Stephanie Joyce
October 18, 2026 | A reflection on protest, power, and the many battles for accountability
America knows how to protest.
College students march. Civil rights activists organize. Neighbors show up at city council meetings. Families demand answers when institutions fail them. Across generations, Americans have taken to the streets when they believe those in power have stopped listening.
On October 17, Americans gathered for another round of No Kings demonstrations, with organizers emphasizing early voting ahead of November’s midterm elections. The message was that political power belongs to the people—and that democratic participation matters. Associated Press
That message matters. Voting matters. Protecting democratic institutions matters.
But I keep coming back to a larger question.
Are we paying enough attention to everything Americans are asking their institutions to answer for?
While one movement calls people to the polls, other Americans are demanding answers at city council meetings, on college campuses, in courtrooms, and outside government buildings. They are fighting over who controls their communities, whose rights are protected, whose testimony is taken seriously, and whose deaths receive the scrutiny they deserve.
These are not competing claims to the public’s attention. They are different expressions of a common demand: accountability.
And three issues, in particular, deserve more than a passing mention.
1. Data centers: The fight for democracy doesn’t end at the ballot box
Across America, residents are showing up at local hearings to challenge proposed data center developments. They are asking about water consumption, electricity demand, environmental impacts, noise, infrastructure costs, and whether the economic benefits will actually reach the communities expected to absorb the consequences.
Some communities are pushing for development moratoriums while officials evaluate those impacts.
This is not simply a debate about whether artificial intelligence is good or bad. It is a question of democratic consent.
Technology companies may see land, power, cooling capacity, and an opportunity to scale. Residents see their water supplies, utility bills, neighborhoods, and long-term quality of life.
Who gets to decide what happens next?
Who has access to the information necessary to make that decision?
And what happens when residents believe the decision has effectively been made before they ever get to speak?
Consider the fight unfolding in Utah.
Utah’s Stratos Project: When residents refuse to be overruled
In Box Elder County, Utah, residents have been challenging the proposed Stratos data center project associated with investor Kevin O’Leary, widely known as “Mr. Wonderful” from Shark Tank.
The project’s enormous proposed footprint—initially described as approximately 40,000 acres—has become a flashpoint over land use, energy demand, environmental impacts, transparency, and the public’s role in decisions that could reshape an entire region.
The controversy prompted intense local opposition, political backlash, and efforts to challenge the county’s decisions through the referendum process. The project’s proponents have discussed reducing its proposed footprint, but a smaller proposal does not automatically resolve questions about infrastructure, environmental impacts, or public consent.
In May 2026, Box Elder County acknowledged receiving multiple referendum applications challenging county resolutions associated with the project. The county’s subsequent legal review illustrates that the dispute is not simply an argument on social media; residents have been attempting to use formal democratic and legal processes to challenge decisions affecting their community. Box Elder County’s official referendum updates
O’Leary and other supporters may see a major AI infrastructure development as an economic opportunity. Opponents have raised concerns about the scale of the project, the demands it could place on local resources, and whether residents have had a meaningful opportunity to influence decisions before the project advances.
Those questions deserve substantive answers.
The lesson is not that every data center should be stopped. Nor should every claim made by opponents or developers be accepted without evidence. It is that a project of this magnitude should withstand public scrutiny, and that residents should have access to reliable information before their community is committed to its consequences.
A democracy cannot ask people to trust a process that leaves them feeling they were never genuinely invited to participate.
The Utah dispute also exposes a broader tension in the AI boom. The benefits of computing infrastructure may extend far beyond the communities where it is built, while some of the immediate costs—land use, water demand, power infrastructure, noise, and changes to the local environment—are concentrated close to home.
Who receives the benefits? Who carries the risks? Who gets to negotiate the terms?
These are democratic questions, not merely technical ones.
And they cannot be answered by telling people to vote early and then moving on.
Democracy is not just the right to choose our representatives. It is the right to question what those representatives approve.
A two-minute public comment at a county hearing may not attract the attention of a national march. But it can determine whether a community has a meaningful voice in a decision that will affect it for decades.
The people showing up to these hearings are participating in democracy, too. Their concerns deserve serious answers, not dismissal as obstacles to progress.
