Trump got his back by exercising his right to dismiss any or all the 36-member Kennedy Center board of directors, whose membership was, until now, balanced between appointees by Democratic and Republican presidents.

All 18 board members appointed by Democrats were fired — though international opera star Renée Fleming and Emmy-winning TV producer Shonda Rhimes and others tended their own resignations first.

Trump now has an all-Republican (if not all MAGA) board that includes the Second Lady Usha Vance and Lee Greenwood, the singer and songwriter who wrote “God Bless the USA.”

The new board then elected Trump, who promised to “Make American Culture Great Again,” as its chairman.

Within hours of Trump’s takeover, artists began to cancel appearances, among them writer, actor and producer Issa Rae, and bestselling mystery author Louise Perry. The Alfred Street Baptist Church — one of the oldest Black Baptist churches in America — canceled its annual Christmas performance. And, predictably, The Kennedy Center, under its new leadership, canceled an unofficial WorldPride concert featuring the Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington, D.C.

I was eager to watch the broadcast of the Kennedy Center’s Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, which was presented to Conan O’Brien (the ceremony took place on March 23, and later aired on Netflix). Typically, the evening is filled with topical humor provided by the honoree and their peers, with some (normally) good-natured but pointed jabs at the commander in chief.

“Pointed jabs” is putting it lightly — especially this year.

Trump opted out and probably spent the evening somewhere more comfortable – like Mar-a-Lago. Or Moscow.

I seriously doubt there will be another Mark Twain Prize for the rest of his tenure.  Who would they nominate? Really. Who? Name me a a famous/ iconic  Trump-supporting wit.

I am careful to limit my news intake these days. Fifteen minutes of exposure to MSNBC and I can’t fall asleep without chemical assistance. My TV viewing is now limited to BritBox murder mysteries — “Miss Marple” levels of gore only — and episodes of “Welcome to Wrexham.” Even so, the news seeps in through online bulletins, in every conversation with everyone I encounter. And the front page headlines on the two daily newspapers that land on my doorstep. The drumbeat of anxiety never stops. I’ve never been more grateful to have a dog in the house. And I’ve never been more appreciative of the performing arts.

My husband and I — children of working-class immigrants — don’t travel or spend money on lavish meals. Our splurge is tickets. We make our choices months in advance to get good seats at reasonable prices. We do not, however, always check the calendar, which means we usually end up committed to multiple performances in the space of a few weeks.

That winter our crowded cultural calendar in January and February turned out to be exactly what I needed to weather the cruelty and mendacity of our national politics. It also turned out to be a deep dive into the blessings of America’s diverse, equal, and inclusive culture.

It started with the Malpaso Dance Company from Cuba, and two hours of embodied joy set to irresistible Afro-Caribbean rhythms that sent us all out into the chilly night with our coats unbuttoned.

Then, “Ain’t No Mo,’” by Jordan E. Cooper, a fierce satire set in an airport lounge where America’s Black population is boarding a plane back to Africa, free of charge courtesy of the U.S. government. It’s a series of salty, honest, sometimes excruciatingly transgressive, often hilarious R-rated vignettes shared by the most diverse audience I’ve ever been part of.

A few weeks later, we saw the second installment in a fascinating nine-part series of plays by Mfoniso Udofia. The series focuses on a Nigerian immigrant family; it’s a layered story of striving, success and intergenerational conflict that enriches and complicates the story of Black life in America.

This abundance of creative riches continued with “The Piano Lesson,” a co-production of Actors’ Shakespeare Company and Front Porch Arts Collective. The fourth in August Wilson’s 10-play series about Black life in America, and a Pulitzer Prize winner, it’s the story of one Black family, two generations removed from slavery, dealing with its legacy of pain and pride. Hair-raising. Terrific.

Trump and his creepy minions (not the cute yellow dudes) are trying to use the DEI offensive as a blunt instrument to keep us from making common cause, which is why they hate the arts. Because the more we get to know each other, the harder it is to foment distrust and hatred of one another. The arts celebrate DEI because Diversity Engenders Inspiration.

 Commissar Musk deserves a DEI all his own, as in Dumping Elon Immediately.

A version of this essay first appeared online on WBUR’s   Cognoscenti