The Atlantic recently published the story of Nicholas Gilbert, a dairy farmer living near the Canadian border in upstate New York. His tale is a small but powerful example of how political narratives—particularly dishonest ones—can have real-world consequences, not only on the national economy but also on the lives of ordinary citizens just trying to get by.
Gilbert had just received a shipment of livestock feed. Attached to the delivery was an unexpected and painful surprise: a $2,200 surcharge due to tariffs. For a small farmer, that’s no small sum. And here’s the kicker—he had no control over it.
He can’t raise the price of his milk; that figure is set by the local co-operative. He can’t simply feed the cows less—animals don’t run on austerity. He also can’t switch suppliers, as there are none nearby, and sourcing feed from a more distant provider would only drive up costs further.
So he did what many might in his position: he stared at the invoice in disbelief. Why is this my problem? he wondered. In his view, the Canadian supplier ought to have paid the tariff. After all, wasn’t it their country being targeted by the U.S. government’s trade policy?
“I’m not even sure it’s legal!” he said. “We contracted for the price on delivery! If your price of fuel goes up or your truck breaks down, that’s not my problem! That’s what the contract’s for.”
His confusion is understandable. He had, like many others, bought into the myth that President Donald Trump’s tariffs would be paid by foreign exporters. That narrative, repeated often and loudly, was a centrepiece of Trump’s economic nationalism. But it was never true.
Tariffs are import taxes. They are paid by the importer, in this case, Gilbert, when goods cross the border. The idea that foreign countries would bear the cost was not only economically illiterate; it was deliberately misleading. Yet, it resonated. It felt satisfying. It sounded tough. And it became gospel in certain corners of America.
Now, Nicholas Gilbert is facing the very real prospect of going out of business. Not because he made poor decisions, not because he failed as a farmer, but because he believed the lies he was told.
He should have known better, perhaps. But propaganda—especially when it taps into your fears, your pride, and your sense of injustice—is a hell of a drug.
And like any drug, the high is temporary. The crash, however, can be devastating.
