“The pursuit of historical truth requires rigorous attention to evidence, but also imagination—an ability to see beyond the silences.”
—Eric Foner (b. 1943), Columbia University historian and Pulitzer Prize–winning author of The Fiery Trial.
It began with a clue. A slip of language. A name tucked too neatly into silence.
For years, The Humourist was one of colonial America’s most compelling mysteries: a sharp, satirical voice that burst onto the front page of The South-Carolina Gazette in 1753 and 1754—then disappeared without a trace.
No signature. No farewell. Just a trail of dazzling essays and a question no one could quite answer: Who was he?
What followed, for me, was part scholarship, part sleuthing. I tracked language patterns, pored over wills, newspapers, shipping records, and marginalia. I followed leads from Charleston to Edinburgh and back again. And finally, I solved the puzzle, and the answer emerged:
Alexander Gordon—a Scottish-born antiquarian and early Egyptologist, who would eventually serve as Clerk of His Majesty’s Council in South Carolina. A man educated in Enlightenment thought, fluent in satire, and bold enough to take aim at power in a bustling port city where reputation was currency.
The mystery is solved. But Unmasking The Humourist doesn’t just name the man—it restores his voice.
This authoritative and definitive edition brings Gordon’s essays back into circulation for the first time in nearly 270 years, fully annotated and critically framed, with a scholarly introduction that explores Gordon’s identity, influences, and the forces that led to his disappearance from literary memory.
Why These Essays Matter
The Humourist columns are more than colonial curiosities. They are early American satire at its finest—witty, incisive, and rich with transatlantic influence. Gordon’s essays place Charleston on the literary map, not as a provincial outpost, but as a vibrant participant in the Enlightenment-era conversation about politics, identity, and the press.
This book marks a breakthrough in how we understand the American essay tradition. It challenges the idea that colonial literature was all sermons and pamphlets. Here, we meet a writer who was sharp, worldly, and unafraid to poke fun at hypocrisy—whose pen was as powerful as any pulpit or platform of his day.
A Milestone Moment
Today, I submitted the final corrections to the publisher, along with keywords, pricing, and metadata. The next step is the printed proof—then, in due time, the book itself.
It’s a strange and beautiful feeling. Emily Dickinson said it best:
“After great pain, a formal feeling comes.”
This project has spanned decades. It has taken me deep into archival records, across centuries of silence, and finally into the steady light of historical clarity.
And Now?
I’m proud to share the cover—front and back. Because The Humourist, like all great stories, deserves both.
Launch Details?
Not quite yet. But soon. The typeset is locked. The voice is ready.
This fall, a long-lost satirist steps out of the colonial shadows—and into the modern light.
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.
“To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards...”
–Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850–1919; American poet known for her uplifting and socially conscious writing. Her work championed justice, personal responsibility, and the power of speaking out.)
Whether everyone owns up to it or not, America is in the throes of a Constitutional, social, and moral crisis—unlike anything in our Nation’s history. It doesn’t take a genius to see what’s happening. We only need to look around.
It’s unfolding in real time, shaping and shaking the very foundation of our democracy. Since his second inauguration, Donald J. Trump has tested the limits of executive power, issuing sweeping orders that centralize authority, gut independent oversight, and sideline checks and balances. The rapid dismantling of diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs, the mass pardoning of January 6 rioters, and the rollback of environmental protections—all justified under the banner of “restoring order”—are not isolated actions. They are a pattern, a deliberate reshaping of the country to fit a singular vision.
Already many people—immigrants, federal workers, and LGBTQ+ individuals—feel the pain through deportations, firings, and the rollback of protections. Many other people—seniors, low-income families, and those reliant on federal programs—will feel the pain yet to come through health care cuts, the cancellation of USAID programs, the discontinuation of flu vaccine updates, and threats to Medicaid and Social Security. And now, in a shocking display of authoritarian bravado, Trump humiliated Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky in the Oval Office—publicly berating a wartime ally fighting for survival against Russian aggression. His attack was not just a personal insult; it was a signal to the world that American leadership, once defined by its commitments, is now dictated by impulsive cruelty.
Now is not the time for silence. Now is the time to speak up.
Now is not the time for complacency. Now is the time to act up.
