In September 2025, activist Charlie Kirk was assassinated while speaking at a Utah campus event. His death was shocking — not only for its brutality, but because it showed that political violence is not just a relic of the past or a threat on the horizon. It is part of our national identity. Today’s surge in violence follows patterns we’ve seen before. Let’s take a look at that history.
When Pope Alexander VI issued the Doctrine of Discovery in 1493, he gave theological and legal cover for European conquest of lands already inhabited by indigenous people. These papal bulls declared non-Christian peoples “less than” and their lands open for seizure. This was more than a geopolitical maneuver — it embedded into the Western imagination a belief in the inherent supremacy of some over others.
When the United States was founded nearly three centuries later, the Founders carried this worldview with them. In the Constitution, they enshrined compromises that upheld racial hierarchy:
- The 3/5 Compromise gave enslavers disproportionate power by counting enslaved people as partial humans.
- The Fugitive Slave Clause treated Black people as property to be returned.
- Indigenous sovereignty was denied, laying the groundwork for forced removal and massacres.
These legal structures weren’t neutral. They authorized violence: slave patrols, lynchings, Native removals enforced by militias, and the steady expansion of “whiteness” as the standard of belonging.
That seed has borne bitter fruit for centuries. In the United States, political violence has always been part of enforcing this hierarchy.
- In 1837, abolitionist editor Elijah Lovejoy was murdered by a pro-slavery mob for daring to print against bondage.
- After emancipation, the Colfax Massacre (1873) and the Wilmington coup (1898) used terror to crush Black political power during and after Reconstruction.
- Native peoples were targeted in state-sanctioned violence, culminating in the Wounded Knee Massacre (1890).
- In the 20th century, racial violence surged whenever Black communities flourished. The Tulsa Race Massacre (1921) destroyed “Black Wall Street,” while the Red Summer of 1919 saw dozens of cities erupt in white mob violence.
- The Civil Rights Movement was met with assassinations and bombings: Medgar Evers (1963), the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing (1963), the murders of James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner (1964), and of course, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. (1968).
- White supremacist violence continued into our own time: the Greensboro Massacre (1979), the murder of Denver talk show host Alan Berg (1984), and mass shootings in Charleston (2015), Pittsburgh (2018), El Paso (2019), Buffalo (2022), and Allen, Texas (2023).
Across four centuries, violence has been used to enforce the same hierarchy: the supremacy of some over others.
We often think of white supremacy as something “out there,” belonging only to extremists. But if we are honest, we must ask: Where does it live inside us? In our unspoken fears, in the reflex to protect what is “ours,” in the subtle hierarchies we accept as normal. To live in peace, we must do the hard work of rooting it out of our own hearts and minds.
What we all yearn for is simple: a dignified life. A way to live securely, peacefully, and in community with one another. That dignity cannot be built on the subjugation of others — it can only grow in soil where all belong.
Steps Forward
My heart yearns for a peaceful world where our society is based in convenient, life-affirming systems. Our current society has deep roots in a hierarchy of human value and we have yet to break free. Our liberation depends upon us doing so. Here are things everyone can do:
- Tell the truth about our history. Remember the massacres, lynchings, and assassinations not as isolated tragedies but as a continuous thread.
- Examine our own complicity. Where do supremacy-based assumptions show up in our daily lives, in how we see neighbors, or strangers?
- Practice dignity. Uphold it in how we speak, how we act, how we shape institutions.
- Create new norms. From local communities to national politics, insist on policies and practices that make space for everyone to thrive.
The arc of violence will not bend toward peace on its own. It requires all of us, together, to name the roots, pull them up, and choose a different inheritance.
The Roots of America’s Violence was first published on Debilyn Molineaux's substack platform and was republished with permission.
Debilyn Molineaux is a storyteller, collaborator & connector. For 20 years, she led cross-partisan organizations. She currently holds several roles, including catalyst for JEDIFutures.org and podcast host of Terrified Nation. She also works with the Center for Collaborative Democracy, which is home to the Grand Bargain Project as a way to unify Americans by getting unstuck on six big issues, all at the same time. She previously co-founded BridgeAlliance, Living Room Conversations, and the National Week of Conversation. You can learn more about her work on LinkedIn.
