Democrats Demand Jan. 6 Plaque—But Is It Just More Political Theater?

Paul Riverbank, 1/6/2026Democrats seek a Jan. 6 memorial plaque—amid controversy over remembrance, politics, and fading public memory.

It’s not for lack of trying. In 2022, Congress passed a bill requiring the installation of a plaque that would honor the law enforcement officers who pushed back against rioters as lawmakers evacuated. The marker was meant as a tribute, listing the names of those who stood on the frontlines, protecting both the building and the democratic process within it. Its inscription would have spoken of “extraordinary individuals” and recognized steadfast service—if only anyone could read it today. Yet the law’s one-year deadline has now come and gone, and the plaque itself remains out of sight, its precise whereabouts unclear.

Inside the Capitol’s grand corridors, echoes of January 6th have faded. There are no visible reminders on the iconic west front—the spot where police and rioters clashed most fiercely. Instead, guests shuffle past brass-lined doors and through silent halls, with no hint that the citadel of American democracy was ever under siege. In the absence of an official marker, some lawmakers have taken matters into their own hands: nearly a hundred—almost all Democrats—have taped replicas of the missing plaque outside their offices. These make-do memorials offer a silent protest, or perhaps a plea, against forgetting. “That’s why memorials matter,” says Rep. Mary Gay Scanlon (D-Pa.), who keeps one such copy by her door. “They are about respect—respecting what happened and everyone who risked so much.”

But for officers who bore the brunt of that day’s violence, the continued delay cuts deeper than politics. Harry Dunn and Daniel Hodges, both of whom faced rioters head-on, turned to the courts this year, alleging that Congress’s inaction is less an oversight than a quiet attempt to rewrite history. Their lawsuit argues that stalling the marker’s installation only erases the struggle of that day. On the other side, the Trump administration’s Justice Department has moved to have the case dismissed, insisting that simply authorizing the plaque fulfills the obligation—whether or not the marker is visible to the public.

The stakes aren’t lost on those who lived through the event. Five people died, and more than 140 officers suffered injuries. Trauma from that day lingered, too: several officers would later die by suicide. Federal prosecutions cast a wide net, charging more than a thousand individuals in the largest criminal investigation the Justice Department has ever undertaken.

Public memory, however, doesn’t always keep pace with history. It’s easy—maybe even tempting—for societies to slowly smooth over jagged days. Talk to lawmakers and staff now, and several point out that while there are public signals for other national tragedies—think the beams of light for September 11th or the symbolic empty chairs in Oklahoma City—Jan. 6th, so far, has no such anchor. The Capitol, for all its ceremony, lacks any tangible signpost for the day when windows shattered and barricades fell.

One lawmaker who has made preservation of Jan. 6th’s memory a personal mission is Rep. Joe Morelle (D-N.Y.). He spearheaded the effort to put up those unofficial marker placards. “Pretending it didn’t happen—history will always push back,” he says. “You can’t just store away the evidence of a crisis and expect it to go unnoticed.” He and others warn that the longer the absence drags on, the greater the risk that future generations won’t grasp the gravity of that Wednesday afternoon.

The divide over how to remember grows sharper as the anniversary recedes. The bipartisan language of those first few days—when both Republicans and Democrats condemned the violence—has all but evaporated. Today, the two parties rarely gather together to mark the date. Democrats plan to recall the moment with a committee hearing spotlighting threats to elections, while Republican leadership has hinted at launching a counter-investigation, focused more on process than remembrance. No one expects the two commemorations to overlap.

The unresolved question lingers: Will January 6th settle into the national memory alongside dates like December 7th and September 11th, instantly recognizable shorthand for a day when the country changed? Or will it fade—becoming, in the words of historian Douglas Brinkley, “a weird one-off” that loses its resonance as time pushes forward?

Rep. Jamie Raskin (D-Md.), a member of the Jan. 6 committee and a constitutional scholar himself, advocates for educational initiatives—Capitol tours that would tell the unvarnished story to students and visitors. “We’re responsible, not just for remembering, but for teaching,” he says. “If we don’t tell what happened—if there’s no transparency, no marker—then we risk mistakes repeating.”

Today, the Capitol halls are quiet, the patchwork memorials posted by staffers’ doors an understated counterpoint to the lingering void. Whether those temporary tributes transform into something more permanent, or the story of that day gradually slips from view, remains unsettled. In the end, the absence itself leaves a message—a reminder that public memory, like democracy, needs tending. Unmarked, the space where the plaque ought to be is its own lesson, asking not just what we remember, but how—and for how long.