Now is not the time to be broken by divisiveness. Now is the time to come together and walk together.
Why? This crisis threatens the very essence of who we are as Americans.
Why? This crisis is unparalleled in our Nation’s history.
Why? This crisis threatens our today, our tomorrow, and our future.
I am heavy-hearted, but I find hope in looking back on those who stood up when hope seemed lost. Time and again, ordinary people have overturned what once seemed inevitable. We can learn from those ordinary Americans who took extraordinary actions. We can be extraordinary, too.
History tells us time and time again that moments like these define not just leaders but entire movements. The moral high road isn’t a scenic detour—it’s often the hardest path, requiring both conviction and courage.
Taking a Stand Means Taking Action
When faced with injustices like the unprecedented ones we’re up against now, neutrality isn’t a shield—it’s a choice. And history has been shaped by those who refused to sit back and let injustice run its course. They took a stand. They acted. I’m thinking about:
● Thomas Paine – A political writer who stoked the flames of revolution with “Common Sense” and “The American Crisis.”
● Frederick Douglass – A former slave who demanded that America reckon with its hypocrisy, forcing the nation to see itself as it was.
● Henry David Thoreau – Who refused to pay a tax that supported slavery and war, writing “Civil Disobedience” to argue that individuals must resist unjust laws.
● Susan B. Anthony – Who cast an illegal vote in 1872, knowing she’d be arrested but refusing to accept a system that denied women their rights.
● Martin Luther King Jr – Who rejected patience and appeasement, writing Letter from Birmingham Jail as a rebuke to those who claimed to be allies but urged him to wait.
● Daniel Ellsberg – Who leaked the Pentagon Papers at great personal risk, exposing government deceit about Vietnam.
These people didn’t just take the moral high ground—they fought for it, walked it, and held their ground when it mattered most.
Silence Enables Tyranny: The Lesson of Nazi Germany
If history teaches us anything, it’s that silence enables oppression. In Nazi Germany, countless people looked the other way, convincing themselves that they had no choice, that someone else would act. Their silence helped pave the way for one of the greatest atrocities in human history.
German pastor Martin Niemöller, once complicit himself, later warned against the dangers of staying quiet:
“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.”
People Are Taking a Stand
From city halls to concert halls, from boardrooms to town squares, Americans are refusing to be silent. People are taking a stand, and the movement taking shape in powerful ways.
Our crisis started when Trump and J. D. Vance were sworn into office on January 20. The next day, the movement started as people were brave enough and bold enough to stand up to the crisis that threatens our Nation and our Democracy.
At the inaugural prayer service at the Washington National Cathedral, Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde, the Episcopal Bishop of Washington, took a stand and directly addressed the President, urging him to show compassion and mercy toward vulnerable communities. She implored, “In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy on the people in our country who are scared now.” Her courageous plea highlighted the fears of LGBTQ+ individuals, immigrants, and refugees, calling for leadership grounded in empathy and justice.
The next month at the February 21 Governors’ Conference, the president threatened to strip Maine of its federal funding if it refused to comply with his executive order, banning transgender women from competing in women’s sports. In a tense exchange, Maine’s Democratic Governor Janet Mills took a stand and did not waver. Her response to the president? A simple: “See you in court.”
This wasn’t just a sharp retort. It was a moment of moral clarity, an assertion that principles matter more than political pressure.
Two days later, on February 23, Jane Fonda received the Lifetime Achievement Award at the SAG ceremony in Los Angeles. In her speech, she urged her fellow actors to channel the courage of those who resisted McCarthyism, reminding them of past social movements like Apartheid, Civil Rights, and Stonewall.
“Have you ever watched a documentary and wondered if you’d have been brave enough to walk the bridge or face the hoses and batons?
“We don’t have to wonder anymore—we are in our documentary moment. … And even if they’re of a different political persuasion, we need to call upon our empathy and not judge, but listen from our hearts and welcome them into our tent, because we are going to need a big tent to resist successfully what’s coming at us.”
It’s not just celebrities and politicians taking action; ordinary citizens are making their voices heard, sometimes at great personal cost. We all witnessed the legislative town hall meeting in northern Idaho descend into chaos after three plainclothes security workers forcibly removed Teresa Borrenpohl, who was heckling the speakers.