2. Jane Doe, Cornell, and Annabel Richter: Women are demanding more than sympathy
Two campus cases have brought the issue of sexual violence and institutional accountability into sharper focus: the allegations involving Jane Doe and seven fraternity members at Cornell University, and the death of Fashion Institute of Technology student Annabel Richter.
They are distinct cases. They should not be conflated. But they raise urgent questions about institutional responsibility, how women are treated when they report harm, and whether public attention translates into meaningful accountability.
Cornell’s Jane Doe: Seven accused fraternity members and a system under scrutiny
In October 2024, a Cornell student identified publicly as Jane Doe alleged that she was drugged and sexually assaulted by multiple members of the Chi Phi fraternity.
She later pursued a civil lawsuit. Cornell’s internal disciplinary process resulted in sanctions against fraternity members, including expulsions. The initial criminal investigation did not result in charges. In 2026, the case received renewed scrutiny, and New York Attorney General Letitia James was appointed special prosecutor.
The case has raised questions about the handling of evidence, the response of university officials, and whether the original investigation adequately examined the allegations. Cornell has also announced measures addressing sexual violence and institutional accountability.
The accused have denied wrongdoing, and the criminal process must establish what the evidence supports. Allegations, institutional findings, and criminal guilt are distinct matters that should not be confused. Reuters, October 1, 2026 · Cornell’s official updates
What makes this case especially disturbing is not only the allegation itself. It is the broader fight over whether a woman can report sexual violence without becoming the target of a second ordeal: public exposure, harassment, threats, character attacks, and relentless scrutiny of her credibility.
Jane Doe’s identity was exposed despite her use of a pseudonym in court. Reporting has documented the abuse that followed, including threats and the circulation of personal information. The New Yorker, October 2026
Consider the imbalance women have been describing for generations: a man is entitled to the presumption of innocence under the law, as he should be, while a woman reporting an assault can find herself treated as though she is on trial before her account has even been fully investigated.
Due process and taking reports of sexual violence seriously are not mutually exclusive.
No one should be declared guilty without evidence. No woman should have to prove her worthiness of protection before an institution takes her report seriously.
And no one should be subjected to threats or doxing simply because a case has become controversial.
There is room for a fair investigation, a fair trial, responsible journalism, and compassion for people who report harm. Those principles do not cancel one another out. They are all part of what accountability requires.
The question is whether our institutions can uphold those principles when public pressure, reputational interests, and competing narratives make doing so difficult.
Annabel Richter: A separate case, and the questions it raises
The death of Fashion Institute of Technology student Annabel Richter deserves careful attention on its own terms.
Her story should not be used as a rhetorical prop or treated as interchangeable with the Cornell allegations. Before drawing conclusions about responsibility, institutional failures, or the circumstances of her death, we need to establish the facts and distinguish verified reporting from speculation.
But the broader question remains: when a young woman dies, what do the people closest to the case know? What have authorities established? What questions remain unanswered? And are the institutions involved communicating clearly with the public?
These are not unreasonable questions. They are the foundation of accountability.
Seeking answers does not require inventing a conspiracy, presuming guilt, or turning a tragedy into a political talking point. It requires patience, evidence, transparency, and a willingness to follow the facts wherever they lead.
Women deserve more than expressions of sympathy after a tragedy. They deserve institutions that take their safety seriously, investigate credible concerns, communicate honestly, and acknowledge failures when failures are established.
That standard should apply regardless of who is involved, how politically inconvenient the findings might be, or how much attention the story receives.
The common thread: Accountability cannot be selective
What connects these disputes is not that they are identical. They are not.
A protest about democratic institutions, a community’s fight over a data center, and a woman’s demand for justice involve different facts, different legal standards, and different remedies.
The connection is that each asks a version of the same question:
When people believe those with power have failed them, what meaningful process exists to hear their concerns and hold decision-makers accountable?
A ballot matters. So does a public hearing.
A criminal investigation matters. So does the right to challenge institutional decisions.
Public scrutiny matters. So does the obligation to verify claims before repeating them.
And justice requires more than deciding which side we already agree with.
