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What we learned about “energy dominance” on Day One.

Here we go: On Monday, Donald Trump was sworn in as the 47th president of the United States.
Surrounded by some of the country’s richest men, including Elon Musk, Mark Zuckerberg, and the oil magnate Harold Hamm, Trump rejected what he called a “radical and corrupt establishment” that has “extracted power and wealth from our citizens” while promising a new golden age for the United States.
At the center of that golden age, he said, was an almost totally unregulated fossil fuel economy. “Today I will also declare a national energy emergency,” he said. “We will drill, baby, drill.”
Over the next 12 hours, he signed a series of executive orders that relaxed protections across the oil and gas sector while imposing costly new restrictions on wind turbines, electric vehicles, and other forms of renewable energy. He demonstrated that his extreme vision for the American government — a new order where the executive reigns supreme and Congress does not control the power of the purse — will run straight through his climate and energy policy.
You could see in his actions, too, what could become fragility in his governing coalition — times and situations where he might too eagerly slap a cost on a friend because he believes they are a foe.
But all that remains in the future. For now, Trump is in charge.
Trump’s first day was about undermining climate policy in virtually any form that he could find. Soon after taking the oath, Trump began the process of pulling the United States out of the Paris Agreement on climate change. He announced a broad freeze on virtually all federal wind energy permits, throwing at least one large-scale onshore wind farm into chaos while smothering virtually all offshore wind energy projects, including several planned for the East Coast. He moved to weaken energy and water efficiency rules for lightbulbs, showerheads, washing machines, and dishwashers. He began the multi-year process of rewriting the Environmental Protection Agency’s rules on tailpipe pollution from cars and light trucks, which he has described as lifting the federal government’s “EV mandate.” And he promised to open up new tracts of federal land for oil and gas drilling, including in the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge.
But most important were a series of executive actions that Trump signed in the late evening, many under the bearing of a “national energy emergency.” In these orders, Trump told the Environmental Protection Agency to study whether carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases are dangerous air pollutants. This question has been a matter of settled science for decades — and, more importantly, has not been under legal dispute since 2009. In the same set of orders, Trump lifted federal environmental and permitting rules, potentially setting up a move that could force blue states — particularly those in the Northeast and West Coast — to accept new oil and gas pipelines and refineries.
Finally, and most importantly, Trump asserted the right to freeze virtually all ongoing federal spending under the Inflation Reduction Act — and the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law — for 90 days. Even after this time elapses, funding programs will have to be approved by the White House Office of Management and Budget. This move places at least tens of millions of dollars of federal contracts at risk, and it raises questions about the federal government’s ability to operate as a reliable counterparty. It is also of dubious Constitutionality because it appears to violate Congress’s sole authority over federal spending.
The stated goal of many of these policies is to bring down energy costs for American consumers. The president’s national energy emergency, for example, takes as its premise that the country is growing its energy supply too slowly. The United States, it suggests, is at imminent risk of running out of energy for new technology. (You might ask yourself why — if this is the case — Trump has also frozen all federal wind projects. But then you misunderstand Trump’s particular genius.)
Yet bringing down costs will be difficult. Energy costs — and particularly oil costs — are already low. Today, as Trump’s second term begins, gasoline stands at $3.13 a gallon, according to AAA. That’s about five cents above where it stood a year ago, and it’s within the inflation-adjusted range where gas prices hovered for much of Trump’s first term. (Oil prices crashed in 2020 because of the pandemic, but the industry — and the American public — would obviously prefer not to repeat that debacle.)
How much further could energy prices fall? Look at it this way: A barrel of oil in the U.S. costs $76 today, per the West Texas benchmark. (The international benchmark, called Brent, is a smidge higher at $79.) Last year, oil producers across much of the Permian Basin reported that they could break even only if oil stayed at or above about $66 a barrel. The rough rule of thumb is that for a $1 change in the per-barrel oil price, drivers will eventually see a roughly 2.5 cent change in prices at the pump. You can see how hard it will be to push oil prices down to record lows, at least with current levels of economic activity, interest rates, and demand volumes.
