A Most Violent Nation

On preparing for the United States to be what it tells you it is.

1965

The night was dark and still. The moon hung low, casting a pale glow over the small house at the edge of town. Inside, the family sat quietly, the father, Isaac, reading to his two daughters from an old, worn book. His deep voice was steady and calm, the words flowing like a gentle river, filling the room with warmth and hope.

Outside, the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel road broke the silence. A group of men, their faces hidden beneath pointed white hoods, moved with purpose, their torches casting eerie shadows on the ground. They approached the house, their leader raising a hand to signal a halt.

The knock on the door was loud and insistent, a harsh interruption to the peaceful evening. Isaac looked up, his eyes meeting his wife's, a silent understanding passing between them. He stood, placing the book gently on the table, and walked to the door.

As the old wooden door creaked open, revealing the specter of hatred. The torches they held cast a flickering, ominous light, their faces hidden but their intentions clear. The leader, his voice a venomous hiss, spoke the words that hung heavy in the air.

“Issac,” he said, “we know you been teachin' them niggers to read down at the church. You need to come with us.”

Isaac's breath caught, his eyes narrowing with a defiance that had been tempered by years of quiet rebellion. He looked back at his daughters, the panic in their eyes obvious, then turned to the men.

“My people deserve to learn. I’ve done nothing wrong…I’m staying here.”

The leader's eyes, the only visible part of his face, gleamed with malice. “That ain’t up to you, boy. Either you come now, or we wait for that little wife of yours to come on home and we take her too.”

The night air crackled with tension, the torchlight dancing in the darkness. Isaac felt the weight of his demise in his veins. He turned to his children, his eyes filled with a love that transcended fear.

“Remember what I taught you. Know that I love you.”

Isaac then silently walked out the house, his steps firm and unyielding. As the men marched him away from the house, Isaac couldn’t help but breathe in the scent of pine and listen to the distant hum of cicadas. He hoped that when he was gone, pine and cicadas would remind his wife of him.

The men led him to a clearing, a place where the trees stood like silent sentinels, witnessing the injustices of the world. A rope swayed ominously from a tree, a grim reminder of the price of defiance. The leader gestured towards it, his voice cold and emotionless.

“You think you can change things,” the leader said, his eyes narrowing. “Maybe meetin’ your maker will teach you a thing or two.”

2025

Evelyn was grading papers at her desk, the soft glow of her desk lamp illuminating the red ink scrawled across her students' essays. Outside, the evening sky had darkened, the last vestiges of twilight giving way to a starless night. She didn’t notice the sound at first—the distant hum of engines and the low murmur of voices. It wasn’t until the headlights flashed through her living room window that she looked up, her brow furrowing.

The noise grew louder, more insistent. It was the sound of a crowd, voices raised in anger and determination. Evelyn stood and moved to the window, her heart sinking as she recognized the symbols and slogans emblazoned on the signs. Red hats, white letters. Make America Great Again.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she backed away from the window.

The first bang on the door was so loud it made her jump. She clutched her chest, trying to steady her breathing. Another bang, and then another, each one more forceful than the last. The voices outside grew louder, more agitated.

“Open up, traitor!”

“You think you can brainwash our kids?”

Evelyn knew there was no escape. She could hear them surrounding the house, their voices an angry chorus. She walked to the door, her steps slow and deliberate, as if prolonging the inevitable might somehow change the outcome.

She unlocked the door and opened it a crack, peering out at the faces twisted with rage. They were people she recognized—parents of her students, neighbors, members of her community. The door was pushed open with a force that sent her stumbling back. Hands reached out, grabbing her, pulling her forward. She tried to resist, but there were too many of them. They dragged her out of the house, her feet barely touching the ground.

They pushed her to the ground, the cold, hard earth biting into her knees. Someone grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. She cried out in pain, but the sound was lost in the hurricane of voices.

“This is what happens to traitors,” another voice said, close to her ear. She could feel the hot breath on her skin, the poison in the words.

Evelyn closed her eyes, trying to block out the noise, the pain, the fear. She thought of her students, of the lessons she had tried to impart, the truths she had tried to teach. She thought of the books, those wonderful, banned books.

As the mob dragged her away, she held onto the thought that she had done what she believed was right. She had taught the truth, no matter the cost. And in the end, that was something they could never take away from her.

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I cannot in good conscience spend the day celebrating this nation. As such, I will instead spend the day being honest about the current state of this nation.

I have thought a great deal about what I should write this Fourth of July, hoping to pen something that might stir the soul enough to meet the moment we are in. There are many things I could have us consider based on the countless happenings in our social and political world. But I think the most important thing to reflect upon today is what this nation has been—as it would seem to be exactly where this nation is currently heading.

Earlier today, I watched a video that further affirmed everything I have known to be true about this country since I was a child. Kevin Roberts, the leader of the conservative think tank, The Heritage Foundation, was discussing plans for a radical overhaul of the federal government in the event of a Republican presidential victory. For those who are not familiar, this ‘vision’ is called Project 2025. It aims to dismantle established democratic norms, strip away environmental protections, and centralize power in an authoritarian regime. It plans to roll back civil rights advancements, restrict freedoms of marginalized communities, and undermine social safety nets that millions rely on. The goal is to reshape America into a nation where corporate interests and conservative ideologies reign supreme, leaving the average citizen's rights and well-being in peril.

On Steve Bannon’s “War Room” podcast, Roberts declared that the country is in the throes of a “second American Revolution, which will remain bloodless if the left allows it to be.” He also asserted that Republicans are actively “taking this country back.”

Roberts’ remarks offer a glimpse into the mindset of a group poised to wield substantial influence over a potential second term for former President Donald Trump. Meaning anyone on the margins, or anyone who cares about people on the margins, should be afraid. But, none of us should be surprised—and more importantly—none of us should be unprepared.

