Steve Pierson, an activist, community organizer, and the host of the “How We Win” podcast, joins Future Hindsight to discuss the nitty gritty of Get Out the Vote, phone banking, and a whole host of other boots on the ground politics as the midterm elections approach.
American Flag, Capitol building and the United States Constitution
Every lawyer admitted to practice in the United States takes a formal oath to support the Constitution and faithfully discharge the duties of the profession. In recent years, bar associations and courts around the country have held voluntary oath reaffirmation ceremonies, inviting lawyers to publicly renew their commitments and reaffirm the profession's responsibility to uphold the rule of law.
Between us, we have taken the oath eight times - having been admitted to practice law in six jurisdictions, across five states, and both having organized oath reaffirmation ceremonies in our respective Virginia hometowns.
Why would lawyers who hold law licenses stand in courthouses and take their oaths again?
To Reflect on our Commitment
What do our oaths ask of us?
Lawyers, of all people, know how to qualify obligations. We layer our clients’ contracts with conditions, exceptions, and standards. Yet our oaths contain none of these.
We promise to support the Constitution—no strings attached.
Different areas of practice reveal our obligations in different ways. For lawyers who support business transactions, the legal infrastructure is so dependable that it is easy to take for granted. Every commercial transaction rests on the assumption that contracts will be interpreted fairly and enforced by independent courts.
For others, the rule of law may arrive attached to a person. Someone calls with a problem. You think: I would really like to help.
Then the other thoughts come in. But the case won’t make money. It could be seen as political. This could upset powerful people in my community.
Sometimes the reasons not to get involved can seem to drown out your own ethical compass.
To Honor What We Inherited
As America reflects on the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, lawyers have a particular reason to consider what we have inherited and what we are responsible for preserving.
Of the 56 signers of the Declaration of Independence, 25 were lawyers - they risked charges of treason, carrying the punishment of death, to sign their names to the grievances against King George III. They still signed and pledged “[their] Lives, [their] Fortunes, and [their] sacred Honor.”
Preparing for the Harrisonburg-Rockingham Bar Association’s oath reaffirmation ceremony, president Nicole Faut (one of the co-authors of this article) highlighted the Association’s July 12, 1943 minutes. They recorded that the Association had 26 active members in 1942. After the United States entered World War II, more than 34 percent of Association members abandoned their practices and entered the service of their country—some going on to die in that service.
It is tempting to admire this country’s history from a safe distance behind a desk. The Association lawyers in 1943 did not know themselves as historical figures. Neither do we. They had practices. Clients. Families. They made choices without knowing how it would end, and so must we.
To Come Together
Today, we are witnessing attacks on the institutions charged with administering and maintaining our constitutional republic.
Just one example is the federal government using executive orders to punish law firms associated with disfavored lawyers or clients. Federal judges have repeatedly held those orders unconstitutional—and the federal government has been unperturbed.
The questions lawyers in the United States face today are critical: whether we can represent unpopular clients without governmental retaliation; whether courts can constrain executive action; and whether legal obligations remain obligations when power would prefer otherwise.
We must remember that the legal profession can enable abuses. Lawyers and judges in Nazi Germany helped bend legal institutions toward the regime through decrees, legislation, and reinterpretation. They helped give an increasingly lawless and brutal system the appearance of legitimacy.
But a profession acting together can also make resistance to attacks on our Constitution ordinary rather than heroic; rather like our oaths. Institutions - firms, bar associations, and other professional organizations - distribute courage. When the profession acts together to defend the rule of law, no individual lawyer must bear the entire cost of doing so alone - and seeing the cumulative impact of our efforts can grow momentum.
To Meet This Moment
Most of our tests will not look heroic.
They will arrive in inboxes and intake calls. In the moments between, I should do something and all the sensible reasons not to.
The “somethings” need not be limited to our practice: LDAD volunteers submit comments to proposed federal rules, speak at community organizations about Constitutional rights, organize democracy-focused community art installations, donate money when time feels scarce, and alert friends and family to what we, as a nation, stand to lose.
Lawyers can disagree fiercely about politics and law. Constitutional government wants us to do that.
The oath asks us something different. It asks: what will we do when the Constitution becomes inconvenient to defend?
Whether you were sworn in decades ago or just this year, our oaths are still binding: no political exceptions, no client exceptions, no exception for waiting until someone else goes first.
