ve taken up the cause of Saving Democracy™ with the same zeal they once reserved for banning plastic straws and praising Obama’s tan suit.

Their political worldview is a curious patchwork—part To Kill a Mockingbird, part The Handmaid’s Tale, with a dash of MSNBC-induced paranoia. Their grievances are abundant, though loosely connected: Trump is a fascist, climate change is an extinction-level event, bathroom policy is civil rights 2.0, and Elon Musk is probably the Antichrist.

None of this is deeply thought through, of course. It doesn’t need to be. The slogans are enough. Democracy is at stake. Nazis are back. Orange Man bad.

But what’s actually driving this hysteria is more psychological than political. Deep down, many of these women sense something slipping away—not just political control, but the very narrative of their lives.

They were promised progress, justice, utopia. The Great Society. Roe forever. A society where everyone listens to NPR and agrees on the science. Instead, they see the country rejecting their values, their party flailing, and their own children rolling their eyes at their activism.

And so, without the flexibility to adapt or accept that the world has changed, they cling to pre-fabricated evils—fascism, racism, Christian nationalism—as explanations. Not because those terms mean anything coherent, but because they provide moral clarity in a moment that no longer makes sense to them.

It’s a reaction not unlike that of the old Party diehards at the end of the Soviet Union: the project has clearly failed, but the faithful still believe, still chant, still blame external enemies. If only but for capitalism… becomes If only but for Trump.

So they take to the streets with signs and slogans and fury. They join book clubs that double as war councils. They tattle on their old friends to the FBI, convinced they are doing their part to fight the Fourth Reich.

One 74-year-old proudly told a focus group that she reported a lifelong friend to the authorities after she learned she’d entered the Capitol on Jan. 6. Not to vandalize, not to riot—just to look around. “It wasn’t an open house!” she snapped, drawing cheers from the other Chardonnay Jacobins.

This is not politics. This is late-life existential panic dressed up as moral crusade.

Their children are voting Trump. Their grandsons are quoting Joe Rogan. The country is drifting, in their view, toward madness—not because it is, but because it’s no longer revolving around them.

And so they rage. Loudly. Self-importantly. With bumper stickers, protest signs, and a self-satisfaction that only comes from knowing you are on the right side of history, even as history packs up and moves on.

There’s something tragic about it, really. These Resistance Grandmas arrived in the 1960s marching for peace and love. They’ll leave this world in the 2020s muttering about white supremacy, hunting down Trump voters like Cold War informants, and trying to find a moral compass in the op-ed section of The Atlantic.

The truth is, the postwar liberal consensus is dying. Slowly. Loudly. Sometimes with a hand-knitted pink hat on. And deep down, these women know it.

Their protests aren’t signs of power—they’re eulogies.

Their moral absolutism isn’t strength—it’s fear.

Their obsession with Trump isn’t resistance—it’s grief.

And while their determination is, in a way, admirable, their political derangement is increasingly unhealthy and, yes, undignified.

All things pass. Even boomers with graduate degrees and Facebook accounts.