In light of recent geopolitical tensions and the increasingly erratic decisions coming out of Washington, I’ve decided to embark on a personal boycott of American goods. It’s not exactly the Boston Tea Party, but it’s my little act of resistance against a nation seemingly more focused on division and dominance than diplomacy and decency.
Donald Trump’s America has adopted an unmistakably isolationist posture. The tariffs, which began as economic bravado, have spiralled into a trade war that is hitting consumers and markets across the globe. Designed to compel Americans to “Buy American”, these policies ignore the reality that the US trade deficit is largely the product of its own insatiable consumerism. Now the rest of us are paying the price.
Elsewhere, people are beginning to push back. Canada and Denmark, for instance, have embraced their own brand of protest. In Canada, holiday bookings to the US have plunged. Shelves once home to Jack Daniels and Budweiser now sit empty or stocked with local options. Apps like Maple Scan help Canadian consumers avoid American products. Across the Atlantic, Denmark’s Salling Group is helping shoppers spot European-made goods with black star symbols. Some retailers have even stopped stocking Hershey’s chocolate and Cheetos — which, let’s be honest, is hardly a culinary loss.
The Danes are well versed in boycott culture. When McDonald’s attempted to gain a foothold in 1981, the Danish trade unions orchestrated such an effective resistance that truckers and construction workers simply refused to engage with the chain. It was, quite frankly, a masterclass in grassroots obstruction.
Here in Britain, though, the question looms: should we follow suit? Trump hasn’t tried to annex Cornwall (yet), but our trade relations are souring. The UK faces a looming 10 per cent tariff — 25 per cent on cars — regardless of our prime minister’s best efforts to cosy up. With no sign of resistance from our political class, it falls on us, the people, to act.
At first, the idea of a boycott felt excessive. I have family in the States, deep connections, fond memories. But then the news came in: ICE detaining British tourists like Rebecca Burke, student activists disappearing without trace, deportations to super-prisons. I suddenly felt complicit by default.
So I made a start. Oreos? Gone. Pringles? Binned. I’ve never had much time for American cheese anyway. Nike, McDonald’s, Burger King, Levi’s — easily avoided. Heinz is trickier, but plenty of British ketchup options exist. Boots’ ownership by Walgreens is unsettling, but Superdrug is a fine substitute. Every purchase now becomes a small political act, a personal referendum.
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But of course, the line gets blurry. Technology is a major sticking point. My iPhone and MacBook — both still functional — are products I can’t simply cast aside. Replacing them would be wasteful, not to mention financially impractical. What about Microsoft Office, Zoom, Gmail? Should I retreat entirely from the digital world just to prove a point?
Streaming services pose another dilemma. My job as a culture journalist requires access to Netflix, Apple TV+, Amazon Prime, Disney+ — all quintessentially American. I could boycott these, but I’d also be boycotting my livelihood. And frankly, I’m not ready to trade Succession for reruns of Midsomer Murders.
The truth is, American cultural dominance makes a total boycott almost impossible. Perhaps that’s part of the design — globalisation as soft power, American-style. But while I can’t completely disentangle myself, I can withdraw from what’s easiest to reject. No more fast food chains or fizzy drinks. No more impulse Amazon buys. I’ll support local businesses, drink French wine, and celebrate European alternatives.
And until the tide turns in Washington, I’ll stay away from their borders, and keep resisting where I can — even if I still need to reply to emails.