If we demand transparency from elected officials, we should demand it from corporations exercising enormous influence over local communities. If we insist that institutions take allegations of sexual violence seriously, we must also insist on fair procedures and evidence-based conclusions. If we want a public that can distinguish fact from propaganda, we must practice that discipline ourselves.
That is not false equivalence. It is a consistent standard.
The point is not to flatten every controversy into the same political argument. It is to resist the temptation to care about accountability only when the people demanding it belong to our preferred movement, political party, or social group.
No kings. No blind spots.
The phrase “No Kings” is a rejection of unchecked power. But unchecked power does not exist only in the White House or in the halls of Congress.
It can also appear when local residents feel that a development deal is moving forward without meaningful public input. It can appear when an institution protects its reputation instead of confronting a serious problem. It can appear when online mobs decide that an accusation is enough to justify harassment—or when influential people use their platforms to discredit those who ask difficult questions.
The remedies will differ. The principle should not.
Power must be answerable to the people affected by its exercise.
That means voting. It means organizing. It means attending local hearings, asking for public records, supporting responsible journalism, protecting the right to a fair process, and refusing to mistake a viral claim for an established fact.
It also means recognizing that justice is not a limited resource. Paying attention to one issue does not require ignoring another.
We can defend democratic institutions while questioning the decisions those institutions make. We can support survivors while respecting due process. We can recognize the potential of AI while demanding that its infrastructure be developed responsibly. We can oppose abuses of power without abandoning evidence or fairness.
America does not have just one fight for justice. It has many, unfolding in different communities and through different institutions, often without the cameras or crowds that make a national protest visible.
So, as Americans take to the streets and prepare to vote, let’s remember the people still standing at the microphone during a county hearing. The people asking whether their concerns were ever genuinely considered. The women seeking answers from institutions that have the power to shape their lives. The families demanding transparency when something goes terribly wrong.
They are part of this democratic story, too.
No kings. No blind spots. No selective accountability.
If democracy means that power belongs to the people, then the people must have more than the opportunity to speak. They must have a meaningful opportunity to be heard—and a fair process through which their concerns can make a difference.
That is the work of democracy between elections.
And it is work none of us should be willing to abandon.
October 18, 2026 | A reflection on protest, power, and the many battles for accountability
America knows how to protest.
College students march. Civil rights activists organize. Neighbors show up at city council meetings. Families demand answers when institutions fail them. Across generations, Americans have taken to the streets when they believe those in power have stopped listening.
On October 17, Americans gathered for another round of No Kings demonstrations, with organizers emphasizing early voting ahead of November’s midterm elections. The message was that political power belongs to the people—and that democratic participation matters. Associated Press
That message matters. Voting matters. Protecting democratic institutions matters.
But I keep coming back to a larger question.
Are we paying enough attention to everything Americans are asking their institutions to answer for?
While one movement calls people to the polls, other Americans are demanding answers at city council meetings, on college campuses, in courtrooms, and outside government buildings. They are fighting over who controls their communities, whose rights are protected, whose testimony is taken seriously, and whose deaths receive the scrutiny they deserve.
These are not competing claims to the public’s attention. They are different expressions of a common demand: accountability.
And three issues, in particular, deserve more than a passing mention.
1. Data centers: The fight for democracy doesn’t end at the ballot box
Across America, residents are showing up at local hearings to challenge proposed data center developments. They are asking about water consumption, electricity demand, environmental impacts, noise, infrastructure costs, and whether the economic benefits will actually reach the communities expected to absorb the consequences.
Some communities are pushing for development moratoriums while officials evaluate those impacts.
This is not simply a debate about whether artificial intelligence is good or bad. It is a question of democratic consent.
Technology companies may see land, power, cooling capacity, and an opportunity to scale. Residents see their water supplies, utility bills, neighborhoods, and long-term quality of life.
Who gets to decide what happens next?
Who has access to the information necessary to make that decision?
And what happens when residents believe the decision has effectively been made before they ever get to speak?
Consider the fight unfolding in Utah.
Utah’s Stratos Project: When residents refuse to be overruled
In Box Elder County, Utah, residents have been challenging the proposed Stratos data center project associated with investor Kevin O’Leary, widely known as “Mr. Wonderful” from Shark Tank.
