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As a Navy veteran who has served on multiple warships, I can tell you that names matter. The name of a ship carries history, honor, and identity. It lives in the heavily embellished sea stories we tell each other at reunions, the patches we wear, and the pride we feel when we hear it over the radio or see it painted across our hull. That’s why the recent push to rename some Navy ships—particularly those honoring civil rights leaders and social justice pioneers—feels like more than just a shift in policy. It feels personal.
Traditionally, ship naming followed a fairly consistent logic: aircraft carriers named after presidents and statesmen, battleships (and now ballistic missile subs) after states, cruisers after battles, destroyers after naval heroes, and support ships often named for individuals of significance. The Secretary of the Navy has formal authority over naming, but the process has long drawn from established conventions and public symbolism (History.Navy.mil). That tradition began to evolve in recent years. The USNS Harvey Milk (T-AO-206), named after the slain gay rights leader and Navy veteran, was seen by many as a gesture toward inclusivity and recognition of LGBTQ+ service members. Other Military Sealift Command ships (run by civilians in support of Navy missions) followed suit, honoring figures like Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Cesar Chavez, and Harriet Tubman—Americans who, though not military, shaped our moral and civic landscape (Houston Chronicle). But under a recent directive by Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, this trend is reversing. As part of what some have called a DEI purge, the Pentagon is actively considering stripping these names from existing ships. The rationale? Restoring a “warrior ethos” to military culture (Politico). The announcement conveniently coincided with Pride Month, leading many to question the intent behind the timing and the policy (AP News). Let’s be clear: The argument isn’t about whether the Navy should be rooted in strength and readiness. Of course it should. But naming a ship after Harvey Milk doesn’t weaken our military. In fact, it reminds us that courage comes in many forms—and that the Navy has space for all who serve with honor. My first ship was named after a minor New England river; I am nevertheless still very proud of having served aboard her. The proposed renaming sends another message: that stories of resistance, equity, and sacrifice outside of battlefield heroism are somehow unworthy of remembrance. As someone who spent years aboard a fleet oiler and a guided-missile destroyer, I find that disheartening. Our force is stronger when we draw from the full story of America, not just the parts that fit one ideology. We’ve also seen shifts in naming traditions to reflect progress. The upcoming Ford-class carrier, CVN-81, will bear the name of Doris Miller, a Black enlisted sailor and hero of Pearl Harbor who served on the USS West Virginia (BB-48). It’s a historic and powerful gesture—one that aligns perfectly with the Navy’s values (NPR). If we now backpedal on that kind of progress, what are we saying to the next generation of sailors? Renaming a ship isn’t just a logistical hassle (though it is that—changing hull markings, documentation, and ceremonial artifacts is no small feat). In the past, it was seen by many sailors as bad luck, and was thought to bring misfortune to those who sailed on the renamed ship (Discover Boating). More than that, it erodes the morale of those who felt seen by those choices. When we honor leaders like Milk or Tubman, we aren’t making a political statement—we’re recognizing different ways Americans have served and sacrificed. Tradition matters. So does inclusion. They are not mutually exclusive. What is dangerous is turning a thoughtful naming process into a tool of partisan erasure. I believe in the strength of our Navy. I also believe that strength includes the courage to acknowledge all who have moved this country forward—on deck, on land, in protest, or in court. Sources
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In Part I, I drew the historical line between Charles X of France and Donald Trump. Both rose to power on promises of restoration. Both alienated legislatures. Both flirted with silencing dissent. Charles went too far. Trump might, too.
So what happened when Charles X crossed the line? The answer lies in events that started 26 July 1830. Charles issued a set of repressive orders known as the July Ordinances, which:
By the morning of July 27, Parisians revolted. Workers, students, and even some middle-class citizens took to the streets. What followed wasn’t a chaotic civil war—but a highly focused push to defend civil rights and constitutional government. Despite personal risk, the media took the lead in keeping citizens of France informed and helped kick off the revolution. Tradesmen, workers and merchants followed suit. Charles abdicated, fled to Britain, and the monarchy was replaced (briefly) by a constitutional regime. What can that teach us? Resisting Autocracy Doesn't Require Violence The July Revolution worked not because it burned everything down, but because it focused on defending institutions, not destroying them. The press played a critical role. So did moderate politicians who refused to accept illegal decrees. Today, we’re not facing royal ordinances, but we are looking at:
The Power of Civil Society In 1830 France, it was the teachers, printers, municipal workers--not just elites—who resisted. They refused to implement illegal orders, slowed down compliance, and gave people space to act. Here in the U.S., we’ll need:
Final Thought: The Resistance Is Already Here If President Trump continues to try to govern like Charles X, the institutions that survive will be the ones willing to say "no"—even when it’s hard. The American republic won’t be saved by spectacle. It will be saved by professionals, institutional guardians, people who know their history and hopefully the rest of us. The July Revolution was three days. But its effects rippled across Europe. Let’s learn something from it. Sources & Citations: Back in college, I took a politics class on revolutionary France. Not just Robespierre and guillotines, but what came after: republic, monarchy, collapse, and more monarchy, etc. That's when I first encountered Charles X (or Charles the Dull), the last Bourbon king of France. At the time, I thought of him as just another bland royal with a bad legacy. But these days? He looks a lot like the current occupant of the White House.
Many compare President Trump to the Austrian Corporal that had a hold on Germany in the 1930s and early 1940s. I get it—the nationalist tone, the loyalty tests, the disregard for institutions. But if you're going to pull from European history, Charles X might be the better analog. Charles X ruled France from 1824 to 1830, and spent his time in power trying to return France to a bygone "golden" age. He:
Eventually, his obsession with restoring the past and bypassing elected bodies triggered the July Revolution of 1830. After just three days of unrest, Charles abdicated and fled. Donald Trump’s playbook doesn’t look so different:
Like Charles, Trump seems focused on loyalty over competency, legacy over liberty, and personal grievance over public service. Where This Could Go? History doesn’t repeat, but it rhymes (Mark Twain) . Charles X's France didn’t fall into civil war, but it did spiral into political instability, reactionary succession, and eventually authoritarianism under Napoleon III. His attempt to restore an imagined past created a vacuum of leadership and legitimacy. Will the second Trump term follow a similar path? Maybe not in three days like the July Revolution—but it could erode American institutions to the point where something more unstable replaces them. This is Part I of a two-part series. In Part II, I’ll explore what Charles X’s downfall and the July Revolution teach us about resistance, resilience, and recovery. Sources & Citations: |
AuthorAxel Newe is a strategic partnerships and GTM leader with a background in healthcare, SaaS, and digital transformation. He’s also a Navy veteran, cyclist, and lifelong problem solver. Lately, he’s been writing not just from the field and the road—but from the gut—on democracy, civic engagement, and current events (minus the rage memes). This blog is where clarity meets commentary, one honest post at a time. ArchivesCategories
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