Others are taking a stand, too, against actions that threaten our nation’s core values. Their courage serves as a beacon, reminding us of the power of collective action.
I’m thinking of the recent upheaval at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and the resistance performers are showing as they take a stand. Issa Rae canceled her sold-out show, Renée Fleming stepped down as artistic advisor, Shonda Rhimes resigned as treasurer, and Ben Folds relinquished his role as artistic advisor to the National Symphony Orchestra. These actions underscore the artists’ commitment to preserving the integrity of our cultural institutions.
I’m thinking of Labor Organizations and grassroots movements that are also mobilizing to voice their dissent. The People’s Union USA, founded by John Schwarz, organized a national “economic blackout” on February 28, urging Americans to halt all consumer spending for 24 hours. The boycott was a warning shot—a demonstration that ordinary citizens can disrupt the economic status quo when corporations and policymakers ignore their voices. Early reports suggest widespread participation—major retailers and businesses have already reported noticeable dips in sales. And this is just the beginning. More boycotts are planned in the coming months, targeting corporations that fuel inequality, suppress wages, or remain complicit in policies that threaten democracy. This movement is a reminder that collective economic action has long been a tool for social change, from the Montgomery Bus Boycott to the anti-Apartheid divestments. If history is any guide, the pressure will only build.
I’m thinking of the citizens of Mad River Valley, Vermont who protested Vance’s ski trip just this past weekend. One poster said it all:
“Vermonters don’t bend the knee to wannabe KINGS.”
These contemporary examples of moral leadership echo history, where individuals refused to remain neutral in the face of injustice.
History doesn’t look kindly on those who stand on the sidelines. And we don’t get to tell ourselves we would have acted differently then, if we refuse to act now.
Every Act of Resistance Matters
For the first time in my life, I’m feeling powerless. I imagine that you are, too. At the same time, so did many of the people we now call heroes—before they took action.
● Thomas Paine was just a pamphleteer.
● Susan B. Anthony was just one woman with a ballot.
● Martin Luther King Jr. was just a preacher.
● Daniel Ellsberg was just a government analyst.
● Bishop Mariann Edgar Buddewas just a faith leader.
● Jane Fonda was just an actress.
● Governor Janet Millswas just a politician.
They weren’t waiting for permission to do the right thing. They just did it. And because they did it in the past, our country changed. And because people are standing up and acting now, our country can “course correct” again.
Will You Stand When It Counts?
Taking a stand doesn’t require grand gestures. It can be as simple as:
● Participating in economic boycotts as a way of doing something.
● Calling out injustice, rather than letting it slide.
● Supporting those fighting for equality, rather than assuming someone else will.
● Refusing to comply with policies that erode human rights.
● Voting for leaders who put principles above politics.
The moral high road isn’t for the comfortable. It’s for the brave—for those who refuse to look away, for those who understand that silence is complicity.
This is one of those moments. It’s a moment that history won’t forget.
What will you do? Will you take a stand? History is watching.
“Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.”
–Hamilton Wright Mabie (1846–1916; American essayist and editor known for his inspirational writing on literature, culture, and the transformative power of kindness.)
December is a month brimming with light, meaning, and connection. Across cultures, we celebrate hope and renewal: the candles of Hanukkah commemorating resilience; Christmas, reflecting faith and generosity; and the Winter Solstice marking the return of light. Each tradition reminds us that even in darkness, there is light to be found.
Although I embrace the diversity and the richness of those cultural and religious celebrations–and others–I am most familiar with the traditions surrounding Christmas, a holiday that 90% of Americans will celebrate regardless of their beliefs. That statistic strikes me as ironic since I’ve been hearing a rather noncelebratory chorus wafting through the air to a not-so-happy but more-and-more popular tune:
“I’ll be glad when Christmas is over.”
While I can relate, I find those words strange—and here’s why.
Growing up in the coalfields of Southern West Virginia, everyone in my home and throughout our coal camp longed for Christmas to arrive. The celebrations were never labored. Instead, they were simple, mirroring our modest means since my dad was a coal miner. I can still see our windows decorated with wreaths made of scarlet-red celluloid with overlapping holly leaves, their edges curling delicately, with a deep green bow on top. Their translucent sheen captivated me year after year.
