Heroes or Just Good at PR? – Part 4: Andrew Jackson
The Man Who Treated America Like a Rental Car

Andrew Jackson is the type of person history books don’t know what to do with. Half the country builds statues of him, and the other half dreams about knocking them down. Honestly, both sides make sense.

Born in 1767 in a log cabin that sounds charming but probably smelled like sadness and wet wood. His dad died before he was born. His mom died when he was just a kid. Life handed him grief, anger, and the emotional stability of a broken vending machine. By 13, he was already fighting wars. At 14, he was a prisoner, getting slashed by a British officer for refusing to clean boots. That scar didn’t just stay on his face—it sunk deep into his personality. That one moment whispered, “This kid is going to wreck everything he touches and smile while doing it.”

Later, he became a lawyer, a war hero, and the kind of guy who shoots people in duels but gets called brave. He owned a plantation filled with enslaved people. His résumé basically said: start fights, buy land, buy humans, become president. Confidence wasn’t his problem—stopping him was ours.

He famously won the Battle of New Orleans after the war had already ended. He knew the fight was pointless but did it anyway. That’s the first clue. Anyone who wins fame from fights nobody needs usually ends up in history books for all the wrong reasons.

When Jackson entered the White House, he didn’t unpack a plan. He unpacked revenge. He was America’s first true “burn-it-all-down” leader. Think of him as a guy who rents a nice apartment, breaks everything, and then calls it improvement. He destroyed systems, traditions, and even entire cultures. His biggest “achievement” was the Indian Removal Act. He called it progress. That’s like a thief stealing your wallet and telling you, “I’m teaching you financial responsibility.” Entire Native tribes were forced off their land. Jackson said it was for their own good—just what toxic people say right before ruining your life.

Then came the Trail of Tears. Thousands forced to walk miles in freezing cold with no food, no shelter, and no reason besides greed dressed as patriotism. It wasn’t a trail. It was an open grave. Jackson didn’t just know—he simply didn’t care.

He proudly owned a plantation called The Hermitage, home to over 150 enslaved people. He profited from their suffering, built his legacy on their backs, yet history remembers his name and forgets theirs.

Jackson hated the national bank for being too powerful, too elite—so he destroyed it. Did he replace it with something better? Nope. Jackson’s logic was simple: If I don’t like it, I’ll burn it. That’s not leadership; it’s just a tantrum wearing a suit.

He ignored the Supreme Court when they tried to stop him, basically saying, “You can’t ground me, you’re not my real dad.” Sound familiar? History loves reruns. Donald Trump later tried the same move, ignoring laws and judges, treating democracy like a video game where rules are optional. Same script, just worse grammar.

Psychologically, Jackson was every angry social media comment turned human. He didn’t believe in boundaries. He believed in power. If he had a bumper sticker, it would read: “I’m not wrong. You’re just weak.” That kind of mindset never dies—it just finds new hosts.

Philosophically, Jackson was a warning pretending to be a hero. He showed how easily cruelty gets applause when it dresses like strength. He didn’t build a better nation; he built a bigger image of himself and sold it as patriotism.

And people bought it. They reelected him. They called him the voice of the common man—but only if you looked like him, voted like him, and stayed quiet. Everyone else got silence. Or worse.

Instead of burying his legacy, we put him on the $20 bill. That’s like hanging your ex’s picture on your wall because they taught you what red flags look like. Jackson shaped history but also shaped trauma, and now we exchange paper reminders of it every day.

Here’s something to think about: why do we remember the scar on his face but not the countless scars he caused? If hurting thousands makes you powerful, and power makes you a hero, then what does it say about us? Are we clapping for the man or the fantasy he sold? If history is a selfie, who’s behind the camera?