The project’s enormous proposed footprint—initially described as approximately 40,000 acres—has become a flashpoint over land use, energy demand, environmental impacts, transparency, and the public’s role in decisions that could reshape an entire region.
The controversy prompted intense local opposition, political backlash, and efforts to challenge the county’s decisions through the referendum process. The project’s proponents have discussed reducing its proposed footprint, but a smaller proposal does not automatically resolve questions about infrastructure, environmental impacts, or public consent.
In May 2026, Box Elder County acknowledged receiving multiple referendum applications challenging county resolutions associated with the project. The county’s subsequent legal review illustrates that the dispute is not simply an argument on social media; residents have been attempting to use formal democratic and legal processes to challenge decisions affecting their community. Box Elder County’s official referendum updates
O’Leary and other supporters may see a major AI infrastructure development as an economic opportunity. Opponents have raised concerns about the scale of the project, the demands it could place on local resources, and whether residents have had a meaningful opportunity to influence decisions before the project advances.
Those questions deserve substantive answers.
The lesson is not that every data center should be stopped. Nor should every claim made by opponents or developers be accepted without evidence. It is that a project of this magnitude should withstand public scrutiny, and that residents should have access to reliable information before their community is committed to its consequences.
A democracy cannot ask people to trust a process that leaves them feeling they were never genuinely invited to participate.
The Utah dispute also exposes a broader tension in the AI boom. The benefits of computing infrastructure may extend far beyond the communities where it is built, while some of the immediate costs—land use, water demand, power infrastructure, noise, and changes to the local environment—are concentrated close to home.
Who receives the benefits? Who carries the risks? Who gets to negotiate the terms?
These are democratic questions, not merely technical ones.
And they cannot be answered by telling people to vote early and then moving on.
Democracy is not just the right to choose our representatives. It is the right to question what those representatives approve.
A two-minute public comment at a county hearing may not attract the attention of a national march. But it can determine whether a community has a meaningful voice in a decision that will affect it for decades.
The people showing up to these hearings are participating in democracy, too. Their concerns deserve serious answers, not dismissal as obstacles to progress.
2. Jane Doe, Cornell, and Annabel Richter: Women are demanding more than sympathy
Two campus cases have brought the issue of sexual violence and institutional accountability into sharper focus: the allegations involving Jane Doe and seven fraternity members at Cornell University, and the death of Fashion Institute of Technology student Annabel Richter.
They are distinct cases. They should not be conflated. But they raise urgent questions about institutional responsibility, how women are treated when they report harm, and whether public attention translates into meaningful accountability.
Cornell’s Jane Doe: Seven accused fraternity members and a system under scrutiny
In October 2024, a Cornell student identified publicly as Jane Doe alleged that she was drugged and sexually assaulted by multiple members of the Chi Phi fraternity.
She later pursued a civil lawsuit. Cornell’s internal disciplinary process resulted in sanctions against fraternity members, including expulsions. The initial criminal investigation did not result in charges. In 2026, the case received renewed scrutiny, and New York Attorney General Letitia James was appointed special prosecutor.
The case has raised questions about the handling of evidence, the response of university officials, and whether the original investigation adequately examined the allegations. Cornell has also announced measures addressing sexual violence and institutional accountability.
The accused have denied wrongdoing, and the criminal process must establish what the evidence supports. Allegations, institutional findings, and criminal guilt are distinct matters that should not be confused. Reuters, October 1, 2026 · Cornell’s official updates
What makes this case especially disturbing is not only the allegation itself. It is the broader fight over whether a woman can report sexual violence without becoming the target of a second ordeal: public exposure, harassment, threats, character attacks, and relentless scrutiny of her credibility.
Jane Doe’s identity was exposed despite her use of a pseudonym in court. Reporting has documented the abuse that followed, including threats and the circulation of personal information. The New Yorker, October 2026
Consider the imbalance women have been describing for generations: a man is entitled to the presumption of innocence under the law, as he should be, while a woman reporting an assault can find herself treated as though she is on trial before her account has even been fully investigated.
Due process and taking reports of sexual violence seriously are not mutually exclusive.
No one should be declared guilty without evidence. No woman should have to prove her worthiness of protection before an institution takes her report seriously.
