Washington — In American politics, fights over budgets, wars, and elections are familiar terrain. Less visible, but no less consequential, are battles over memory — who is honored, who is erased, and who gets to define the nation’s past. In recent weeks, that quieter struggle has erupted into a public confrontation over the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, pulling together questions of law, legacy, and power in ways that reach far beyond a single building on the Potomac.

Democratic lawmakers and cultural leaders have accused President Donald Trump and congressional Republicans of attempting to attach Trump’s name to the Kennedy Center, a move they describe as legally dubious and historically offensive. Their outrage is sharpened by what they see as a stark contrast: while Republicans moved with striking speed to elevate Trump’s personal brand, they have delayed for years the installation of a congressionally mandated plaque honoring the law enforcement officers who defended the Capitol during the January 6 attack.

The juxtaposition has become a potent symbol. “Twenty-four hours to put Trump’s name on a cultural monument,” one Democratic member said on the House floor, “and five years of excuses not to honor the officers who defended this democracy.”

At issue is not merely a naming dispute, critics argue, but a pattern of behavior that reflects how the Trump era approaches history itself — selectively celebrating, aggressively rewriting, and, at times, disregarding legal and institutional norms.

The Kennedy Center occupies a singular place in American civic life. Authorized by Congress and named by statute after President John F. Kennedy following his assassination, it was intended as both a memorial and a living institution dedicated to cultural excellence. Kennedy himself had championed the arts as a public good, and his widow, Jacqueline Kennedy, played a central role in raising funds and shaping the center’s mission.

For many lawmakers, invoking Kennedy’s biography is essential to understanding the current controversy. Kennedy was a decorated World War II naval officer whose heroism in the Pacific — including risking his life to save crewmates after his PT boat was struck — became a defining part of his public legacy. After his death, Congress explicitly linked that legacy of service and sacrifice to the institution that now bears his name.

That is why several Democrats have described the attempt to associate Trump’s name with the Kennedy Center as a form of “stolen valor” — not in the literal sense, but as a symbolic appropriation of honor earned through sacrifice. “You don’t simply add your name to a memorial because you like it,” one senator said in an interview. “That’s not how history works. And it’s not how the law works.”

Republicans, for their part, have largely downplayed the controversy or dismissed it as performative outrage. Some allies of the president have framed the move as an honor to Kennedy rather than a diminishment, arguing that Trump’s involvement signals renewed attention and investment. The White House press secretary, in a widely circulated social-media post, congratulated both presidents, calling the pairing “a great team long into the future.”

But that framing has done little to calm critics, who note that federal law governs the naming of national memorials and that no president has the authority to unilaterally alter them. Several legal scholars have likened the situation to a hypothetical president attempting to rename the Lincoln Memorial — a symbolic act that might be rhetorically bold but legally meaningless.

Beyond legality, however, the dispute has exposed broader concerns about how the Trump administration engages with public institutions. Lawmakers have raised alarms about alleged mismanagement at the Kennedy Center since Trump allies assumed greater influence there, citing reports of declining ticket sales, free access extended to politically connected organizations, and lucrative contracts awarded to friends and associates of administration figures.

In a letter to Richard Grenell, a Trump ally involved in overseeing the center, Senator Sheldon Whitehouse questioned what he described as “patterns of grift,” including high-priced consulting arrangements and lavish expenses charged to a publicly supported institution. While these allegations remain under scrutiny, they have reinforced a perception among critics that cultural institutions are being treated less as public trusts than as opportunities for patronage.

To historians, the episode fits into a larger pattern. Trump has repeatedly clashed with museums, archives, and educational institutions, from disputes over Smithsonian exhibits to efforts to reshape official accounts of January 6. He has publicly praised favored presidents while disparaging others and has inserted himself into narratives traditionally left to scholars and civic consensus.

“Authoritarian movements don’t just control the present; they seek to control the past,” said one historian who studies democratic backsliding. “If you can distort history, you can weaken the public’s ability to recognize when it’s being repeated.”

That concern resonates particularly strongly in debates over January 6. The continued delay in honoring Capitol Police officers — despite legislation requiring it — has become, for many Democrats, evidence of a refusal to fully acknowledge the violence of that day. To them, the speed with which Trump’s name appeared on a cultural landmark underscores where Republican priorities lie.

Republican leaders deny that characterization, insisting that procedural issues, not political discomfort, explain the delay. Still, the optics have proven damaging, especially among law enforcement groups who have called for the plaque’s installation.

In the end, the fight over the Kennedy Center may not hinge on whether Trump’s name remains associated with it. Congress could act to reaffirm the center’s official designation, and courts could weigh in if legal challenges emerge. What may matter more is what the episode reveals about the ongoing struggle over American identity.

Public monuments are not merely stone and steel; they are arguments about who the nation chooses to honor and why. When those arguments become tools of partisan branding, critics warn, the risk is not just disrespect to the past, but confusion about the values meant to guide the future.

As one lawmaker put it on the House floor, “This building does not belong to any president. It belongs to the American people — and to the history we owe them the truth about.”