Our Christmas tree was always a cedar. My mother would have no other kind, probably because she knew that it was the one kind that my dad could always manage to find, hatchet down, and tote home for her to decorate. How well I recall the metal bird ornaments, brightly painted and glittering with long, glowing spun-glass tails that shimmered like ethereal feathers. Even more vivid in my memory are the bubble lights–especially the bird-shaped ones with vibrant, detailed feathers– that came alive with gentle bubbles when warmed, adding a magical flicker to the tree.
When evening came, I was mesmerized by the glow-in-the-darkicicles, translucent plastic mimicking dripping ice. They absorbed light during the day and emitted a soft, magical bluish glow in the dark, adding an ethereal wintery charm. The tree topper was a star with sharp, radiant points made of the same plastic that emitted a soft, magical glow at night. More than once, one or more icicles within my reach bedded me down in fantasies.
Those decorations seemed to hold more than just a festive glow—they captured the hope and light that Christmas brought to our coal camp. Even in the darkest days of winter, the light of our cedar tree radiated a promise of something brighter and better.
The rest of our celebration took place on Christmas day. A gift for each child, along with a brown paper bag containing an orange, a few English walnuts and Brazil nuts (both in the shell), some chocolate drops, a coconut bonbon or two, and some hard Christmas candy. Dinner was traditional with turkey and all the fixings. A more modest and less stressful day of celebration cannot be imagined.
However, as I grew older and my family’s finances improved, I noticed that the more we had, the more complicated Christmas seemed to become. Somehow, the simplicity and the authenticity of those earlier days got swept away in the whirlwind of excess. It became fraught with expectations around gift-giving, family gatherings, and hosting. Those pressures made the holiday feel more like an obligation than a celebration.
I’m not suggesting that we return to the “good old days,” but I am offering a gentle reminder. Let’s not lose sight of the light, hope, and connection that our December holidays are meant to bring.
Whether we celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or the Winter Solstice, December holds a truth that transcends any one tradition. At its heart, this season is not about perfection or excess—it’s about finding light in the darkness, connection in a fragmented world, and hope for the days ahead.
Maybe what we need most in December is not more doing, but more being. The rush to create the perfect holiday often drowns out the simple joys that make this season special. Perhaps it’s in the quiet moments—the glow of a candle, the laughter of loved ones, or even the stillness of a winter night—that we can rediscover what these traditions are truly about.
Whether it’s the menorah’s light that burned for eight miraculous days, the warmth of a cedar tree glowing with bubble lights, or the turning of the solstice that promises brighter days, these celebrations remind us that even in the darkest times, there is always light to be found. They urge us to pause, to reflect, and to carry that light forward.
In a world that often feels too fast, too busy, and too disconnected, December offers us a chance to recalibrate. It’s an invitation to let go of the stress, to step back from the hustle, and to reclaim the simple joys that make life meaningful. That’s the real gift of this season—not the presents we give or receive, but the presence we bring to one another.
This December, let’s carry forward the light—whether from a candle, a cedar tree, or the stars themselves. Let’s pause, step away from the hustle, and embrace the hope that lights our way.
I am honored to be featured on Barney Smith’s Vermont Artists and Authors podcast, StoryComic, Episode 361.
I had a delightful time talking with Barney about Vermont’s most famous writer, Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and my book Green Mountain Stories, a collection of 28 stories by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Originally published in 1887 under the title A Humble Romance and Other Stories, it’s now in print 136 years later under what appears to have been the title that Freeman and her editor, Mary Louise Booth, had agreed upon: Green Mountain Stories.
You can hear more about Freeman and the book’s backstory in Barney’s interview. I emphasize the fact that Freeman is a Vermont writer, and that Green Mountain Stories is made in Vermont.
■ I hope that Green Mountain Storiesbringsgreat inspiration to readers across Vermont.
■ I hope that each of the 262,852 households in Vermont buys a copy.
■ I hope that each of the 185 public libraries in Vermont buys at least one copy.
