Is this the beginning of the end, the end, or the end of the beginning?
The last 11 days of American life have been hard to handle.
As I experience it, this all-out assault on DEI is, at its core and at its origin, an assault on Blackness. That doesn’t mean the attacks on everyone else don’t matter; on the contrary, the attacks on women, People of Color, the LGBTQ+ community, people of other faith traditions — they all matter, a whole lot. And, this is about understanding why this is happening. Watch the deeds. Hear the words. And as you peel back the layers, you realize this is part of a pattern, a sustained assault on Blackness that has been part of the American experience since the beginning. As I see it, the reasons for it are two-fold: The first is greed. The second is racism. No amount of wishing we could or would stop talking about it will make this go away. And the implications are far-reaching for all of us.
Original Sin
Early in America’s story, the people who came here, who established colonies both to escape rule and to find a place to impose their own (hurt people hurt people, the saying goes), these people, primarily European men, accumulated power, wealth and freedom through the genocide of the Indigenous people, the enslavement of Africans and African Americans, and the suppression of women’s rights. And since that time, throughout the generations, as this nation and its people have struggled to overcome those original sins of our founding, some of the descendants of these people have in turn struggled to hold onto that power, supremacy and wealth. When slavery was abolished, when Black people and women won the right to vote, when civil rights were made into law, when gay people won the right to marry, each of these developments was seen by these rich and powerful as an erosion of wealth and power, as an attack on their original identity, their believed birthright; and so they had begun to believe what they would have us believe, that there were not enough resources for everyone to live their lives in safety, joy and fulfillment, and therefore that some deserved it more than others. Greed. And then racism.
Over the last century in particular, many of the ultra-wealthy and in the ruling classes have manipulated all of us into believing this fiction that drove their fear, and fueled their greed and/or their racism: they want all of us to believe that the reason you don’t have what you need to survive and thrive is not because they are accumulating mind-boggling power and wealth; but rather, because either you (or some other “they”) have not worked hard enough to earn it, or because you (or some other “they”) are inferior and therefore do not deserve it. To the point where some of the poorest and least powerful among us see these figures as their heroes and saviors.
And in allowing these things to continue, in believing them in our collective American subconscious, we have been participating in our own blindness, while these people have perpetrated and perpetuated a fraud on the American people. And of course, with anti-Black racism at its core, this fraud eventually victimized, marginalized and disenfranchised many other groups. And now, the fraud is being perpetrated and perpetuated at a scale and at a speed unprecedented in American life.
As I read about how Elon Musk and his DOGE allies have so swiftly and with so little structural or moral resistance gained control of the PAYMENTS SYSTEM AND $5 TRILLION WORTH OF ANNUAL TRANSACTION DATA OF THE TREASURY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, I am overwhelmed with emotions. I find myself sitting here, wrestling with a fiery ball of fear and anger in my belly, and a creeping sense of hopelessness. Does no one else see this? Why aren’t our elected officials doing anything to stop this? How could it be this easy? What does this mean? Who will they cut off? Whose social security check won’t arrive? Eventually, this will impact people of every race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, zip code, and political affiliation. What then? What will people do when they can’t pay their bills? When they can’t get their medicine? Or buy food?
Here we are, barely 17 months from the nation’s upcoming 250th birthday, and I truly wonder if we’ll make it to then, because it no longer feels alarmist, extremist or exaggerated to wonder whether we are facing the end of our society as we know it.
As I mull this over, a phrase comes to me: this is social and economic blitzkrieg.
And that’s when I ask myself the question: Is this the beginning of the end, the end, or the end of the beginning?
Because as bad as today’s news is, tomorrow it’ll be yesterday’s news. Replaced by something equally or more outrageous. And in the big scheme of things, it’s just one more thing in a week, a month, a year, a decade, a century, an American era of actions taken by one group in power to weaken or dehumanize the other. And I wonder, where is the empathy?
Lost in Fear
When I hear people who voted for him say with their whole chest, “Yes! This IS in fact what we wanted!” My heart sinks. Why would they want to see people dehumanized? Lives destroyed? Why does the way other people want to live and love bother them so? Why do they want to round up and deport people who’ve lived here for years as families, who do not drain our economy but rather contribute to it in crucial ways? (Think agriculture, hospitality, construction, etc.) Why does DEI bother them so much? Do they know how much actual DEI (not the fake far-right weaponized version of DEI) helps so many people in this country, including people like them or people they care about? Why do policies, practices and programs designed to correct past and present discrimination and inequality bother them so? Why does a system designed to close the gaps and remove the barriers caused by racism, sexism, homophobia, and xenophobia bother them so?