Which isn’t to say that it’s impossible. Trump will have advantages when dealing with the oil and gas industry that his immediate predecessor did not enjoy. Chief among these is that the industry’s leaders like him, want to see him succeed, and will be more willing to do favors for him — even if it means suffering thinner margins. These may help keep a lid on electricity prices, which are far more sensitive to natural gas and which really are set to surge as a new wave of factories, EVs, and data centers comes online.
Maybe! We’ll see. When you look closer, what stands out about Trump’s policies is how few of them are designed to lower energy prices. Instead, they aim to do virtually the opposite: shore up oil and gas demand. According to The Wall Street Journal, ensuring demand for oil and gas products — and not deregulating drilling further — is what the industry has asked Trump to do. That makes sense. The United States is, at the moment, producing more oil and gas than any country in world history. The fossil fuel industry’s problem isn’t getting gas out of the ground, but finding people to sell it to. By suspending fuel economy and energy efficiency rules, Trump can force Americans to use more energy — and spend more on oil and gas — to do the same amount of useful work.
In other places, what stands out about Trump’s policies is their incoherence — and how few of his constituencies they will satisfy. Late on Monday, Trump suggested that he might impose 25% tariffs on Canada and Mexico as soon as February 1. Such an action would quickly harm key segments of the American energy industry. Canada exports about $124 billion of crude oil to the United States every year — much of it a heavy, sludgy petroleum from the Albertan oil sands. That sludge is piped across North America, then fed into U.S. refineries, where it helps produce a large portion of America’s fuel supply. (Alberta’s heavy, sulfurous sludge is particularly well-suited to mixing with the light, sweet crude produced by American frackers.) Should Trump impose those tariffs, in other words, he would gambol into a self-imposed energy crisis.
Tariffs are not the only place where Trump could undermine his own policies. One of his executive orders on Monday aimed to establish America as “the leading producer and processor of non-fuel minerals, including rare earth minerals”; three clauses later, it announced an end to the federal government’s so-called “EV mandate.”
But by kneecapping demand for electric vehicles, Trump will hurt the critical minerals industry more than any anti-growth hippie could fathom. For the past few years, corporate America and Wall Street have invested billions of dollars in lithium and rare-earths mining and processing facilities across the country. These projects, which are largely in Republican districts, only make financial sense in a world where the United States produces a large and growing number of electric vehicles: EVs make up the lion’s share of future demand for lithium, rare earth elements, and other geostrategically sensitive rocks, and any mines or refining facilities will only pencil out in a world where EVs purchase their output. If Trump kills the non-Tesla part of the EV industry, then he will also mortally harm those projects’ economics.
Energy is a strange issue. Although it is one of the key inputs into the modern industrial economy, millions of Americans engage with it as an expressive, symbolic matter — as just another battleground in the culture war. Today, Donald Trump has become the most powerful American in that category. On his first day in office, he has demonstrated that he will use energy policy to advance his extreme ideas about how the Constitution and presidential authority works. How far he gets now will depend on what the American public, business leaders, congressional Republicans, and the Supreme Court’s arch-conservative majority will accept — and whether his fragile constituency is really ready to pay the costs of “American greatness.”
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Cement, plywood, and some electronic equipment will face 50% levies. But the real cost is much higher.
Here we go again. The United States will impose new 50% tariffs on a slew of imports from Canada, the White House announced on Monday afternoon. The trade levies — which will hit more than 500 categories of goods, from anoraks, beer, and curtains, to yarn, wool, and whey protein — will take effect in 30 days.
The new tariffs don’t seem to be wildfire-related. President Trump threatened to impose new tariffs last week after smoke from Canadian wildfires drifted south over the northern U.S. border, but administration officials have claimed to CNN that these new levies were already in motion by then.
Even so, a few aspects of the announcement stand out. Most important, at least from a generalist perspective, is the legal mechanism that President Trump is using to apply them: Section 338 of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act. This passage, which has never been used by a previous president to levy tariffs, allows the United States to tax trade from countries that the president says have “discriminated against” U.S. commerce.