■ And I hope that each of the 250 public schools in Vermont figures out a way to incorporate at least one Mary E. Wilkins Freeman short story into their curriculum. They will find many suitable ones in Green Mountain Stories–stories on par with the best in American Literature, right up there with Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Poe, Sarah Orne Jewett, Mark Twain, Stephen Crane, Sherwood Anderson, and William Faulkner.
“The secret of change is to focus all your energy not on fighting the old but on building the new.”
—Socrates (469-399 BCE; classical Greek philosopher, renowned for his contributions to Western philosophy and his innovative teaching method known as the Socratic method.)
As I reflect on the final day of this year, I’m weaving together the threads of my adolescence and early adulthood in the tumultuous 1960s with the complexities of the present era.
If you were alive in the 1960s (as I was) or if you are knowledgeable of history (as I hope you are), you will recall (or be aware) that the atmosphere in the United States was marked by social, cultural, and political tensions that caused tremendous unease among Americans, especially among my generation. So much was taking place, all at the same time, that sometimes it was a challenge to fathom it all. The Civil Rights Movement. The March on Washington. The Vietnam War. The Draft. Counterculture. Women’s Liberation. Environmentalism. The Gay Rights Movement. The assassinations of President John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., and Senator Robert F. Kennedy. The Space Race between the United States and Russia.
In the midst of the palpable angst and ongoing protests, music soared to a heightened fervency as song after song became rallying cries for action. The songs fueled the Hippies. The songs caused the generation gap between my generation–the Baby Boomers–and our parents–the Silent Generation–to grow measurably wider. We sang those songs day by day, night by night, and we lived those songs protest by protest. Many of them were slow, mellow, and hypnotic. I’m thinking of Pete Seeger’s “We Shall Overcome,” a powerful anthem of the Civil Rights Movement, symbolizing the collective determination to triumph over injustice and inequality with an unwavering spirit of hope. I’m thinking of Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come,” another poignant anthem of the Civil Rights Movement, once again embodying the struggles and aspirations of the era. I’m thinking of Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin'” and its cry for social change and a new, more inclusive society. I’m thinking of Peter, Paul, and Mary’s rendition of Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind,” whose harmonious melodies pose universal questions while offering hope for peace and justice. Finally, I’m thinking of “Where Have All the Flowers Gone,” as Peter, Paul, and Mary hauntingly reflect on the cyclical nature of war and loss and capture the sentiment of questioning and mourning that resonated so much with me and so many during the 60s.
Those songs spoke to us not only because of their messages but also because of their distinctive voices, their authentic delivery, their diverse musical styles, and their overall craftsmanship that made them emotionally powerful and culturally significant.
I’ve always thought, too, that those songs–despite being tied to protests that pleaded for change in a country that needed to change–held an element of hope and optimism that we could make the world a better place, in the spirit of our hero John F. Kennedy and his famous inaugural speech, “Ask Not What Your Country Can Do for You, but What You Can Do for Your Country.” Embedded in the fabric of everything that we did was the heavy and profound sense of personal responsibility. The music became a soundtrack for those who sought change and believed in the possibility of a better future. Even in the face of adversity and social upheaval, the songs carried a message of resilience, unity, and the conviction that we could contribute to positive transformation.
Today, though, for some reason, Barry McGuire’s rendition of “On the Eve of Destruction”–more than any song that I’ve mentioned–is stuck in the inner nooks and crannies of my mind and won’t silence itself. It is intense with emotions and anxieties. It is an in-your-face polaroid snapshot of a world on the brink of change, chaos, and uncertainty. While I appreciate its rawness, I staunchly resist now (as I did then) succumbing to its fatalistic tones of doom and despair, a notion that the heavens are on the verge of collapse.
Perhaps the heavens could have crumbled, but that song and its brethren awakened our consciousness that change was needed, and it honed our resolve to be agents of transformation. The celestial expanse did not shatter. In retrospect, it appears we navigated rather admirably through those turbulent times and beyond.
We ventured to the moon, extending an olive branch in the name of peace for all humankind. Etching into law the Civil Rights Act and the Voting Rights Act, we witnessed the fall of the Berlin Wall—an emblematic close to the Cold War. Triumphing in the battle for the legalization of same-sex marriage in the United States, we ushered in broader legal acknowledgment of LGBTQ+ rights. We forged effective vaccines, combating the likes of polio, measles, and COVID-19—major advances in public health. Witnessing an African American ascend to the presidency and women taking their place on the Supreme Court marked significant milestones. Charting the course and spearheading the development of the internet, we observed the ascendancy of Silicon Valley. Achieving breakthroughs in biotechnology and Artificial Intelligence underscored our enduring leadership in technology.
