To America, Tomorrow

In all my pieces, my writing is meant to, at first, disorient — in hopes of inspiring those reading to uproot themselves from the ground and truly see the world that surrounds them. I invite you, the reader, into an open space — precisely because the democratic crisis I’m gesturing toward is not just about the collapse of institutions, but the collapse of a shared way of thinking. Through this exploration, I hope that we may rebuild democratic faith through the exercise of doubt, choice, and self-discovery.

Democracy has always demanded justification because the idea is not self-evident. To believe in democracy requires that we first admit that our values are neither inevitable nor natural, neither religious nor secular. Democracy’s survival does not guarantee the end of history but its beginning. In effect, democracy serves as a wager to our world by allowing us to begin anew.

It appears that the forces against democracy grow stronger by the day as authoritarian regimes rise across the globe, paralleling the sudden rise of fascism that emerged across Europe during the first half of the 20th century. In all their beauty, it seems the principles of choice and tolerance may falter under the weight of their inherent contradictions. Can we, and should we, be able to choose this —  tolerate this? The assumption that America once held true, that democracy is indeed self-evidently good, now requires contemporary justification. For even this great nation’s founding statement, “We hold these truths to be self-evident,” demands that we declare forthrightly what truths we deem self-evident and why they are legitimate. In the absence of such a defense, America — and perhaps the world — grows restless. To uphold itself, democracy requires neither sword nor shield, but rather, a token of remembrance: in effect, a requiem — a declaration of ideals which we hold not merely as true or as “truth,” but indeed as good, which is indispensable to our own flourishing.

The crisis in which we find ourselves demands neither condemnation of the present nor lamentation of the past, but rather, remembrance of what was — an attempt to reclaim what we’ve forgotten — an idea, one whose risk of extinction has never been greater than today, and one whose champions now lie as martyrs, lost to history, lying in the ruins of a once-great republic. Our moment for mourning has passed, and anger shall only hasten our demise. What this “moment” — however long it may last — requires is those brave and willing enough to hold both truth and ideal in perpetual tension, and to see the world both as it should be and as it is. Those who neither sink to cynicism nor vie for martyrdom. Those willing to speak and risk misunderstanding in hopes that they may hope someone, anyone, might understand them and see the world as they do.

Democracy is an unappealing system of governance: She demands that all ideas, even the ones that contradict mine, be treated equally. How can such an idea not enrage one? It seems almost miraculous that our republic has persisted for so long despite what, in fact, amounts to near madness. However, like all historical processes, no outcome is guaranteed, and nothing exists in perpetuity. If democracy is to persist, she may do so only by continuous participation, emboldened by the belief that men, and not “man,” shape the world and, by extension, history. From birth, American citizens are endowed not only with inalienable rights but also with inseparable duties — duties that demand near-constant vigilance.

I admit, much of this writing, and much of my writing in general, appears “too hopeful,” almost willfully blind to reality. To my detractors, and in defense of my benefactors, I offer this: Democracy, unlike her counterparts such as authoritarianism and totalitarianism, demands both faith and reason. For faith without reason is blind obedience, but reason without faith is hopeless. If we’re to endure what is yet to come, then we must hold both so that someone in the distant future may shape the world in their image. Liberalism — democracy — is dying and, in fact, may already be dead. But we must not forget her. Her spirit and ethic may carry across time, shaping neither what is nor what was, but perhaps shaping what will be. That, and this, is my defense of democracy.