Barbara Walter is a political scientist and professor at the University of California San Diego who specializes in studying civil wars. She joins Braver Angels CMO Ciaran O'Connor for a wide-ranging conversation on the current state of political violence in the United States, what America can learn from civil conflicts in other countries, and how we, together as citizens, can take a stand for peace.
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The Rings and the Great Debate
Jun 13, 2026
When John and Mary Ring arrived in Will County, they stepped into a world unlike anything they had known. The prairie was crowded with newcomers — Germans, Irish, Scots, English, Scandinavians — each carrying their own languages, faiths, customs, and grievances. It was a noisy, fluid, sometimes volatile mix of people who had nothing in common except the simple fact that they were here. And yet, in that crowded field of difference, the Rings recognized something essential: their survival depended on finding common ground. They didn’t have to agree with everyone. They didn’t have to like everyone. But they understood that in this new American world, no group could elevate itself above the others without consequence. The only way forward was together. This was their first lesson in American identity.
What they did not expect was the media. The American press of the 1850s was loud, partisan, explosive, and central to the political fracture that would soon tear the nation apart. Newspapers were not neutral conveyors of information — they were engines of identity, outrage, and mobilization. Every faction had its own paper. Every paper had its own truth. For immigrants like the Rings, it was disorienting. Had they escaped one form of chaos only to land in another? But instead of judging, they discerned. They listened. They watched. They learned to separate noise from signal. And in that cacophony, a voice began to rise.
The Rings were Irish to their core. They carried in their bones the memory of subjugation, famine, and the long shadow of British rule. They knew what it meant to be exploited for economic gain. They knew what it meant to be treated as less than fully human. So when the great American debate over slavery intensified, they did not hesitate. Their sympathies aligned with the Union — not out of politics, but out of lived experience. The Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights — these were not abstractions to them. They were promises. Promises that the injustices of their homeland would not be repeated here. They believed in those promises with the fervor of people who had once been denied them.
Word spread of a man whose speeches were being printed verbatim in the papers. A man whose arguments were clear, measured, and grounded in respect for the common person. A man who spoke in a way the Rings understood instinctively. Abraham Lincoln. They had never seen him, but they recognized themselves in his words. He articulated what they felt but could not yet name: that America was still becoming, and that its becoming required moral clarity. The Lincoln–Douglas debates of 1858 crystallized everything. Two Illinoisans, standing on makeshift platforms, arguing the future of the nation — slavery, the western territories, the meaning of the founding documents, the fate of the Union. The Rings leaned in. They listened. And they chose.
When Lincoln’s train rolled through Joliet after his nomination, the Rings felt the ground shift. The Union was fracturing. War was coming. Their foothold in this new land was still shaky, but their principles were not. They stood with the Union. Not because it was easy. Not because it was safe. But because they knew — in the marrow of their bones — that the times demanded it. They had crossed an ocean for a chance at dignity. They would not abandon that chance now.
Even as the nation tore itself apart, Lincoln insisted on building. He supported the construction of the Capitol Rotunda during the war — a symbolic act that declared: this is our shared heritage; this is our democracy; this will endure. The Rings understood that instinct. It matched their own. And when the Homestead Act passed in 1862, they saw their opening. Even in hardship, even in uncertainty, even in war — they would build. They claimed land. They worked it. They built a community with neighbors who were nothing like them. They forged an American identity rooted not in sameness, but in shared responsibility. This was the frontier version of the exhausted majority: people who chose cooperation over division because their lives depended on it.
Amid all this, one object captured their new identity. A piece of Civil War–era civic identity, cast in elegant Victorian pewter, shaped like an oversized coffee pot. Decorative, symbolic, aspirational. It cost more than they should have spent. But they bought it anyway. Because it said everything they believed — hope, dignity, belonging, aspiration, allegiance, the promise of America. They valued it as highly as the land they farmed. And they intended it to outlive them. That pewter coffee pot sits with me now. A living voice across generations. A symbol of who they were — and who they believed we could become.
John and Mary Ring did more than endure their times. They shaped them. They built a way of being that embraced difference as strength. They held fast to principles when the nation shook. They chose the Union not because it was perfect, but because it was right. They believed in America enough to build it — even when America was breaking. Their story is not nostalgia. It is an instruction. And in our own fractured moment, their example is a reminder: we become Americans not by agreeing, but by building together. We inherit the Union by choosing it.