And no one should be subjected to threats or doxing simply because a case has become controversial.
There is room for a fair investigation, a fair trial, responsible journalism, and compassion for people who report harm. Those principles do not cancel one another out. They are all part of what accountability requires.
The question is whether our institutions can uphold those principles when public pressure, reputational interests, and competing narratives make doing so difficult.
Annabel Richter: A separate case, and the questions it raises
The death of Fashion Institute of Technology student Annabel Richter deserves careful attention on its own terms.
Her story should not be used as a rhetorical prop or treated as interchangeable with the Cornell allegations. Before drawing conclusions about responsibility, institutional failures, or the circumstances of her death, we need to establish the facts and distinguish verified reporting from speculation.
But the broader question remains: when a young woman dies, what do the people closest to the case know? What have authorities established? What questions remain unanswered? And are the institutions involved communicating clearly with the public?
These are not unreasonable questions. They are the foundation of accountability.
Seeking answers does not require inventing a conspiracy, presuming guilt, or turning a tragedy into a political talking point. It requires patience, evidence, transparency, and a willingness to follow the facts wherever they lead.
Women deserve more than expressions of sympathy after a tragedy. They deserve institutions that take their safety seriously, investigate credible concerns, communicate honestly, and acknowledge failures when failures are established.
That standard should apply regardless of who is involved, how politically inconvenient the findings might be, or how much attention the story receives.
The common thread: Accountability cannot be selective
What connects these disputes is not that they are identical. They are not.
A protest about democratic institutions, a community’s fight over a data center, and a woman’s demand for justice involve different facts, different legal standards, and different remedies.
The connection is that each asks a version of the same question:
When people believe those with power have failed them, what meaningful process exists to hear their concerns and hold decision-makers accountable?
A ballot matters. So does a public hearing.
A criminal investigation matters. So does the right to challenge institutional decisions.
Public scrutiny matters. So does the obligation to verify claims before repeating them.
And justice requires more than deciding which side we already agree with.
If we demand transparency from elected officials, we should demand it from corporations exercising enormous influence over local communities. If we insist that institutions take allegations of sexual violence seriously, we must also insist on fair procedures and evidence-based conclusions. If we want a public that can distinguish fact from propaganda, we must practice that discipline ourselves.
That is not false equivalence. It is a consistent standard.
The point is not to flatten every controversy into the same political argument. It is to resist the temptation to care about accountability only when the people demanding it belong to our preferred movement, political party, or social group.
No kings. No blind spots.
The phrase “No Kings” is a rejection of unchecked power. But unchecked power does not exist only in the White House or in the halls of Congress.
It can also appear when local residents feel that a development deal is moving forward without meaningful public input. It can appear when an institution protects its reputation instead of confronting a serious problem. It can appear when online mobs decide that an accusation is enough to justify harassment—or when influential people use their platforms to discredit those who ask difficult questions.
The remedies will differ. The principle should not.
Power must be answerable to the people affected by its exercise.
That means voting. It means organizing. It means attending local hearings, asking for public records, supporting responsible journalism, protecting the right to a fair process, and refusing to mistake a viral claim for an established fact.
It also means recognizing that justice is not a limited resource. Paying attention to one issue does not require ignoring another.
We can defend democratic institutions while questioning the decisions those institutions make. We can support survivors while respecting due process. We can recognize the potential of AI while demanding that its infrastructure be developed responsibly. We can oppose abuses of power without abandoning evidence or fairness.
America does not have just one fight for justice. It has many, unfolding in different communities and through different institutions, often without the cameras or crowds that make a national protest visible.
So, as Americans take to the streets and prepare to vote, let’s remember the people still standing at the microphone during a county hearing. The people asking whether their concerns were ever genuinely considered. The women seeking answers from institutions that have the power to shape their lives. The families demanding transparency when something goes terribly wrong.
They are part of this democratic story, too.
No kings. No blind spots. No selective accountability.
If democracy means that power belongs to the people, then the people must have more than the opportunity to speak. They must have a meaningful opportunity to be heard—and a fair process through which their concerns can make a difference.
That is the work of democracy between elections.
And it is work none of us should be willing to abandon.
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