Significant, too, is the fact the White House asserts this new kind of tariff could apply to any kind of product — even those that would normally be covered by the North American free trade pact, the U.S.-Mexico-Canada Agreement. So far, the “Big Three” automakers — whose supply chains cross the Mexican or Canadian borders half a dozen times before a car is finally assembled — have avoided major tariff danger because auto parts and other inputs fall under the USMCA’s auspices. If the White House now thinks it can levy taxes despite that pact, then the risks for Ford, General Motors, and their suppliers have increased.
Energy and critical minerals are exempt from the new tariffs, so Canadian crude oil, gasoline, diesel, natural gas, and electricity will presumably keep flowing into the United States. (That explicit carve-out might be ominous in its own right, because energy had been protected by USMCA so far, too.) By omitting energy, Trump and his officials may be calculating they can avoid major inflationary hazards from this round of tariffs.
Who knows. In any case, to my eye, these tariffs do seem like they could aggravate construction costs and possibly contribute to wider U.S. inflation. There’s already some evidence that data centers are driving a new wave of inflation, for instance, by hiking construction input and labor costs. Yet data centers use a lot of cement — and cement will now face a 50% tariff under the new regime. So too will plywood, plaster, and paperboard, as well as industrial cooling equipment, chemicals, and some circuit boards.
I could keep listing the potential economic costs here — I could point out that overall inflation risk is rising or that average U.S. gas prices rose to $4 a gallon today on the Iran war news — but I think it’s important to look at least one step beyond the hits to commerce alone.
I mentioned earlier that these tariffs are meant to punish “discrimination.” In this case, some of the “discrimination” appears to be what some Canadian provinces did to retaliate against the president’s earlier tariffs. The state-owned liquor stores in Quebec and Ontario, for instance, stopped buying U.S.-made booze after Trump slapped 25% tariffs on Canada in March 2025; those boycotts are mentioned by name in today’s proclamation. Canada, you see, is not supposed to respond to Trump’s tariffs. It is just supposed to take it — just like it’s supposed to take the constant stream of falsehoods, abuse, belittling, and invasion threat.
Over the past few years, politicians and pundits have learned to respond to Trump’s policies by appealing to U.S. self-interest — by explaining how the president’s policies are making Americans poorer. It is a sensible strategy for a morally denuded era. A recent statement from Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer about Canada, for example, criticized the president for hurting “our closest ally and partner … right when summer tourism season is arriving.” I get the move here — and I think, in some sense, Schumer is trying to avoid polarizing Trump’s treatment of Canada along partisan lines — but Canadians are more than their tourism dollars.
For the past several years, Trump has threatened to strip Canada of its sovereignty and its dignity. He has treated what was once a deep and secure relationship as something to be bartered and mined and dissipated. It is a mucilaginous approach to statecraft, and as recent reporting has made clear, its long-term costs will exceed any simple accounting. We Americans have been robbed of an honorable friendship. Some losses cannot be counted in dollars.
In seven years of owning an electric car, I’ve done practically no maintenance. My 2019 Tesla Model 3 has gotten a new set of tires and windshield wipers, but because an EV doesn’t require oil changes or many of the other occasional chores that come with gas cars, that’s about it.
The one thing I have had to fix is the battery, and no, I don’t mean the big one that makes the car go.
Twice in those seven years, I’ve replaced the car’s 12-volt battery. This is the toolbox-sized unit that’s familiar to millions — it’s what the phrase “car battery” used to mean back before electric vehicles. Lots of new or aspiring EV drivers may not even realize their car has a second, smaller battery borrowed from combustion days. But this crucial holdover — the most recycled object on the planet, by the way, at a rate of more than 100 million annually — has already been a source of annoyance for EV engineers and drivers.
The reason behind the weird setup is straightforward. Despite the fact that EVs are effectively giant batteries on wheels, they need a backup source to operate the power windows and doors. If you’re in a car accident that disables the main battery, for instance, you need power to the doors to escape, and also a way to disconnect the high-voltage battery. Thus, the old-fashioned 12-volt battery squirreled away deep inside the car to protect it during collisions.