Patrick Fitzgerald is a Buffalo-based writer whose work explores civic responsibility, community life, and the quiet virtues that hold people together. Raised in the Midwest and shaped by the steadiness of farm communities, he writes about proportion, neighborliness, and the shared duties that form the backbone of American civic life. His essays draw on lived experience, family lineage, and a deep sense of place to offer readers a grounded, reflective perspective on how we can rebuild trust in one another.
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The Optimistic American Dream
Jun 13, 2026
As part of a collaboration between The Fulcrum's NextGen initiative and Made By Us, The Fulcrum is publishing Letters to America, a series created through the Youth250 project that invites Gen Z to reflect on the nation’s past, present, and future as the United States approaches its 250th anniversary.
Dear America,
I write to you as our Founding Fathers once wrote to one another. Though such language has long since fallen from ordinary use, I find it fitting as thou approachest thy two hundred and fiftieth year, it is no small thing for a nation to endure so long, nor to survive the many human atrocities and reckonings that have marked its course. Yet perhaps the greatest testament to your endurance is not that you have remained unchanged, but that you have possessed the capacity to change at all.
I write to you as a Black woman, conscious always that when this Republic was first conceived, the blessings of liberty so eloquently proclaimed were not intended for people such as myself. The Constitution spoke of freedom while millions remained in bondage. The language of equality existed beside systems of exclusion and human suffering. And yet, through centuries of struggle, protest, amendment, and sacrifice, the promises once reserved for a narrow few have gradually expanded to encompass more of the American people. It is within this paradox that my patriotism resides.
For I cannot regard America merely as she was. I regard this nation as an unfinished covenant between principles and practice, forever demanding the labor of each succeeding generation. The American experiment has endured because there have always been citizens willing to insist that this country live more honestly in accordance with its own ideals, thereby improving them.
James Baldwin once observed, “I love America more than any other country in the world and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.” To criticize one’s country is not to betray it, but to participate in its preservation. Blind reverence has never strengthened a republic. It is the vigilant citizen, the questioning voice, and the dissatisfied reformer who safeguard democracy against complacency.
The Constitution itself bears great meaning to me for this very reason. Though imperfect in its original application, it established principles capable of growth and reinterpretation. Through amendment and civic struggle, generations of Americans transformed constitutional promises into more tangible realities. That I may now participate in public service by lending my voice to the governance of my community is itself evidence of democratic progress. Thus, what must change is America’s willingness to extend its protections more equitably. The nation must invest anew in the welfare of its people, in education, civic participation, economic opportunity, and the restoration of public trust. Democracy cannot survive as a distant abstraction. It must be experienced materially in the daily lives of ordinary citizens. Still, I remain hopeful.
I remain hopeful because the history of the United States is one of correction. Every generation has inherited a nation flawed by injustice yet capable of reform. Those who came before me marched, organized, voted, and sacrificed so that someone like me might one day stand firmly with the “American story”. Their labor compels me toward optimism rather than despair.
And so, as you approach your two hundred and fiftieth year, I hope America continues the difficult task of becoming more fully herself. I hope she grows in wisdom. I hope she measures success not by wealth alone, but by the dignity afforded to her people. Above all, I hope she continues expanding the boundaries of belonging until the promises first written at her founding are experienced as rights secured for all.
For despite every contradiction contained within thy history, I still believe in thy potential.
Best,
Jon’Nae Sylvester, 23, New Orleans, LA
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Crowds fill the street during an Americana Fair on 52nd Street in the borough of Manhattan, New York City, New York, 20th June 1976.
(TNS)
America was much more of a mess at the bicentennial than it is today
Jun 13, 2026
As we approach the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, America is in a pretty foul mood, and I understand why. For starters, Washington is broken, prices are high and rising, and AI is scaring the stuffing out of people.
Understanding, however, is not synonymous with agreement. In other words, some complaints about America in 2026 have more empirical weight than others. Crime may be too high, but it’s been going down for a while.
Actually, let’s start there because crime is a good example of how perceptions don’t necessarily reflect reality.
Since 2000, writes Gallup’s polling guru Frank Newport, “Americans’ views of the seriousness of crime nationwide … have averaged 43 percentage points higher than their views of local crime.” People tend to think crime is much worse wherever they don’t live. Although nearly half of Americans think crime is a very serious issue in America, only about 1 in 10 think it’s a big deal in their cities and towns.