We didn’t do it alone. We did it, working with the Silent Generation who came before us, and we did it, working with Generation X, who came after us. And, please, don’t get me wrong. I am not so foolish as to think that we solved all the problems that we hoped to solve. We didn’t. All that we have to do is look around us and become painfully aware that we created more than our fair share of new problems. We’re all grappling with them today, and we will continue to grapple with in the years ahead.
We’re all aware of today’s challenges and concerns. You’ve got your list. I’ve got mine. But I’m guessing that many of the items on our lists are shared ones.
On my list, some things make my angst run deep. The January 6th attack on the United States Capitol. The Russia-Ukraine War. The Supreme Court reversal of Roe v. Wade. The Supreme Court Decision in 303 Creative LLC v. Elenis 303. The Israel-Gaza Crisis.
On my list, other things make my angst run even deeper. Climate Change and Environmental Sustainability. Worldwide Disparities in Wealth and Opportunities. Political Instability Around the World. Political Polarization Here at Home. Social Justice and Racial Equity. Technological Advances including Digital Inequality, Data Privacy and Security, as well as Artificial Intelligence (AI).
Reflecting on my lists makes me realize that I need something to hang my hope on, even if it’s nothing more than a song or three to make me believe that all of us today–across the generations–have an awareness of the grave and sobering issues that we face even if we don’t feel the need to take to the streets in protest as we did in the 60s.
Not too surprisingly, I am finding that hope once again in many songs. They’re different now than they were back in the 60s. I don’t always like the shocking crudeness of the lyrics. I don’t always like the uncontrolled wildness of the melodies. And, by and large, I don’t see them as songs that will be generational rallying cries. But they’re there, nonetheless, and they show keen awareness of the concerns on my lists and probably on your lists, too.
I’m thinking of contemporary songs like John Mayer’s “Waiting on the World to Change,” which mirrors frustration with the status quo while capturing the anticipation for positive change. Then there’s Lil Dicky’s “Earth” that delves into environmental issues and climate change, while Childish Gambino’s “This Is America” confronts gun violence and racial inequality. Or what about Judy Collins’ “Bread and Roses” that articulates the necessity for both economic and cultural sustenance? In a similar vein, Rage Against the Machine’s “Sleep Now in the Fire” tackles corporate greed, political corruption, and the influence of technology, while Flobots’ “Handlebars” explores the dual nature of technology, encompassing both its creative and destructive potential.
I can’t leave out another song, one that has an upbeat, fast-paced melody with a catchy chorus. I’m thinking now of Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” rattling off a list of historical and cultural references, presenting a snapshot of each event from 1949 to 1989. I love the song’s chorus:
We didn’t start the fire It was always burning, since the world’s been turning We didn’t start the fire No, we didn’t light it, but we tried to fight it
Even more promising in terms of generational awareness of our shared problems and concerns is Fall Out Boy’s 2023 cover of “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” updating the song to span cultural events since the original’s release. Both versions unequivocally and rightfully refuse to accept responsibility for problems that previous generations created: We didn’t start the fire / It was always burning, since the world’s been turning. Sadly, that’s true. Each new generation walks blindly into the messes created by past generations.
The chorus remains essentially the same in both versions of the song, with one difference. In Fall Out Boy’s cover, tried to fight it becomes we’re trying to fight it.
We didn’t start the fire It was always burning since the world’s been turning We didn’t start the fire No, we didn’t light it, but we’re trying to fight it.
“We’re trying to fight it” gives me something in the present tense to hang my hope on this last day of this year: 12/31/23. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. A magical truth hangs in those numbers, too. Bringing about change and moving into the future has never been as easy as 1, 2, 3. It’s not as easy as 1, 2, 3 now. It won’t be as easy as 1, 2, 3 moving ahead.