And when I hear people who voted for him say, wringing their hands, “Well, I didn’t mean for it to be all of this. I just didn’t like the direction the country was going in under Biden. I didn’t like the way the government was being run. And I’m struggling to make ends meet, so I wanted a change.” My heart sinks at this, too. How could they not see what so many of us who have lived with the weight of oppression saw?
And when I think of all the people who didn’t vote at all, because they were annoyed with the choices. My heart sinks. How could they not realize the stakes? Are they happy with what we have now, or do they really just not care so much that this doesn’t bother them one way or the other? Do they still believe this doesn’t affect them?
And of course, when I sit here, looking at all of these groups that I want to blame, that I want to see as part of the problem, I am instantly convinced of my own fault in the matter. I am doing what I believe in the deepest part of my soul is our national problem: I am seeing our lives in terms of “us” and “them.”
All around me, and in myself – I see people who’ve convinced themselves they can’t trust one another anymore—neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend. I feel more deeply than I ever have before the fear that our country – our democracy in particular – is coming apart in front of our very eyes.
I’ve found myself returning to the question: is this the beginning of the end? Is this the end itself? Or could this be the end of the beginning, a moment where we finally decide to see one another—and our future—differently?
I’m no stranger to wandering—physically, emotionally, spiritually. In a lot of ways, I’m a “Nostalgic Nomad” after all. A wanderer who tries to glean meaning from each new space and experience. But now, I find myself looking around at a country that’s veering into dangerous territory at breakneck speed with our eyes closed and our hands clutching a steering wheel no longer attached to the steering column. Some of our leaders, fueled by ambition, greed, hatred or a combination of all three, have found ways to access power we never thought possible. And it leaves me wondering if we’ve already crossed a line we can’t uncross.
And then I see it. That’s it. It’s fear. My fear. Your fear. Our fear. Fear is the root of all of what ails us. It is the root of our enmity. Of our greed. Of our racism and our hatred. Fear.
And when I see it, I cannot unsee it. And I cannot help but be reminded that I already know what the cure is, even if I don’t want to admit it myself.
From fear, division and hatred to trust, unity, and connection.
And it’s going to take empathy and vulnerability in all of us to get there.
From Fear to Empathy, Trust and Connection
I believe this is the way. If there is another, please tell me! But I feel that if we cannot do these things – empathize with one another, begin to trust each other again, and connect through shared experiences and shared values – then we are at the end.
When it comes to this American experiment, what the founding fathers expressed as ideals, the solution to their fears, and the manifestation of their hopes and dreams, imperfect and incomplete as they might be, I believe that while we might presently teeter on the brink of failure, we also might find a way back from the edge. I believe America can yet become what it should have been all along: a place where all can thrive, regardless of our color, creed, or who we love. A place that not only promises life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness on paper but defends it actively for every person. In my more hopeful moments, I can almost see it—an America that pulls itself back from the brink by returning to principles we’ve too often neglected: genuine empathy, vulnerability, and trust.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking and writing about fear—how it makes us react in ways that turn neighbor into enemy and transforms every stranger into a threat. Fear isn’t just in our minds; it’s in our bodies. It seizes our breath and triggers our fight-or-flight instincts, stopping us from reaching across divides and trusting each other to help us survive and thrive.
And, time and again, I’ve seen that empathy and vulnerability is the only real antidote. By intentionally seeing each other as human and by choosing to be vulnerable, by sharing our stories, we begin the work of dismantling fear. We realize that behind the labels and the politics, most of us want the same basics: security, opportunity, community, and a sense of belonging. I’ve written before about meeting in the middle and seeing each other’s humanity. Those aren’t just platitudes for me, and I hope they aren’t for you. I really believe these are the deliberate steps we can and must take toward dismantling fear. We empathize by listening. We trust by risking honesty. We hope by taking bold steps together.
In my travels and journeys, both literal and figurative, I’ve encountered countless people of various backgrounds who share one defining feature: they care. Often, they’re tired and frustrated. Some are cynical. But they still care enough to talk to a stranger about their dreams and disappointments. They care enough to volunteer at local shelters, to attend town halls, to run for office in hopes of serving their communities. This is the heartbeat of what I’ve sometimes aspirationally referred to as Sojourn America, a journey we’re all on together, whether we recognize it or not.
