THEN. July 2, 1776: The Continental Congress stood up to a king and voted to declare independence.

NOW. July 2, 2025: I’m standing up to the costume drama unfolding in our Capitol—my words against their charades, my truth against their power.

ACTION NEEDED. This is the most important piece I’ve written all year.

Please read. Please share. Please TAKE A STAND.

“First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

—Martin Niemöller (1892–1984), Lutheran minister and former U-boat commander who became one of Hitler’s most vocal clerical critics. Imprisoned in concentration camps from 1937 to 1945, Niemöller’s words became a timeless warning against silence in the face of tyranny.

We all know that words matter. But in these politically charged times — when so many people feel hopeless, unheard, and unseen — words matter even more. Words have always been more than sound or scribble; they are lifelines—tied to truth, tossed to the drowning. They can carry us from despair to resolve, from silence to solidarity, from helplessness to empowerment. They can become the bridge that carries us across the moments when our spirit grows weak. In moments like these, words aren’t just language. They are lifeboats we cling to, rallying cries we raise, and sparks that illuminate a path forward.

I have no doubt in the world that some of you are nodding in agreement while at the same time saying to yourself:

“Yes. Words matter, but I’m not good with words, and I’m certainly not good enough with words to build a bridge from here to anywhere.”

I hear you. Loud and clear.

But here’s the good thing: In times like these, when every nerve and muscle of our being is tested, we can turn to the famous words of history—words spoken or written in moments that felt just as dark as these—and draw strength from their resonance. At a minimum, we can be uplifted toward a more hopeful place. And perhaps—just perhaps—those words can fan a flame strong enough to make us stand, to speak out, to let our voices ring forth with all the conviction and courage we can muster, even if they aren’t as eloquent or melodious as we’d like them to be.

When our hope wanes as we witness an overwhelming litany of decisions made in the highest office of our land—unleashed overnight without consulting Congress—our hearts can still swell as we remember: this is not who we said we would be.

Colonial Americans didn’t stay silent. They made their grievances known in the Declaration of Independence—taxation without representation, abuse of power, the erosion of rights, power wielded like a whip, the slow strangling of liberty. And they didn’t just grumble. They declared. Boldly. They named the wrongs and named their remedy: a clean break from tyranny.

When our hope wanes as we witness the word “diversity” being rebranded as dangerous, when “equity” is twisted into an accusation, and when “inclusion” is weaponized to divide, our hearts can swell as we remember: this is not who we said we would be.

Our Nation’s Founding Fathers, for all their inconsistencies, still struck a promise into the air—a promise capacious enough to grow. And others carried it forward, naming the vision in clearer, bolder language.

In his 1782 essay What Is an American?, J. Hector St. John de Crèvecœur offered a radical vision of unity through difference:

“Here individuals of all nations are melted into a new race of men, whose labours and posterity will one day cause great changes in the world.”

This was not a call for sameness, but for a shared becoming—a future rooted in diversity, not afraid of it.

And even earlier, in 1774, America’s first published Black poet—Phillis Wheatley—penned a letter to the Reverend Samson Occom that reads like a quiet trumpet blast.

“In every human breast,” she wrote, “God has implanted a principle, which we call love of freedom; it is impatient of oppression and pants for deliverance.”

And then, with the same clarity, she penned the line that shames us in today’s politically charged times:

“How well the cry for liberty, and the reverse disposition for the exercise of oppressive power over others agree—I humbly think it does not require the penetration of a philosopher to determine.”

She wasn’t just America’s first great poet of color—she was its first great poet of conscience. And her words, like Crèvecœur’s, echo louder now than the noise trying to drown them.

When our hope wanes as we witness emergency decrees, loyalty tests, and watchdog purges—all pointing to a dangerous concentration of executive power, monarchical behavior parading around in a republic’s clothing—our hearts can swell as we remember: this is not who we said we would be.

Our Founding Fathers didn’t fight a king just to crown another in modern garb. They resisted not just a monarch, but monarchy itself—the idea that one man’s will should outweigh the people’s voice.

In 1776, as the revolution took hold, John Adams captured the essence of the American project with unwavering clarity:

“A republic is a government of laws, not of men.”