But the “where” is often less of an issue than the “when.” I was a little kid in New York City a half-century ago during the celebration of the bicentennial. Crime there and then, was much worse than today. The homicide rate was five times higher. In 1976, the Big Apple, with a million fewer people, saw 1,622 murders (slightly down from 1,645 in 1975). In 2025, NYC saw 309 murders. So far, in 2026, murders are down about 25% from the same point in 2025.
But it’s not just crime. Surveys routinely find that Americans think the country is in much worse shape than they are personally. Even when large majorities of Americans say the nation is in a bad way, equally large majorities say they’re personally doing OK. Last year, a Federal Reserve survey found that only about a quarter of Americans thought the economy was doing well. But about three-quarters said they were personally doing OK. Education in America routinely gets a failing grade, while the same graders often say education in their community is pretty good.
There are understandable reasons for this disconnect. What we think about the country is often filtered through the media (mainstream, partisan and social — all of which have a bad news bias). Also, our perceptions are shaded by ideological commitments. Meanwhile, what we think about our own life is experienced firsthand.
And then there’s nostalgia, which literally means homesickness, but homesickness for the past.
Fifty years ago, America was in many respects much more of a mess than it is today. Inflation, gas lines, crime, unemployment, political violence, race relations, geopolitical tensions — including the just concluded Vietnam War — were not the stuff of a golden age.
And yet, many Americans tell pollsters we were better off 50 years ago. But here’s the thing, lots of people always think things were better 50 years ago. It has been that way since the dawn of polling. What makes people think the past was better isn’t a careful study of statistics, but a lazy inventory of feelings and a lazier outsourcing to media vibes. This tendency didn’t begin with polling, the polling just made it easier to quantify the pull of nostalgia.
Ironically, the “system” so many people — on the left, right and in the middle — heap scorn on for failing the current generation fuels this malaise. Political demagogues, activists, journalists and big corporations seek to exploit or monetize the natural human tendency to pine for simpler, happier times. The Roman poet Horace had a term for such people nearly 2,000 years ago: laudator temporis acti— “a praiser of times past when he was a boy.”
None of this is to say that Americans don’t have real problems. We obviously do (starting with the fact we have a laudator temporis acti in the White House). The problem comes when we think that the easy solutions to those problems can be found by looking in the rearview mirror.
Pick any era and you can find things worthy of nostalgia. But you can also find plenty of things almost no one wants restored. For instance, the infant mortality rate was three times higher in 1976 and 13 times higher in 1926.
I’m a conservative, so I’m the first to concede that the past is worth remembering and studying. But if all you do is cherry-pick the good — real or alleged — while blinding yourself to the bad, you’re not studying the past. You’re grading the present against a past that never was.
Jonah Goldberg is editor-in-chief of The Dispatch and the host of The Remnant podcast. His Twitter handle is @JonahDispatch.
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In 2018, Sharice Davids and Deb Haaland became the first two Native American women elected to Congress. They are trailblazers from a long lineage of women whose ancestors were original inhabitants of the land that became America.
(Sarah Porter for The 19th; Getty Images, AP images)
The first Indigenous women in Congress carry a legacy older than American democracy itself
Jun 13, 2026
In the lead-up to our country’s 250th anniversary, Errin Haines is writing a series of columns to contemplate the complicated expansion of our democracy. Subscribe to The Amendment newsletter.
Nearly three months before the signing of the Declaration of Independence, Abigail Adams had a warning for her husband, John, one of its authors: Remember the ladies.
She wrote: “In the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make I desire that you would Remember the Ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. … Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could. If perticuliar care and attention is not paid to the Ladies we are determined to foment a Rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice or Representation.”
In her March 31, 1776, letter, Abigail Adams articulated a concern that is at the root of a contradiction America has wrestled with since its founding: The Declaration of Independence promised equal rights to all — but shaped access to power as a privilege bestowed on only a few.
Abigail Adams’ assertion linking basic human rights and shared power is a way to think about the American project and the paradox underlying a persistent critique of our democracy, said Harvard University political philosopher Danielle Allen, author of “Our Declaration: A Reading of the Declaration of Independence in Defense of Equality.”
What does it mean to be revolutionary today?
As the nation marks its 250th year, The 19th is asking a central question: What does it mean to be revolutionary today — and who should we recognize as the revolutionaries still fighting to have that question answered on equal terms? Explore this series.
“Respect for the dignity of others isn’t just about singing ‘Kumbaya,’” said Allen, whose teachings on the Declaration of Independence to university and night school students center on deepening their understanding of their own connection to our democracy. “It is about sharing power with others.”