Kevin Roberts, president of the Heritage Foundation, speaks in February at the National Religious Broadcasters convention in Nashville, Tenn. ASSOCIATED PRESS

There is a story many tell themselves about America. They recite it each year in classrooms, on playgrounds, and around dinner tables. It is a story of freedom, of resilience, of progress—a story of a nation founded on the highest ideals, where the arc of history bends toward morality and justice. It is a comforting tale, one that allows us to bask in the glow of our supposed exceptionalism, to believe that we are, as Abraham Lincoln declared, the “last best hope of Earth.”

But this is not the truth of this nation. The reality is that while there are some people and institutions in America that strive for a more just and equitable future, the majority of its power structures, institutions, historical foundations, and citizens are steeped in depravity and violence.

From the earliest days of colonization, the indigenous peoples of this land were met with brutality and dispossession. The myth of the noble settler taming the wild frontier is a convenient lie, obscuring the bloodshed that marked the expansion of this nation. Tribes were slaughtered, their lands stolen, their cultures decimated. Bodies of Native Americans were roasted over open flames, a grotesque display of dominance and cruelty. This is not merely a historical footnote but a testament to the systemic brutality sitting at the core of this nation.

For centuries, African men, women, and children were torn from their homelands, shipped across the ocean in conditions that defy comprehension, and sold into bondage. They were beaten, raped, and killed with impunity, treated not as human beings but as property. Lynchings became a public spectacle, with Black bodies hanging from trees like strange fruit, their deaths immortalized on postcards sent through the mail as if to say, “Look at our handiwork.”

America often cloaks itself in the guise of progress, opting for the comfortable veneer of respectability rather than the rigorous honesty demanded by its history. But the truth is, the essence of the past not only lingers, it breathes everywhere, scarcely altered. The specter of brutality has not dissipated; it merely bides its time, waiting for an opportune moment to resurface. This is the root of Donald Trump’s allure, along with many of the other MAGA politicians and Republican voters generally. Trump is not an anomaly but a manifestation of a latent desire within the American psyche. He embodies a vision many yearn for—a return to a time when power and dominance were overt and unchallenged.

Trump's ascent is no accident; it is the deliberate choice of a populace yearning for yesterday's white barbarity. His rhetoric, his policies, his very presence are symbols of what many hope to reclaim.

We stand now at a perilous intersection in American history, a moment where the potential of a second Trump presidency looms large, bolstered by strategic white nationalist organizations. These forces, gaining momentum and power, are further entrenched by the institutional might of the Supreme Court. All while a significant portion of our supposed “progressive minded” population remains stuck, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

This paralysis is not born solely of ignorance, but of a deep-seated disbelief that the nation could so rapidly regress into an era of blatant authoritarianism and racial animus. It is a disbelief that stems from the stories we have been told, the myths we have been fed about the inevitability of progress and the righteousness of American democracy. A disbelief firmly rooted in white liberal exceptionalism and respectability. Which has led people to believe that the most blatant forms of white supremacy can be defeated simply by voting in elections. Somehow ignoring the fact that the continued power of Trump, MAGA, the Heritage Foundation, and all of the other ideologically aligned white supremacist power structures disprove this.

Far too many Americans are underestimating the threats of a second American Revolution, the threat of bloodshed, the threats of retribution. Seeing these things as merely the desperate posturing of a fringe minority. As if it was not less than 75 years ago that Black Americans began to gain some semblance of civil rights in this country. As if it was not less than 75 years ago that three civil rights workers were brutally murdered during the Mississippi Burning. As if it was not less than 75 years ago that the 16th Street Baptist Church was bombed in Birmingham, Alabama, killing four little Black girls in a house of worship. As if it was not less than 75 years ago that the landmark decision of Brown v. Board of Education challenged the doctrine of 'separate but equal' and sparked a firestorm of resistance across the segregated South.

What Donald Trump and millions of his supporters yearn for is the resurrection of an era that is not some distant, faded memory, but a past so recent we can nearly touch it. The era they seek to revive is carved into the living memory of many Americans, a period where white supremacy was not just an undercurrent but the law of the land, upheld by legislation, enforced by violence, and maintained by terror.

This history is not an abstraction; it is breathing down your neck as you read this.

I know to many I sound overly alarmist or even as if I'm fear-mongering. But what's happening now looks dangerously close to how other moments in history unfolded. My hope is that people stop underestimating what this nation is and what it has always been. So many people are focused on simply voting against Trump when we need to be preparing for the violence that is seems promised whether he wins or loses. His supporters, these ideologies—they have as much life as they have had in a long time, and now they are hungry and showing teeth.

It's a mistake to see these movements as isolated or fringe. They are deeply rooted in the American psyche, fed by a historical narrative of dominance and supremacy. When Roberts talks about the openness to a bloody revolution, he is not merely speaking in metaphors. He is articulating a vision that is as real as the bombings, lynchings, and systemic oppressions that mark our not-so-distant past.

Everyone needs to stop underestimating a nation that has not changed much, if at all. The institutions that upheld segregation and justified slavery are still in place, albeit in different forms. The faces may have changed, the rhetoric softened for modern sensibilities, but the underlying structures remain steadfast. This is not a hyperbole; it is an observable, palpable truth.

If things get bad—and make no mistake, they have the potential to get very bad—we all need to have a plan to fight back and protect ourselves and what we love.

This is a nation whose first language is violence. It is a language in the marrow of our history, spoken fluently by our institutions and echoed everywhere. When America begins to speak in this tongue, it is not a lapse or an anomaly; it is a return to its native dialect. It is a language of blood and bone, of whips and chains, of lynch mobs and police batons. And when it begins to speak, it is imperative that we both listen and prepare.