It’s not just a matter of backup power, either. A large, high-voltage battery would have to step down its electrical output for applications other than pushing a car down the road; it’s simpler to power them with a 12-volt battery and use the big unit to recharge the smaller one. After all, legacy carmakers have decades of experience building this kind of electrical system for gasoline-powered cars. Some EVs also use the 12-volt setup to disconnect the high-voltage power supply when the car is simply parked for a long time.
All this makes solid engineering sense. It also means that a sleek, modern EV is reliant upon the clunky car battery of yesteryear. Some drivers, including those in new Kia EVs, have said they can’t drive their cars even though there’s plenty of juice in the big unit because something went wrong with the 12-volt. As one Reddit commenter wrote: “It seems absurd to design a car that can run out of electrons and not be able to start while it is carrying 70 kWh of energy in a giant battery.” Yet that’s exactly the reality.
There are a few reasons why. As InsideEVs has noted, the rugged old 12-volt keeps getting more and more responsibility. Nowadays, the constant cellular connectivity of modem EVs — as well as features that can be used while the car is parked, such as security systems that tap into the vehicle’s exterior cameras to monitor the surrounding area — can cause a continuous drain on the 12-volt battery. That requires the car’s big battery to “wake up” and recharge the smaller one, which not only bleeds the vehicle’s driving range while it’s sitting still but also causes lots of recharging cycles for the 12-volt, prematurely aging the small battery.
Rivian had notorious problems from this issue for the older R1T and R1S and had to engineer a fix. Hyundais and Kias, meanwhile, have had longstanding issues with their Integrated Charging Control Unit, the system that recharges the 12-volt battery, that have caused a variety of recalls and headaches widely documented in online posts and videos. Chevy and Toyota have endured their own growing pains trying to make a low-voltage electrical system work well inside an EV.
But the car companies are getting smarter. Rather than duplicating what works in gas cars, more of them are building EV-specific systems with this application in mind. For example, the 12-volt in an EV doesn’t need to provide the big single burst needed to start up a gas engine, but it does need to be able to survive being subjected to more recharging cycles. In other words, it’s not that using these batteries in modern EVs is a bad idea — we just need to be smarter about how.
Perhaps EV builders one day will engineer away the old battery. Rivian, for one, has filed a patent for an electrical architecture that would work without a low-voltage battery at all. But those workarounds are a long way out. For now, even the most futuristic-feeling electric cars are stuck with the same kind of battery your dad had to jump-start in the church parking lot that time you left the AC on and the engine wasn’t running. My big, high-voltage battery might keep running forever, even as its capacity continues to diminish. But inevitably, I’ll need another small, dumb battery when this one goes kaput.
GOP lawmakers know climate change is real. But they lack political incentives to do anything about it.
The New York Times recently profiled former Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist and his increasing engagement on climate change. Many of the online comments accused him of hypocrisy. Why, they asked, did he only become concerned about climate change after leaving Congress?
It’s an understandable question.
I have spent the better part of a decade discussing climate change with Republican members of Congress and can see a frequently overlooked part of the answer. During my hundreds of one-on-one conversations with Republican senators and representatives, almost none of them deny that climate change is occurring. Most understand the science well enough, and many acknowledge privately that it presents serious long-term risks.
They don’t lack knowledge. They lack political incentives.
Members of Congress have finite political capital. Every day they must decide which issues deserve their attention. Naturally, they devote their time to the issues that voters, donors, activists, staff, and party leaders tell them matter most.
Politics is a marketplace of incentives. For decades, climate advocates have devoted their efforts to changing Republicans’ minds, but have devoted little effort to changing the incentives for Republicans to act.
The political ecosystem for Democrats could not be more different. Democrats are surrounded by organizations that continually reinforce the importance of climate policy. Environmental groups, philanthropies, labor organizations, advocacy organizations, academics, campaign donors, think tanks, and congressional staff all create an environment in which climate engagement is expected and rewarded.
Republicans experience almost none of that.
When I was quoted in the New York Times article, I described the “eco right” as “a lonely place.” I meant it literally. There are remarkably few conservative organizations whose primary mission is helping Republican elected officials develop serious climate policy. Few donors make climate engagement a condition of support. Few advocacy groups reward constructive leadership. Few congressional staff have access to a deep bench of conservative climate experts. Climate is far more often presented as a political liability than a leadership opportunity.