James Madison, writing in Federalist No. 47 (1788), took the warning further:

“The accumulation of all powers, legislative, executive, and judiciary, in the same hands… may justly be pronounced the very definition of tyranny.”

And Thomas Paine, never one to soften the blow, wrote in Common Sense (1776):

“A king hath little more to do than to make war and give away places; which in plain terms is to impoverish the nation and set it together by the ears.”

He cut straight to the danger of one man’s whims becoming national policy. Our founders knew what unchecked power looked like. They didn’t whisper. They shouted. And like the NO KINGS protests rising across our land today, they made it plain: we were never meant to be ruled.

When our hope wanes as we witness the slow dismantling of institutional independence—over 160 officials purged from agencies like the EEOC and NLRB, watchdogs replaced with loyalists, courts straining to hold the line—our hearts can swell again as we remember: this is not who we said we would be.

James Madison, in 1788, understood that power itself isn’t evil—but left unchecked, it becomes so.

“Wherever the real power in a Government lies,” he wrote, “there is the danger of oppression.”

He wasn’t warning about nameless bureaucrats—he was warning about any one person or faction gathering too much control, silencing dissent, and bypassing the balance that keeps liberty alive.

And Patrick Henry, fiery and fearless, stood on the floor of the Virginia Convention in 1775 and made no apologies for confronting tyranny:

“Caesar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell, and George the Third… may profit by their example. If this be treason, make the most of it.”

Henry wasn’t inciting violence—he was demanding vigilance. He knew that loyalty to country means resisting those who betray its principles.

And now, as the Justice Department targets political opponents, journalists, legal voices, and civil society groups, we know without a doubt. This isn’t democracy defending itself. It’s power consuming dissent.

When our hope wanes as we watch protections rolled back—clean air, safe water, wild land handed over to those who see only profit—our hearts can swell again as we remember: this is not who we said we would be.

From the very start, we claimed a promise—not just to ourselves, but to our posterity. That word wasn’t filler. It meant something. It still does. Climate justice is that promise in action—seen now in rising seas, poisoned wells, and forests burning faster than we can name them. When leaders silence the science and gut the safeguards, they’re not just changing direction. This isn’t a policy shift. It’s a broken covenant.

Thomas Jefferson, a farmer before he was a Founder, believed that the land was not merely a resource but a shared inheritance. He wrote in 1785:

“The earth belongs…to the living.”

But even that came late. Native nations understood long before we put pen to parchment that land is not a prize—it’s a trust. They signed treaties in good faith. We broke them.

And now? We’re breaking faith again—not just with those who came before, but with those still to come. The damage isn’t distant. It’s here. The question isn’t whether we can fix it. The question is whether we will rise and demand that our leaders honor the covenant: to preserve the land, protect the future, and remember—this earth was never ours to ruin.

When our hope wanes as we watch truth itself come under siege—journalists threatened, teachers silenced, libraries politicized—our hearts can swell again as we remember: this is not who we said we would be.

Thomas Jefferson, in 1787, didn’t hedge:

“Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.”

Even in their disagreement, our founders understood the power of a free press not just to inform, but to guard against tyranny.

Benjamin Franklin, both printer and revolutionary, warned us plainly:

“Whoever would overthrow the liberty of a nation must begin by subduing the freeness of speech.”

And it isn’t just the founding generation we can turn to. In 1949, Harry Truman, no stranger to press scrutiny, said:

“Once a government is committed to silencing the voice of opposition, it has only one way to go—and that is down the path of increasingly repressive measures, until it becomes a source of terror to all its citizens.”

These weren’t sentimental niceties. They were warnings. We don’t need to like every headline or trust every journalist. But when we allow the press to be painted as treasonous, we’re not protecting freedom—we’re abandoning it.

When our hope wanes as we watch universities bow to political pressure—when scholars are silenced, curriculums censored, and the pursuit of knowledge reshaped to please the powerful—our hearts can swell again as we remember: this is not who we said we would be.

Harvard, our first university, wasn’t founded to flatter authority. It was founded in 1636 to train ministers, yes—but also to nurture thought, sharpen conscience, and elevate public understanding. In 1650, its charter affirmed that the ends of education were not just knowledge, but wisdom.