A golden tray sits on the Resolute Desk as President Donald Trump speaks during an announcement on American nuclear innovation in the Oval Office at the White House on July 24, 2026, in Washington, D.C. Trump is signing multiple executive orders targeting the nuclear energy sector and easing rules for new reactors and nuclear fuel supply chains.
Trump’s hubris rivals the fallen heroes of ancient Greek mythology
In January, the New York Times asked President Donald Trump if there were any limits on his global powers.
“Yeah,” the president responded, “there is one thing. My own morality. My own mind. It’s the only thing that can stop me.”
That was eight months ago, but fortunately Christopher Nolan’s blockbuster adaptation of “The Odyssey” has made ancient Greek literature newly relevant. Before that window closes, I’d like to talk about hubris.
Today, the term mostly means excessive pride or arrogance. That’s part of what the Greeks meant by it too, but the meaning was a bit richer and more specific. Hubris was an insolent or outrageous act that offended the gods, often because the transgressor was claiming abilities or authorities that solely belonged to supreme beings.
Nolan renamed and slightly modified the concept of xenia for the film, calling it “Zeus’ law.” In the director’s telling, mortals should follow the rules laid out by the gods, specifically the requirement to treat strangers with respect lest they be gods in disguise.
In a sense, hubris is the opposite, or at least the rejection, of xenia. The hubris of the suitors, and at times Odysseus himself, invites punishment by the gods and their mortal instruments.
Which brings me back to Donald Trump. His claim that there are no constraints on his personal power to dictate events on the global stage was one of the greatest expressions of hubris ever uttered by a political leader.
Trump’s claim was obviously false when he made it.
He vowed that he could end the Russia-Ukraine war in 24 hours. He’s proved powerless to make that happen. If he had divine powers to work his will, why would he have balked at implementing his tariffs so often that Wall Street adopted the “TACO trade” term for his deals? “TACO” stands for “Trump always chickens out.”
And why would Trump have made so many embarrassing concessions to China — from rescinding tariffs on Chinese goods to allowing them to buy crucial and incredibly valuable computer chips?
But Trump saw his success at capturing Venezuelan strongman Nicolas Maduro as proof of his ability to launch missiles to the same effect as Zeus’ lightning bolts. Trump believed he was the most powerful man who ever lived.
This is no exaggeration. In March, when the Iran invasion seemed successful, Trump gave a document penned by“Presidential Historian David King” to New York Times reporters Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan purporting to prove that Trump was “the most powerful person to have EVER walked this planet.” King was, in fact, a businessman and occasional caddy for legendary golfer Gary Player.
King compared Trump favorably to many of history’s most powerful, and often heinous, figures: Alexander the Great, Attila the Hun, William the Conqueror, Napoleon Bonaparte, Joseph Stalin, Genghis Khan, Mao Tse Tung, Adolf Hitler and Vladimir Lenin. Many of these men thought they were the most powerful person in the world, too. And many were defeated precisely because they believed it.
At least Napoleon and Hitler had a string of truly impressive victories before they learned the folly of hubris. The limits on Trump’s power have been exposed by far less august forces than the combined might of the allies in World War II or the fearsome Russian winter.
Iran is a comparatively middling power. But the regime’s ability to absorb punishment while imposing its will on the Strait of Hormuz has proved to be a greater constraint on Trump’s power than his morality or mind. We should note that, at least rhetorically, his morality has not proved much of a constraint. He has repeatedly promised to destroy Iranian “civilization” if the regime refuses to capitulate.
But they haven’t — and won’t anytime soon — because the regime’s tolerance for pain far outstrips Trump’s. The combined fear of skyrocketing oil prices, outrage of Gulf state potentates, diminishing weapon supplies and domestic unpopularity is doing the work that international law, congressional oversight and the collective opinion of foreign policy experts can’t or won’t do.
If I considered Trump more heroic than reason and facts could allow, I would say his Sisyphean predicament has the whiff of Greek tragedy to it. Trump is vexed by the fact that the Iranians won’t honor deals or ratify his countless premature claims of victory — giving new meaning to his vow that his presidency would make people tired of winning. It’s almost like they’re out-Trumping Trump.
Things might have gone better if he’d heeded that great Greek tragedian Sophocles: “For Zeus utterly abhors the boasts of a proud tongue.”
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Jonah Goldberg is editor-in-chief of The Dispatch and the host of The Remnant podcast. His Twitter handle is @JonahDispatch.