In that environment, addressing climate change is rarely a priority. This largely explains what puzzles many observers — that Republican leaders often become noticeably more outspoken about addressing climate change after leaving office. The science has not changed. Their incentives have.
Freed from primary elections, fundraising pressures, and the constant competition for legislative attention, they’re able to think about problems whose consequences unfold over decades instead of election cycles.
That observation leads to an uncomfortable conclusion for those of us who want stronger climate policy: Persuading Republicans that climate change is real is not just unnecessary, it’s unproductive. They know it’s real. The more important task is building the institutions that make climate engagement a priority. That means investing in conservative policy organizations, developing Republican congressional staff expertise, supporting Republican governors and state legislators, encouraging business leaders to engage, creating donor networks that reward constructive center-right leadership, and giving Republican members credible partners they can trust.
In other words, we need to make the eco-right a much less lonely place.
Building institutions requires capital, both political and financial. Today, the overwhelming majority of climate-related political spending — whether by advocacy organizations, political action committees, or philanthropically supported campaigns — flows to Democratic candidates and causes. It’s understandable. Democrats have generally been more supportive of climate action, and donors naturally want to reward those who stand with them.
But rewarding allies isn’t the same as expanding the number of them.
If the objective is durable climate policy rather than simply electing more Democrats, then the current allocation of political spending deserves reconsideration. Congress writes laws, and lasting legislation almost always requires bipartisan support. A movement that invests overwhelmingly in one party shouldn’t be surprised when the other party lacks champions, expertise, and political incentives.
Climate philanthropists, advocacy organizations, and political action committees should explicitly seek to create Republican allies by committing a more significant portion of their electoral spending to Republican candidates. This support would send a powerful signal throughout Republican politics that constructive engagement on climate change will be rewarded. More Republican candidates would respond to those incentives, and the universe of viable partners would expand.
For Republicans, the greatest opportunity lies in primary elections. While general elections determine which party governs, primaries determine what kind of Republicans and Democrats will govern. Donors should identify Republican candidates who are willing to engage on a variety of climate-related topics — from adaptation and resilience to market-based policies that reduce emissions to energy innovation — and help them succeed. The objective isn’t ideological purity. It’s to demonstrate that constructive climate leadership is politically viable within today’s Republican Party, and to give those candidates the confidence that they aren’t alone.
Over time, this approach would accomplish something today’s funding model cannot. Rather than simply rewarding an existing coalition, it would create a larger one. It would produce more Republican members who see climate engagement as compatible with conservative principles. Climate change would still be a scientific and economic challenge, but politics would no longer preclude addressing it.
Rather than increasingly evident climate change adding to political division, it could drive both parties to act. America’s biggest policy achievements have generally occurred when a president elevated an issue as a national priority and Congress responded. Tax reform, welfare reform, civil rights, and other major agreements all required presidential leadership before they produced durable bipartisan legislation.
Climate policy has not yet reached that level. While voters increasingly care about it, it does not determine presidential elections or dominate governing agendas.
The closest climate change has come to being a top-tier issue was when President George H.W. Bush signed the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change in 1992, but that was before addressing climate change became so partisan. More recently, President Joe Biden included clean energy tax credits in the Inflation Reduction Act. That modest success is noteworthy in part because it rode upon legislation to address inflation, a top-tier voter issue — and because the provisions were largely repealed less than three years later. Until climate change becomes a presidential-level issue — one that candidates in both parties believe they must address — Congress is unlikely to devote sustained attention to it.
That day will come. And when that moment arrives, the quality of the legislation will depend on the work being done now. If we want bipartisan climate policy tomorrow, we need to build bipartisan political capacity today.
The climate movement has spent decades rewarding allies. The next several decades should be spent adding more. Politics follows incentives more than information. If we want Republicans to lead on addressing climate change or at least become those allies, we must stop just trying to persuade them and start investing in the institutions, incentives, and people that make it possible.