We take our oaths as individuals, but none of us is alone. Take action, in community with other lawyers, to find hope and agency.
This series from Lawyers Defending American Democracy connects the words of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution to current events that threaten democracy and the justice system. Each piece highlights the unique responsibility lawyers carry—through their oath, professional obligations, and roles in their communities—to help the public understand what’s at risk and to speak out when democratic principles are under threat. LDAD’s call to action is straightforward: as the Founders once did, we must recognize threats to constitutional values, demand accountability, and act to defend them.
Nicole Faut and Amanda Pollard-Faut practice primarily in plaintiff-side employment and civil rights and are the immediate past president of the Harrisonburg-Rockingham Bar Association. Pollard has practiced corporate and transactional law for more than a decade, across private practice and in-house roles.
The Fulcrum is committed to nurturing the next generation of journalists.
We asked Val Amiel Vestil, a Fall Fulcrum Fellow, to share what democracy means to him and his view of its current health.
I came to America expecting to learn about democracy in classrooms, libraries, and humongous white pillars in government buildings. Instead, some of my most revealing lessons came from a park, a subway station, and a grocery store.
I have lived in the United States for more than a year now, having arrived from the Philippines in August 2025 to pursue my master’s degree. Before coming here, my lens of democracy was contained in concepts like elections, freedom of speech, constitutions, political participation, and the right to vote. This lens remains largely about all these, yes, but living here has added something more ordinary to that definition.
Democracy, I contemplate, is the expansion of people’s meaningful options–the ability to choose, participate, challenge institutions, and change course.
I began noticing this in parks.
In Ann Arbor, where I live, public parks and pavilions let people simply be after a day's work. They are free, landscaped, and maintained. I have since encountered similar public spaces across the six states I visited over the summer, without exception. Even Yellowstone National Park, thousands of miles from where I live, reminded me that public spaces can be treated as something ordinary and accessible rather than exceptional.
The Philippines is not without parks. We have the Ayala Triangle in Quezon City, the University of the Philippines Academic Oval, the Legazpi Park in Makati, and other beautiful public spaces. But these public green spaces often felt limited, fragmented even. They felt concentrated in particular developments, mostly in upper- to upper-middle-class areas. Research by Czarina Saloma-Akpedonu and Erik Akpedonu traces how ambitious plans for Manila and Quezon City envisioned public green spaces that were never fully realized, leaving only remnants of those visions today.
I think about this when I remember living in Makati. I loved walking to work and passing through its green spaces. But I also knew that this experience was a privilege. Outside these pockets of relative comfort, millions navigate densely populated communities, long commutes, and limited public space. Bonifacio Global City, for example, aesthetically mirrors the shopping centers and polished avenues of Manhattan, but it is a bubble of its own. From the tall towers that rise throughout it, you can look beyond the glass and steel and see very different urban realities when you direct your eyes to the ground: corrugated tin roofs packed tightly together, narrow streets crowded with people, and families using every available surface.
A park, I realized, is an option. So is a bus.
When I visited New York, I was struck by how easily I could travel from Manhattan to Queens, or from New Jersey to New York City, by bus or train. I did not need a car. I did not need someone who knew the city like the back of their hand to guide me. I could look at the subway systems or the maps, get on a train, and go.
In Metro Manila, getting from one place to another required far more time, planning, and tolerance for uncertainty. Commuters often contend with overcrowded buses and trains, limited route integration, and severe road congestion. TomTom’s 2025 Traffic Index ranked the Philippines as the world’s third-most congested country, after Colombia and Malta, with an average congestion level of 44.6 percent. By comparison, the US ranked among the least congested countries overall, with an average congestion level of 19 percent. In Manila, a trip that looks short on a map can become a daily negotiation with traffic, transfers, and long waits – we’re talking more than an hour on the road for a 3-kilometer car ride.
This is not to say that American transportation is perfect, nor that the Philippine transportation system has no value. It is simply a contrast that made me think about what robust transportation systems give people: options.
The economist and philosopher Amartya Sen calls these kinds of opportunities “capabilities” — the substantive freedoms people actually have to do and be what they value. A formal right means little if the conditions necessary to exercise it are absent. That idea helped me name what I was experiencing as I adjusted to living in America. Freedom isn't just having a right. It is having a real choice.
