I used to believe that we live in a lovely, safe, and happy city. But President Trump recently pointed out that Boston is actually quite dangerous and unlivable, explaining that he might need to relocate the 2026 World Cup soccer matches from the Boston area for safety reasons. Now I’m seeing everything in a different light.

I stop and relax for a bit under a white oak tree in Copley Square. In clear view is the Boston Public Library with its Romanesque arches and bronze figures depicting the arts and sciences. I go inside and take a stroll in the open-air courtyard, quietly reflecting as I walk past the fountain and gaze at the murals and fresh florals. I’m thinking, what a hellhole of a city we live in.

I wander into the “No Kings” march on Boston Common, and police are clustering in one spot off to the side. They look bored. A hundred thousand people are protesting like proper Bostonians, lugging handmade signs including one that says “My Only King is David Ortiz.” No one’s agitating, and there are no arrests. But really, it’s terrifying to imagine the latent threat posed by these teachers, students, faith leaders, retirees, and others. Maybe Boston’s finest should spray around pepper balls and push people to the ground just to be safe.

I step out for some fresh air on Halloween night, and I’m confronted by mobs of teenagers, twenty-somethings, small children, parents, and grandparents, surging past storefronts in Jamaica Plain. A brass band appears out of nowhere, rocking out “The Monster Mash.” I walk by the noodle shop and notice a young couple leaving in a duo costume, matched as Tequila and Lime. I find all this absolutely horrifying.

I am dragged by friends to Dorchester’s Little Saigon, purportedly a bustling scene of culture and cuisine. We pass a Vietnamese community center and a Buddhist temple before arriving at our destination, a Pho place where there’s a line out the door. I peek inside and see patrons at a table laughing together with their purple-haired waitress. When we’re finally seated and served, the Pho Tai is fragrant and flavorful, and I wonder, where are the ICE agents when you need them?

And what’s the deal with these middle schoolers who take the T around town by themselves with their parents’ blessing? They’re like my kids and their friends and co-workers, cutting through the Common late at night and thinking nothing of it, just because they’ve never been threatened or harassed doing so. I think it’s fair to say that there’s an egregious lack of fear in the Boston citizenry.

I hop on my bike for the morning commute, pedaling through JP Center and into the Emerald Necklace. I ride from one park to another, alongside pedestrian paths, stone walls, and ponds, and past community art installations. Off the park trails, I count eight bakeries on my trek to Chestnut Hill and more than a dozen coffee shops, all of which are trafficking in sugary, fatty substances injurious to body and soul. I feel constrained to enter at least one of these establishments, and suddenly I’m consuming several times as many calories as I burn on the route. I now truly believe that the only way to remedy this situation would be to send 40,000 troops to Boston. What about that, Mr. President?