And yet now, we see calls for partisan oversight of hiring and research. Ideological litmus tests. Attempts to turn places of learning into arenas of political control. Harvard, so far, has stood its ground—but the pressure is mounting. And the lesson is not just for Harvard. At Columbia, at UVA, across campuses nationwide, faculty and students are being told to speak carefully or not at all.

Academic freedom isn’t a fringe privilege. It’s a cornerstone of democracy. John Adams, educated at Harvard, warned back in 1765:

“Liberty cannot be preserved without a general knowledge among the people, who have a right… to knowledge as they have to liberty.”

He knew: take away knowledge, and liberty won’t be far behind. That’s what’s at stake now—not just tenure or textbooks, but the freedom to think without permission. A nation that punishes thinking is not preparing its future. It’s protecting the throne of a wannabe king.

When our hope wanes as we watch even the Library of Congress—the nation’s repository of truth—reduced to a partisan pawn, our hearts can swell again as we remember: this is not who we said we would be.

Established in 1800, the Library of Congress was created for one reason: to serve all members of Congress, regardless of party, with nonpartisan, factual information to guide legislation and uphold the public good.

It wasn’t designed to serve the president. It wasn’t created to chase political favor. It was built to anchor democracy with facts, scholarship, and shared access to knowledge.

When Jefferson sold his personal library to rebuild the collection after the War of 1812, he wrote:

“There is, in fact, no subject to which a member of Congress may not have occasion to refer.”

That was the point: to ensure no lawmaker, from any district or ideology, would be left without the resources to govern wisely.

Today, that founding principle is under siege. Efforts to reshape the Library’s leadership along partisan lines don’t merely politicize a post—they betray the institution’s very purpose. When the branch meant to inform all of Congress begins answering to one man, we haven’t just weakened an agency. We run the risk of surrendering our intellectual compass. Library of Congress leadership—and Congress—must stand strong against the whims of power.

When our hope wanes as we watch a president bypass Congress and drop bombs in secret—our hearts can swell again as we remember: this is not who we said we would be.

James Madison, in 1795, saw the danger long before drones and bunker-busters:

“The executive is the branch of power most interested in war, and most prone to it… It has accordingly, with studied care, vested the question of war in the legislature.”

On June 22, 2025, under the name Operation Midnight Hammer, U.S. bombers struck three Iranian nuclear facilities—Fordow, Natanz, and Isfahan. No congressional debate. No formal authorization. No imminent threat. Just one man, acting alone—bypassing the branch meant to check him, using our military not to defend, but to declare.

This wasn’t war by necessity. It was war by fiat—a president bypassing the branch meant to restrain him, using our military not to defend the nation, but to flex unchecked power.

And here’s what should keep us up at night: presidents no longer need troops on the ground to wage war. All it takes is air clearance, a press team to spin the story, and a public too stunned or exhausted to object. When war becomes a solo act, democracy becomes a stage—and we become the silent audience. This isn’t national security. It’s autocracy with attitude and altitude. And if we shrug it off now, we may not recognize the next war until it’s already being fought in our name—with no one left to ask for permission.

And so, to every American who feels the ground shifting beneath us—hear this:

Our liberty was not built for silence.
Our independence was not meant to sleep.
Our democracy was not handed down to be hoarded or hollowed out.

It was meant to be lived—fought for—spoken into being.

So we rise.

To take a stand against leaders who crave loyalty but abandon law.
To take a stand against forests felled and futures stolen.
To take a stand against truth trampled beneath propaganda—and the politicizing of the Library of Congress itself.
To take a stand against teachers gagged, reporters threatened, watchdogs replaced.
To take a stand against bombs dropped in secret and power seized in silence.

We rise with our voices—
not to plead, but to proclaim.
Not to whisper but to roar.

Because words are not ornaments. They are weapons—sacred ones.
They are how a free people sharpen their resolve.
They are how we mark the line: This far. No further.

We will not go quiet.
We will not stand down.
We will not forget who we said we would be.

As we honor the liberty and independence that define who we are, who we were, and who we still must become—

Let us remember, on this Fourth of July:

Take a stand with words.
They matter now more than ever.