There is perhaps no group of Americans who have been denied power in our democracy more than Native Americans. They are explicitly identified in the Declaration of Independence’s list of grievances as “inhabitants of our frontiers,” “merciless Indian savages” and “domestic insurrectionists” loyal to the King of Great Britain — the enemy, the oppressor.
Sharice Davids, who is also Kansas’ first LGBTQ+ member of Congress, is in her fourth term. (Michael Brochstein/SIPA/AP)
But Native American nations like the Catawba, Delaware and Oneida fought and scouted for the 13 colonies during the American Revolution. Their tribes practiced democracy on the land that would become America long before the existence of our country and its system of government.
They also served and sacrificed for our country well before the United States recognized them as citizens — and long before they were given their share of power.
In 2018, Sharice Davids, a member of the Ho-Chunk Nation, and Deb Haaland, who is part of the Laguna Pueblo tribe, became the first two Native American women elected to Congress. They are trailblazers from a long lineage of women whose ancestors were original inhabitants of the land that became America.
Their families follow in a tradition directly tied to the origin story of our nation’s independence and founding. Haaland’s father, a 30-year Marine combat veteran, received a Silver Star for his service in Vietnam and her mother worked for 25 years in the Bureau of Indian Affairs after serving in the Navy. Davids’ grandfather served in the Army for 23 years and her mother joined the Army after graduating from high school.
Since the Revolutionary War, Native Americans have served in every major U.S. conflict, even before they were recognized as citizens in 1924. Today, they serve in the United States Armed Forces at five times the national average — and have a higher concentration of women service members than all other demographic groups.
Davids said Native Americans have a “complex” relationship with the federal government. At home, her mother made sure she understood that and also embraced this country as her own. She used to say, “You can be mad about the past or have thoughts or opinions about it, but we all have to live here now; we’re all American,” Davids recalled.
“The biggest lesson from that was that you can be of service, and being of service doesn’t mean being oblivious. If there are things that I want to change, I have the opportunity to do that,” Davids said.
Davids, who is also Kansas’ first LGBTQ+ member of Congress, is in her fourth term. Haaland was the first Native American secretary of the Interior, and if elected in New Mexico this year, she would become the country’s first Native American woman governor.
Haaland said her journey to public service has been shaped by the legacy of her ancestors, one that has guided her to lead “with my values and my commitments to my community,” she said. As a congresswoman, she held the first House hearing on murdered and missing Indigenous women, who are three times more likely to be sexually assaulted during their lifetime. As Interior secretary, she ordered an investigation into federal Indian boarding schools, forcing the federal government to reckon with its painful history of policies designed to erase Native culture.
Deb Haaland was the first Native American secretary of the Interior, and if elected in New Mexico this year, she would become the country’s first Native American woman governor. (Drew Angerer/Getty Images)Davids’ approach to governing is also rooted in those who came before her and inspired in part by her time doing economic and community development work on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, where she lived among a tribe that was not her own. The experience “actually taught me a lot about what it means to build trust,” Davids recalled.
“It doesn’t just come from being able to identify with each other in terms of experiences. It’s also about showing up over and over and showing up ready to learn,” she said. “In my role as a member of Congress, my job is a lot of listening and not dictating to people what it is they should want or need. Instead, it’s more of building up trust.”
What Davids and Haaland have done is use their power in government — power that has long been denied to Native Americans in this country — to expand power for others.
“When you look at what service means,” Davids said, “it is like, how do I make the highest and best use of the skills and knowledge and time that I have to be of service to my community and my country?”
It is a practice built on endurance, even in the face of the federal government’s relentless efforts over decades to eradicate Native Americans — by taking their land, by taking their children to boarding school often miles away from their homes, by annihilating tribes.
“We’re still here,” Haaland said. “Nothing that the federal government did to break us apart and eradicate our tribes worked. Everything they tried to do to get rid of us failed.”
At the nation’s 250th anniversary, Native Americans, Haaland added, will “likely be out there celebrating the anniversary of our country with everyone else, right? Because this is our land, and they can’t separate us from it.”
Now is a moment for us to recognize Native Americans as revolutionaries — then and now — who are still the keepers and inhabitants of our democratic frontier.
The first Indigenous women in Congress carry a legacy older than American democracy itself was first published on The 19th and republished with permission.
Errin Haines is the editor-at-large at The 19th.
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