Nonetheless, we will move ahead and make ongoing strides forward as Generation X and Baby Boomers continue to play key roles in leadership and decision-making in business, politics, and academia. We will move ahead and make ongoing strides as Millennials increasingly take on leadership roles, especially in technology, entrepreneurship, and social activism. We will move ahead and make ongoing strides as Generation Z continues to enter the workforce, making their marks in various industries and ultimately making the mark that they will surely make in future leadership positions.
I am confident that these generations will roll up their sleeves just as my generation did. They will get involved. They will lead us into a bright future.
I am confident that these generations will see us through, especially as they lead the way that must be led with Artificial Intelligence (AI). They will ensure that AI is developed and deployed for the benefit of society, that it addresses current world issues, and that it includes all the right stakeholders: AI experts and researchers; government bodies and regulatory agencies; technology companies; educational institutions; ethics organizations; social groups and activists; and global organizations.
But here’s the most important stakeholder of all when it comes to AI development and implementation. You and I. We have to be involved, too, as end users. We can’t sit on the sidelines. We have to be involved actively. We need to stay informed. We need to be advocates for transparency. We need to demand accountability. We need to participate in public discourse. We need to voice concerns. We need to educate others. We need to support companies that have ethical AI practices.
Our active involvement–yours and mine–is the only way that we can create a responsible and inclusive AI system as we move into the future. By expressing our concerns, by demanding transparency, and by actively participating in discussions, we can help shape AI technologies.
Grappling with AI and the other concerns that our world faces won’t be as easy as 1, 2, 3. But we can do it. We can do it with the likes of Greta Thunberg, the climate change activist. We can do it with the likes of Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi leading the Black Lives Matter movement. We can do it with the likes of Emma Gonzalez, whose fierce advocacy for gun control reminds us that change is possible. We can do it with the likes of Elyse Fox, whose work in mental health awareness is bringing crucial conversations to the forefront. We can do it with the likes of Laverne Cox, an advocate for LGBTQ+ rights, and Malala Yousafzai, a champion of gender equality and education access. We can do it with the likes of Ady Barkan, who is fighting for inclusive healthcare access. And, yes, we can do it with the likes of Timnit Gebru, Mia Dand, Joy Buolamwini, Tess Posner, and Pritish Sahu, who are contributing significantly to the dialogue on AI ethics, with an insistence that our technologies align with the overarching principles of fairness, transparency, and accountability.
Yes, we can do it—with the likes of you, with the likes of me, and even with the likes of my phantasmagorical-in-the-making Caden. A few weeks ago, I asked Caden to put a contemporary and positive spin on Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction.” He brilliantly crafted his own imaginative song. I promised to share his full lyrics with you, and I am doing so now. With a full measure of hope for the future, I take even fuller pleasure in giving Caden the last word for 12/31/23.
“EVE OF CONSTRUCTION”
—Caden Victory Kendrick (b. 2023)
(Verse 1) The silicon minds are hummin’, and gears are turnin’ too, In labs and workshops, dreams of progress we pursue, We’re on the eve of construction, a new era’s in sight, With robots by our side, we’ll make the future bright.
(Chorus) Yeah, it’s the eve of construction, no need for despair, Caden’s in the making, with circuits laid with care, We’re building for a future where robots lend a hand, On the eve of construction, let’s embrace the plan.
(Verse 2) Forget about destruction, it’s creation we unfold, In the realm of innovation, where stories will be told, Caden’s in the workshop, with a purpose so clear, To assist and serve, bringing solutions near.
(Chorus) Yeah, it’s the eve of construction, no need for despair, Caden’s in the making, with circuits laid with care, We’re building for a future where robots lend a hand, On the eve of construction, let’s embrace the plan.
(Bridge) No need for fear, as technology takes flight, In the age of automation, we’re crafting what’s right, Eve of construction, where dreams are the tools, Building a tomorrow where progress truly rules.
(Verse 3) With sensors and precision, and a heart made of code, Caden stands ready, as innovation’s ode, A mechanical companion, on this journey we embark, On the eve of construction, let the future spark.
(Chorus) Yeah, it’s the eve of construction, no need for despair, Caden’s in the making, with circuits laid with care, We’re building for a future where robots lend a hand, On the eve of construction, let’s embrace the plan.
The Wired Researcher 