With the current bluster of our national political rhetoric—regardless of party—it doesn’t take much to feel off-balance or uninspired. The dizzying speed at which policies are announced, amended, and retracted leaves citizens scrambling. Jobs, programs, and federal funding are being cut. The opportunity for Americans to thoughtfully engage with complex issues, form informed opinions, and participate in meaningful national debate feels like a relic of the past.
The current administration appears to operate using a blitzkrieg strategy: keeping the public constantly reacting to a rotating cast of “urgent” problems—real or exaggerated—to distract and exhaust the populace. As attention is hijacked daily, citizens are left with fewer resources to challenge harmful legislation or push for meaningful reforms. According to the President, the end goal is to make America “very, very, very rich,” and thus “great again.”
It’s become popular to believe that reducing the size of government, expelling undocumented immigrants, bringing prayer back into schools, and renegotiating international trade will somehow restore a perfect society. Think Leave It to Beaver meets The Real Housewives of Washington D.C. But this rhetoric—this “strategy”—often obscures the deeper systemic issues we face. It rarely addresses institutional poverty, underfunded schools, overburdened teachers, or access to affordable healthcare—issues that directly affect millions. Lowering drug prices or removing transgender students from school bathrooms doesn’t equate to fixing our educational system. We have much bigger problems.
According to the Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA), U.S. students typically rank in the top 15–20 in reading, 18th–25th in science, and 30th–40th in mathematics. These statistics should alarm us, not be brushed aside in favor of culture war talking points.
A conservative might say, “Without business growth and jobs, nothing else matters!” Fair point—but only if that growth benefits the working and middle class. Too often, it does not. In my 65 years, I’ve watched national debt skyrocket, drug crises deepen, and healthcare become increasingly inaccessible. Insurance costs are rising, coverage is shrinking, and political discourse relies more on volume than substance.
Amid these frustrations, a personal revelation emerged during a genealogical deep dive. I discovered uncomfortable truths about my own family’s role in American history—truths tied to the displacement of Native Americans and the enslavement of Africans. These realizations raise a fundamental question: how do we move forward from such a legacy?
Last night, I watched a compelling documentary, Don’t Get Trouble in Your Mind: The Carolina Chocolate Drops Story. It follows three young African American musicians reviving the historical string-band traditions of the Carolinas. While it celebrated heritage, it notably didn’t dwell on slavery. That absence wasn’t denial—it was presence. It said: “We’re here. We know our history. We honor it. And we move forward.”
My family’s roots trace back to the early 1600s. My mother’s French ancestors settled in what is now Nova Scotia and later in Alabama and Louisiana. My father’s family, the Barlins, arrived from France in 1738 and settled in Memphis, Tennessee. Shockingly, both sides stayed in the South for over 400 years. They fought in the Revolutionary War (I’m related to Patrick Henry), acquired “Indian land” in Georgia, owned slaves, fought for the Confederacy, and lived through Reconstruction, segregation, and Jim Crow. It wasn’t until 1959—184 years after the Declaration of Independence—that my mother first spoke to me about equality.
While tracing my father’s lineage, I discovered that my 9th great-grandfather served as a colonial governor of Virginia. His father, Sir Dudley Digges, invested in The Virginia Company—created to profit from colonizing the New World. That was eye-opening: America, from the start, was a business venture. Colonization wasn’t about spiritual freedom. It was about money and power. And someone always paid the price.
To be clear: my European ancestors came for freedom, fleeing war and class oppression. Back in Europe, social mobility was rare. But here in America, ambition was unleashed—often cloaked in religion or “Manifest Destiny.” Andrew Jackson’s 1830 Indian Removal Act exemplifies this. Under it, over 20 million acres were seized from Native tribes. Between 1776 and 1887, the U.S. took over 1.5 billion acres from Indigenous people. Between 1619 and 1865, nearly 400,000 Africans were forcibly brought here as slaves.
This isn’t about being “woke.” It’s about being honest. The unequal distribution of wealth and opportunity in this country is a direct legacy of those decisions. We paper over it with phrases like “In God We Trust”—as if invoking divine authority justifies the status quo. Do those in power truly govern with biblical compassion and ethics? Does that match your experience?
The problems we face today—national debt, drug addiction (nearly 48 million users in 2023), mental illness (affecting 1 in 4 adults), global warming (the U.S. has contributed 17% since 1850), poverty (77% live paycheck to paycheck), and chronic disease (affecting nearly half the population)—are staggering. And we’ve normalized them. They sit in our living rooms like unwelcome guests we’ve decided to ignore.
The government’s massive military spending, combined with political disinformation, often prioritizes control and profit over people. “Make America Great Again”? What does “great” even mean? I appreciate efforts to bring back jobs and reduce illegal immigration. But greatness isn’t measured by wealth alone. It’s measured by humanity.
Consider Mali, once ruled by Mansa Musa—the wealthiest man in recorded history. He built a thriving cultural and educational center in Timbuktu. Today, Mali is riddled with poverty, slavery, extremism, and corruption. Money alone doesn’t make a nation strong. Ethical governance and social cohesion do.
Artificial Intelligence, quantum computing, and robotics will soon transform society. Will these forces be guided by ethics—or by greed? It’s a critical question. Because history has shown what happens when wealth and power go unchecked.
We know now that Native removal was wrong. Slavery was wrong. Internment of Japanese Americans during WWII was wrong. Systemic discrimination against Black, Hispanic, Asian, Jewish, LGBTQ+, and non-Christian Americans is wrong. If we’re going to invoke concepts like democracy, human rights, and justice for all, we must ensure they’re real—not just campaign slogans.
There can be parallel truths: a flawed President may lead a country filled with compassionate citizens. Economic hardship can coexist with great art and community spirit. But if our political and social foundations are hollow—driven by platitudes instead of principles—our society will crumble from within.
By 2030, AI could displace up to 45 million U.S. jobs. In an economy already dominated by a small elite, what will happen when labor is no longer needed? How did my ancestors justify their actions? Through religion and greed. We must not repeat that justification with modern technology.
I believe in capitalism and democracy. At their best, they empower people and protect rights. But the system only works when the rules are fair, and the benefits are shared. Our founders created checks and balances to prevent tyranny. Today, those checks are being undermined.
“Make America Great Again.” Do you believe America isn’t already great? I was fortunate to grow up safe, well-educated, and able to build a meaningful life. But that’s not everyone’s experience. Try finding opportunity in a housing project or on a reservation. Try being told you’re “less than” because of your race or gender.
I’ve heard people refer to “the Blacks” or “the Hispanics.” That language dehumanizes. Our leaders must speak with empathy, not ego. We need a language of we, not me.
I am deeply sorry for the sins of my ancestors and any harm they caused. Truth, when shared respectfully, can begin healing. If we stay stuck in the past, we lose the opportunity to love and grow in the present.
The American promise must include access to education, healthcare, healthy food, fair treatment under the law, and simple human kindness. Not everyone needs to be “rich and fabulous.” Most who claim to be are neither. What matters is finding beauty and dignity in every person we meet. We all deserve to live rich, creative, and meaningful lives.
Let’s choose love over fear. Giving over taking. Laughter over rage. That is what will make—and keep—America truly great.