There’s a curious absence at the U.S. Capitol that visitors rarely notice. Near the entrance, amid all the marble, statuary, and bustle, there’s nothing to mark the day chaos spilled onto those historic grounds in January 2021—no sign, no plaque, no official memorial. The story of that day sits tucked away, its commemoration consigned, perhaps temporarily, to a storage room somewhere behind locked doors.It’s not for lack of trying. In 2022, Congress passed a bill requiring the installation of a plaque that would honor the law enforcement officers who pushed back against rioters as lawmakers evacuated. The marker was meant as a tribute, listing the names of those who stood on the frontlines, protecting both the building and the democratic process within it. Its inscription would have spoken of “extraordinary individuals” and recognized steadfast service—if only anyone could read it today. Yet the law’s one-year deadline has now come and gone, and the plaque itself remains out of sight, its precise whereabouts unclear.Inside the Capitol’s grand corridors, echoes of January 6th have faded. There are no visible reminders on the iconic west front—the spot where police and rioters clashed most fiercely. Instead, guests shuffle past brass-lined doors and through silent halls, with no hint that the citadel of American democracy was ever under siege. In the absence of an official marker, some lawmakers have taken matters into their own hands: nearly a hundred—almost all Democrats—have taped replicas of the missing plaque outside their offices. These make-do memorials offer a silent protest, or perhaps a plea, against forgetting. “That’s why memorials matter,” says Rep. Mary Gay Scanlon (D-Pa.), who keeps one such copy by her door. “They are about respect—respecting what happened and everyone who risked so much.”But for officers who bore the brunt of that day’s violence, the continued delay cuts deeper than politics. Harry Dunn and Daniel Hodges, both of whom faced rioters head-on, turned to the courts this year, alleging that Congress’s inaction is less an oversight than a quiet attempt to rewrite history. Their lawsuit argues that stalling the marker’s installation only erases the struggle of that day. On the other side, the Trump administration’s Justice Department has moved to have the case dismissed, insisting that simply authorizing the plaque fulfills the obligation—whether or not the marker is visible to the public.The stakes aren’t lost on those who lived through the event. Five people died, and more than 140 officers suffered injuries. Trauma from that day lingered, too: several officers would later die by suicide. Federal prosecutions cast a wide net, charging more than a thousand individuals in the largest criminal investigation the Justice Department has ever undertaken.Public memory, however, doesn’t always keep pace with history. It’s easy—maybe even tempting—for societies to slowly smooth over jagged days. Talk to lawmakers and staff now, and several point out that while there are public signals for other national tragedies—think the beams of light for September 11th or the symbolic empty chairs in Oklahoma City—Jan. 6th, so far, has no such anchor. The Capitol, for all its ceremony, lacks any tangible signpost for the day when windows shattered and barricades fell.One lawmaker who has made preservation of Jan. 6th’s memory a personal mission is Rep. Joe Morelle (D-N.Y.). He spearheaded the effort to put up those unofficial marker placards. “Pretending it didn’t happen—history will always push back,” he says. “You can’t just store away the evidence of a crisis and expect it to go unnoticed.” He and others warn that the longer the absence drags on, the greater the risk that future generations won’t grasp the gravity of that Wednesday afternoon.The divide over how to remember grows sharper as the anniversary recedes. The bipartisan language of those first few days—when both Republicans and Democrats condemned the violence—has all but evaporated. Today, the two parties rarely gather together to mark the date. Democrats plan to recall the moment with a committee hearing spotlighting threats to elections, while Republican leadership has hinted at launching a counter-investigation, focused more on process than remembrance. No one expects the two commemorations to overlap.The unresolved question lingers: Will January 6th settle into the national memory alongside dates like December 7th and September 11th, instantly recognizable shorthand for a day when the country changed? Or will it fade—becoming, in the words of historian Douglas Brinkley, “a weird one-off” that loses its resonance as time pushes forward?Rep. Jamie Raskin (D-Md.), a member of the Jan. 6 committee and a constitutional scholar himself, advocates for educational initiatives—Capitol tours that would tell the unvarnished story to students and visitors. “We’re responsible, not just for remembering, but for teaching,” he says. “If we don’t tell what happened—if there’s no transparency, no marker—then we risk mistakes repeating.”Today, the Capitol halls are quiet, the patchwork memorials posted by staffers’ doors an understated counterpoint to the lingering void. Whether those temporary tributes transform into something more permanent, or the story of that day gradually slips from view, remains unsettled. In the end, the absence itself leaves a message—a reminder that public memory, like democracy, needs tending. Unmarked, the space where the plaque ought to be is its own lesson, asking not just what we remember, but how—and for how long.