I encountered another version of this at a Trader Joe’s in Ann Arbor. I had bought five of its now-famous canvas tote bags to send home to my family in the Philippines. There was a buying limit of five tote bags per person, but the cashier accidentally rang up six. I noticed only after I got home, so I called the store.
“Do you need my name?” I asked. “The receipt? Anything?”
“No,” the employee told me. “Just come back and tell them you spoke with Kate. We’ll refund you.” I remember thinking: It’s that easy?
The amount was trivial. What stayed with me was how easy it was to fix. In the Philippines, getting a refund for a five-dollar tote bag might require speaking with several levels of supervisors, waiting for approvals, and repeatedly explaining what had gone wrong. Here, I didn't have to navigate a bureaucratic obstacle course to prove something had gone wrong.
A refund is an option. An easy one at that.
The philosopher John Dewey argued that democracy extends beyond being a form of government; rather, it is primarily a “mode of associated living, of conjoint communicated experience,” something expressed through the everyday relationships and institutions through which people live. Robert Dahl, by contrast, identified criteria for a democratic process, including effective participation, enlightened understanding, and control of the agenda.
These ideas have changed how I look at both America and the Philippines. I do not think democracy can be measured only by whether people vote every few years. I have begun to see it also in the number of meaningful choices available to ordinary people: whether they can move through their cities, access public spaces, navigate institutions, make themselves heard, and correct decisions that affect them.
By no means has America given me a picture of what a perfect democracy could look like. These observations also don’t mean that I see the Philippines as a failed one. But living here has given me another way to see home. It has taught me to ask a simpler question: How many meaningful options does a person earning the minimum living wage actually have?
A park is an option. A bus is an option. A refund is an option. And perhaps a healthy democracy is, ultimately, one that keeps expanding those options in the ordinary lives of the people it is supposed to serve.
Val Amiel Vestil is a Graduate student at the University of Michigan. Val blends environmental scholarship with nine years of journalism leadership, founding a nonprofit that has trained more than a thousand reporters and championed solutions‑driven climate coverage across the Philippines and Asia‑Pacific.
A crowd gathers to take in the September 11th memorial lights in Brooklyn Bridge Park, New York City, NY.
A college friend called me and desperately urged me to turn on my television. I was at home in my study writing a chapter on civic faith for a new book. As I tuned in to the news, I watched a second plane ram into the north tower of the World Trade Center, where my best friend from college, Frank Reisman, worked for Cantor Fitzgerald. Hours later, another call: Frank was gone.
Twenty-five years have passed, and I remember that dreadful day as if it was yesterday. Are we a better nation? Stronger? More vibrant? Kinder?
Since 2001, our nation has lived through a series of seemingly endless wars and a global pandemic. The internet has overwhelmed many of our senses, and AI now threatens to replace basic human interactions. People have lost faith in our leaders, institutions, news media, even in each other. I believe we face a crisis of belief.
Like you, I worry about where we are, and where we are headed.
Just last week it was reported that a 20-year-old Haitian immigrant who lived in Springfield, OH, and who had just started college, was so despondent and full of shame over having to wear an ankle monitor that he walked into the street amid oncoming cars and ended his life.
In America, we may hold different positions on issues involving deportation and immigration, but what exactly is our position on the dignity of each individual and the sacredness of their life? When do the actions of those in power become so malicious—indeed, heinous—that they violate basic human decency? Must we always go to extremes to make a point, win an argument, pursue a particular policy goal?
Our public lives are now enveloped in constant noise, confusion, and uncertainty; some days it’s just too much to take in. So many of us have adopted a kind of cynicism as a shield against further disappointment or despair. We sometimes tear things down to feel some semblance of power, or to exude superiority over others. Oftentimes we throw up our hands in frustration, only to retreat from public life.
Are we afraid to have hope? Is belief in one another and in our nation somehow beyond what we can now imagine, or are willing to risk? What are we willing to lose and at what cost? What are we willing to fight for and protect and cherish and grow?
There are times I sit in my study in the dark and in absolute silence and try to imagine the sheer panic Frank must have experienced when he realized a plane had hit the south tower. The fear, the sense of doom—and then the deadly impact of the second plane. My heart aches. I weep.
Reflecting on that horrific day and its lasting effects, and considering where our society has gone in the decades since, I am left wrestling with pressing questions. Shall I surrender to evil? Must I walk away in disgust? Is it time to give in or give up on trying to repair breaches in society?
