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American history carries a grim throughline that resurfaces whenever violence edges close to the presidency. The attempted assassinations of national leaders are not isolated shocks but recurring moments that expose how power, symbolism, and instability intersect. That pattern reasserted itself on September 15, 2024, when former president Donald Trump narrowly survived what authorities described as a second assassination attempt—an event that immediately placed him within a long and unsettling historical continuum.

With that incident, Trump joined a list that is longer than many Americans realize. Since the founding of the United States, 45 men have served as president. Of those, nearly 40 percent have faced at least one assassination attempt. Four—Abraham Lincoln, James A. Garfield, William McKinley, and John F. Kennedy—were killed while in office. The number alone challenges the comforting notion that such violence belongs to a distant, less stable past.

The presidency is not merely a job. It is a symbol—one that absorbs the hopes, fears, anger, and frustrations of an entire nation. For supporters, the president can embody progress or stability. For critics, the same figure can become a lightning rod for resentment. In that sense, attacks on presidents are rarely just about an individual. They are acts aimed at the idea of power itself.

Trump’s recent experiences underscore that reality. In 2024, authorities confirmed that his Secret Service detail intervened during a serious security threat at his Florida golf course, exchanging gunfire with an armed suspect. Months earlier, a shooting at a political rally in Pennsylvania resulted in injuries and renewed scrutiny of campaign security. Though Trump survived both incidents, the symbolism was impossible to ignore. A former president, still deeply polarizing, remained a target long after leaving office.

Across American history, assassination attempts have shared unsettling consistencies. Firearms have been the weapon of choice in every known attempt against a U.S. president. Nearly all assailants have been men, with one notable exception: the two women who targeted Gerald Ford in 1975. The motivations behind these attacks vary widely—political extremism, personal delusions, ideological obsession—but the method has remained constant.

The earliest and most consequential assassination in U.S. history came in April 1865, when Abraham Lincoln was shot by John Wilkes Booth. The killing was not an isolated act but part of a broader conspiracy intended to destabilize the federal government at the end of the Civil War. On the same night, Secretary of State William H. Seward was brutally stabbed but survived, while a third conspirator failed to carry out plans to kill Vice President Andrew Johnson. The goal was chaos—an attempt to fracture the Union when it was most vulnerable.

That logic has repeated itself in different forms. In 1881, James A. Garfield was shot by a disgruntled office seeker who believed the act would advance his own importance. Garfield lingered for weeks before dying, a drawn-out tragedy that highlighted both political fanaticism and medical limitations of the era. Two decades later, William McKinley was assassinated by an anarchist who viewed the president as a symbol of oppressive power. Each attack reflected the anxieties and ideological fractures of its time.

The modern era did not break the pattern. In 1963, John F. Kennedy’s assassination in Dallas permanently altered American political culture, embedding a sense of vulnerability into the national psyche. The televised aftermath and unresolved questions surrounding the crime ensured that the event would echo across generations.

Survival, however, has also shaped the presidency. Gerald Ford’s two near-fatal encounters in 1975 stand out not only for their proximity in time but for their improbability. The first attempt came from Lynette Fromme, a follower of Charles Manson who aimed a gun at Ford in an effort to draw attention to environmental issues. The weapon was not properly loaded, and Ford escaped unharmed. Just 17 days later, Sara Jane Moore fired at the president in San Francisco. A bystander, Oliver Sipple, deflected her arm, causing the bullet to miss. Both incidents reinforced how thin the line can be between routine appearances and catastrophe.

Perhaps the most famous modern survival story belongs to Ronald Reagan. In 1981, Reagan was shot by John Hinckley Jr., a man driven by obsession and delusion who believed the act would impress actress Jodie Foster. The bullet ricocheted off the presidential limousine and punctured Reagan’s lung. His survival was uncertain in the hours that followed, but his composure afterward—particularly his humor toward the surgeons treating him—cemented an image of resilience that strengthened public confidence during a moment of fear.

Trump’s case adds a distinctly modern dimension to this history. Both individuals implicated in the 2024 attempts were reportedly former supporters who had grown disillusioned, reflecting how political polarization can turn inward. In an era of constant online radicalization, instant misinformation, and performative outrage, the symbolic weight of political figures has only intensified. Presidents and former presidents are no longer distant institutions; they are daily presences in personal digital spaces, making them both more accessible and more exposed.

Security protocols have evolved in response, but they face challenges unknown to earlier generations. Open venues, rapid communication, and lone actors motivated by fragmented ideologies complicate prevention efforts. The Secret Service’s swift response in Trump’s case likely prevented a national tragedy, but it also highlighted how quickly threats can emerge.

Assassination attempts are not historical footnotes. They are manifestations of deeper social fractures—where political grievance, mental instability, and access to weapons converge. Each incident forces the nation to confront uncomfortable truths about its own volatility.

Yet there is another pattern that runs parallel to violence: institutional endurance. After every attack, the presidency has persisted. Government has continued. Courts, Congress, and civil society have absorbed the shock and moved forward. Acts of heroism—from doctors and bystanders to security personnel—have repeatedly prevented chaos from becoming collapse.

Trump’s survival, like Reagan’s and Ford’s before him, became a reminder that American democracy exists in a constant tension between strength and fragility. The office attracts both reverence and rage. That duality has never disappeared, and recent events suggest it never will.

The lesson threaded through two centuries of history is stark but instructive. The presidency will always carry risk because it concentrates meaning as much as power. What defines the nation is not the presence of that danger, but how it responds when the danger surfaces.

Violence seeks to destabilize. Resilience answers back.