A Familiar Story

When I first read about Sean Charles Dunn—the federal employee on trial for throwing a sandwich—it wasn’t the absurdity that caught me. It was the familiarity.

Years ago, I became known for something far more ordinary: riding my bicycle on public roads. I followed every law. I signaled, I rode predictably, I did everything safety demanded. But still, I was treated as a provocation. Drivers honked, ran me off the road, and screamed. And when I refused to disappear—when I claimed my right to be there—I was punished. Not for breaking rules, but for insisting that the rules applied to me too.

The story reopened something I hadn’t wanted to revisit: what it feels like to be punished not for what you’ve done, but for daring to exist publicly. Reading about Dunn, I felt that old ache of recognition. Not because our situations were the same, but because the logic was.

It’s the logic that decides who gets to speak out and who must remain composed while being diminished. The logic that redefines protest as disruption, dissent as disrespect, and moral clarity as misconduct.

That’s why his trial matters. It isn’t about a sandwich—it’s about who is permitted a voice in a system that values obedience over truth.

The Performance of Order

In a Washington courtroom, Dunn is on trial for hurling a submarine sandwich at a federal agent during what he called an act of protest against an authoritarian police surge. The agent wasn’t injured. The sandwich burst harmlessly on impact, onions and mustard splattering across a ballistic vest. The video went viral; murals appeared overnight. Within days, Dunn was fired from his job at the Department of Justice, denounced by the Attorney General, and prosecuted in federal court.

To those in power, this was not just a thrown sandwich—it was a challenge to the performance of order.

The prosecutor told jurors: “You can’t just go around throwing stuff at people because you’re mad.” That sentence exposes how control is exercised in polite societies. It wasn’t a statement of fact; it was a moral correction. It collapsed conscience into mood, conviction into temper. In one stroke, the state converted protest into petulance—a masterclass in rhetorical gaslighting.

What Dunn expressed wasn’t madness or rage. It was a refusal to let authority define the boundaries of legitimate speech. His act was a small, human way of saying no. And that no was the real crime.

The Aesthetics of Power

Every empire develops its own etiquette of obedience. The American empire prefers smiles. Civility is its house style—a social varnish that turns domination into decorum. Through niceness, power keeps its hands clean while tightening its grip.

Politeness, as practiced by institutions, is not kindness but containment. It tells you: You may speak, but not like that. The trial of a sandwich-thrower was never about security; it was about tone. It was about proving that even dissent must wear a pressed shirt.

That’s why the agents laughed afterward—trading jokes, gifting each other plush sandwiches, designing a patch that read Felony Footlong. Their laughter wasn’t about humor; it was about hierarchy. They could afford to laugh because they controlled the narrative. The court would translate their mockery into professionalism and Dunn’s defiance into instability.

The real performance wasn’t his act of protest; it was their composure. Power depends on appearing calm while others appear out of control.

The Policing of Tone

Oppression in America often arrives not through force but through correction. “Calm down.” “Be reasonable.” “Let’s keep this civil.” The language of order hides inside the language of manners.

In this country, “rational discourse” has become a moral fetish. We are told that reason is the opposite of emotion, as if justice itself must speak in a monotone. When the marginalized speak out, they are labeled irrational. When the powerful speak, they are called authoritative. This is how tone becomes a class system.

The Dunn trial was the state reasserting ownership over tone. His offense wasn’t that he threw something—it was that he refused to perform submission while objecting. He broke the unspoken covenant that says dissent must always sound deferential.

That logic has deep roots. During the civil-rights era, activists were told to move slowly, to “work within the system,” to stop “provoking” violence by demanding protection. Martin Luther King Jr. was accused of extremism not for his goals but for his urgency. Every generation of protestors hears the same refrain: It’s not what you’re saying, it’s how you’re saying it. Tone becomes the cage that keeps justice quiet.

Civility as Control

Civility pretends to be virtue but functions as control. It keeps the peace by redefining peace as the absence of discomfort. The Dunn prosecution was a theater of tone management—a moral pantomime in which the calm voice of authority automatically signified truth.

Every bureaucracy uses the same script: HR departments, school boards, governments. When someone points out harm too directly, they are told their “approach” is the problem. The critique is never about substance; it’s about style. Civility in this sense is not moral maturity. It is narrative hygiene—a way to keep the ugliness of power invisible.

This is why the polite aggressor always wins the first round. They get to look composed while the target looks unstable. The system sides with composure because composure is its currency.

The Right to Speak Out

To speak out in public, especially against authority, is to risk being mislabeled. The same act that reads as “bravery” in one body becomes “insubordination” in another. The right to speak exists in theory; in practice, it is tiered.

Dunn’s act was a moment of what it means to be human translated into action. It is the logic of conscience. He refused to pretend that injustice deserved courtesy. What the prosecutor defended wasn’t law; it was decorum—the illusion that order is moral simply because it’s calm.

We praise the “balanced” critic, the “measured” activist, the “respectable” dissenter—all synonyms for safe. But safety for whom? When calmness becomes the moral baseline, only the comfortable get to be heard.

Speech that unsettles power is the only speech that matters.

The Mirror of History

Dunn’s sandwich sits, absurdly, in a long lineage of disobedience. The act itself is small, but its logic rhymes with moments that reshaped the country—moments when citizens violated decorum to reveal injustice.

When civil-rights marchers sat at segregated lunch counters, they broke not only segregation law but the etiquette of deference. When Fannie Lou Hamer testified before the Democratic National Convention, her truth was dismissed as “too angry.” When modern protesters block traffic, commentators complain not about the injustice that provoked them but about the inconvenience of delay.

Politeness is always on the side of power. It tells the victim to wait, the protester to whisper, the dissenter to smile. The Dunn trial is the civility test in miniature. The government’s message was simple: you may object to your conditions, but only in ways that affirm our control.

The Fragility of Polite Power

The spectacle of civility hides a deep fragility. Systems built on hierarchy cannot endure genuine clarity; they depend on confusion—on keeping citizens guessing whether they’re overreacting. A flash of moral honesty destroys that equilibrium.

That’s why trivial acts of defiance are punished so severely. They are contagious. When one person steps outside the emotional script, others see that it’s possible to speak differently—to stop apologizing for existing.

The courtroom wasn’t just enforcing law; it was enforcing tone. Dunn punctured that myth. He forced the state to show its teeth—to raid his home, to humiliate him publicly, to prove that politeness has muscle behind it. He revealed what every polite order hides: its calm is maintained through coercion.

Refusing the Script

Every age has its language of control. Ours is niceness. We are taught to equate good manners with good morals, to believe that if everyone simply stayed polite, conflict would vanish. But conflict doesn’t vanish; it just becomes harder to name.

True civility—the kind that builds justice—begins with honesty, not comfort. It allows truth to sound like what it is: grief, urgency, demand. It doesn’t punish the act of speaking out; it listens to what the speaking reveals.

When the prosecutor mocked Dunn’s defiance as mere frustration, he wasn’t defending law. He was defending the rule of tone—the unwritten constitution of deference. Dunn broke it, and for that, the system tried to break him back.

The sandwich wasn’t an assault.
It was an honest sentence in a language the powerful pretend not to understand.