My travels throughout our country over the past 40 years have led me to this conclusion: There is so much good and goodness in people and in our society. And yet, amid our current conditions, such good and goodness can be hard to see. It can be difficult to let in. Even risky.
I know you may be feeling weary. Frustrated. Angry. Disgusted. I hear you. But hear me out, please. We must restore our belief in one another and in our nation.
Indeed, I’ll be damned if I will idly sit by, wringing my hands, and allow the cynics and doomsdayers and fear mongers and bigots to win. We can do better and be better—as individuals, in our communities, and across this nation. We have work to do, building to undertake. This must be done together; it can only be done together. It happens brick by brick, neighborhood by neighborhood, community by community. This must be our collective ambition.
The World Trade Center buildings were reduced to rubble. But the spirit of those who were lost and injured lives on in our shared memory and in our hearts. We go on. We build together.
Let’s face it. We need each other. We are meant to go together. So, let us always remember the past and commit to building a future we can believe in. That’s my personal pledge to Frank.
Rich Harwood is the president and founder of The Harwood Institute.
U.S. President Donald Trump speaks briefly to the press as he arrives during the 81st United Nations General Assembly at the United Nations Headquarters in New York, on Sept. 22, 2026.
“To offend a strong man, tell him a lie. To offend a weak man, tell him the truth.”
That quote, often attributed to Marcus Aurelius, one of the great Stoics, perfectly encapsulates the very troubling and sad moment we’re in, and the very troubling and sad president we’re dealing with.
For all his bluster, Donald Trump is inarguably weak and small. His ego is easily bruised, his feelings are easily hurt. He’s been this way for a long time, and as Americans living in the Trump era, we’ve all come to see how deeply insecure, petty, and vengeful he can be.
His late-night social media rants lashing out at enemies both real and imagined; his impetuous and impolitic attacks on longtime allies who don’t roll over for him; his reckless primarying of his own party members who dare break from him, even if momentarily.
Hell, you could even say his very presidency is the result of an otherwise harmless roast by former President Barack Obama at the 2011 White House Correspondents Dinner that he took too personally.
But when things are going particularly badly for him, his skin is at its paper thinnest, and it shows.
Last week, Trump announced on social media that he was banning three news outlets — MS NOW, Politico, and CNN, where I work — from covering the White House. He hasn’t said why those particular outlets were targeted, giving the impression that this might not have been all that well thought out. Imagine that.
It does coincide, however, with Trump’s steadily sinking approval numbers, which just this week hit an abysmal record low, falling below 30% according to one poll.
Believe it or not, focusing on ballrooms and buildings, invading Greenland and Canada, suing political enemies and chasing crypto deals while we’re in an ill-advised war and most Americans are stretching to afford basic necessities, has not endeared him to voters.
It’s almost as if ignoring his key promises to voters — to lower inflation, to lower the cost of goods, to never get us into another war — has turned them off.
So, stuck in a bed of his own making with nowhere to go, he’s lashing out, this time at the press, simply for covering the bad decisions he’s made and their impact on voters.
But trying to punish or sideline the press will not change the fact that he and Republicans are in deep trouble. All it does is make him look brittle, desperate and weak.
It’s also a deeply disingenuous effort. Trump has justified his tantrum by saying the press is both “purposeful” and “fully coordinated” in reporting “fiction and lies.”
There’s a legal mechanism for the thing he’s talking about, and tellingly, he isn’t using it. Because, if true, what he’s describing is the textbook definition of actual malice, the legal bar used for defamation cases.
But he’s not suing the press, because this isn’t about the law, but rather his feelings. And it’s simply not our job to protect his feelings, or only publish news that makes him feel good. We’re not his parents or his kindergarten teachers.
He can throw all the fits he wants, and there’s no doubt his continual attacks on the press have had a chilling effect, but I know one thing: ultimately, the press will win this battle.
He may wish he were president of Russia or North Korea, where the free press doesn’t exist and state media tells only positive stories about Dear Leader, but here in America, the press is protected. Here, Americans want to live in a democracy, not a dictatorship. And here, we expect our political leaders to be able to take a metaphorical punch. Especially if the “punch” in question is simply the truth.
S.E. Cupp is the host of "S.E. Cupp Unfiltered" on CNN.