And I’m hoping that I can convince a good many of you, from different political and ideological backgrounds, to see this journey we’re on, to see it as a journey we should take together, not separately.
Because whatever your politics, regardless of who you voted for, we are quickly coming to the realization that this – THIS – is no longer sustainable. For all the reasons you think, and plenty you don’t.
If you’re conservative, you’re right, and you’re wrong. Yes, our economy in its current form isn’t sustainable. We’re practically bankrupt. We have lost some part of ourselves, and what made us a once truly great nation. And, at its extreme and fullest implementation, your solution isn’t sustainable either, because for many of you, the solution to avoiding economic implosion is to reduce not just the government – but the very nation itself – by segregating, cutting off, dehumanizing, defunding, disconnecting, and deporting tens of millions of people who make up this country and who help this country work, mainly because they don’t look like you, pray like you, or love like you.
If you’re progressive, you’re right, and you’re wrong. Yes, our social systems aren’t sustainable. Because despite intentions and proclamations to the contrary, American democracy hasn’t been equally experienced by all Americans from the beginning. The ideal remains just that. And, at its extreme and fullest implementation, your solution isn’t sustainable either. Because many of you want to dismantle it all, and honestly, I’m not sure that’s a viable plan for what comes next. In your advocacy for justice, some of you seek to impose righteousness on the masses, rather than truly bringing them along.
We have been here before, at key points in our national history, and we are not unique. Other civilizations and countries around the world have wrestled with these things, too.
Most of them failed.
If we are not to go down like the rest of them… we MUST see this moment – ourselves, each other, our past, our present, and our future – differently than we EVER have.
We must overcome our fear.
What if we finally admitted that neither of our extreme political poles provides a complete solution? Both sides have a few valid points and a few deep flaws, and honestly, a lot of the rest of it is a matter of perspective. Yet if we only shout past each other, we stay stuck. And the cost of staying stuck right now is staggering.
We Need a Vision
This comes down to vision. I’ve said it before, and written about it. And all this time, I’ve thought that meant articulating some grandiose, beautiful, hopeful place.
Honestly, I think our vision needs a healthy dose of “keep-it-real”-ness. Aspirational and authentic. And it needs to be relevant to as many of us as possible, otherwise, it will feel one-sided.
So let me say it outright: I want us to survive. Yeah. Like, first of all, I WANT US TO MAKE IT. I don’t want to see America burn down just so we can start over from scratch. I believe we can, with all our brokenness, find a better path. But survival isn’t enough.
Next, I want us to thrive. That means confronting racism, greed, and everything else that keeps the promise of this nation out of reach for so many. It means recognizing that building each other up can be more powerful, more productive, and yes, even more profitable, than tearing each other down. When I wrote about The Hopeful Way, it wasn’t just about naive optimism. It was about anchoring ourselves to a vision worth fighting for.
So, at its most fundamental and most idealistic, my vision is for us to survive and thrive. Actually, that’s not true. I think a better version would be: For America to Survive, We All Must Thrive.
#ThisIsMe: A Call to Vulnerability and an Invitation to Empathy
In that spirit, I’ve started imagining a movement—simple, raw, and real—where we all share “This Is Me.” It’s a simple set of quick questions.
I’ll kick it off. Here are my answers:
- Who am I? James.
- Where am I from? All over… Nashville, New York, Richmond.
- What generation am I part of? Gen X.
- What do I fear? Being rounded up as an interracial, interfaith, Black and Jewish family. LGBTQ+ family members being persecuted.
- What do I hope for? For my kids and your kids to live happy, healthy, productive lives in harmony.
- What do I need from others to survive and thrive? Compassion and accountability.
- What am I willing to do, personally, to help others survive and thrive? Share what I can with others when they are in need.
By telling our own stories and listening to others, we begin to see how alike we really are. How our everyday struggles—paying the bills, loving our kids, finding meaning—bind us together in ways that politics can’t easily dismantle.
It’s not a cure-all. It won’t solve every crisis or fix every system. But it’s a start—a spark of empathy that can ignite better conversations and, hopefully, better policies. Especially in these times, we need simple, accessible steps to reconnect. #ThisIsMe is one such step.
So let’s do it. Let’s share “This is Me.” On social. In person. With family. With friends. With neighbors. With coworkers. And especially, with someone you don’t identify with today.
Holding Fast to Hope
Even as I seethe about what some of the wealthiest and most powerful people in the world are doing – consolidating influence, seeking to control our financial systems, and grabbing hold of our social infrastructures – I refuse to give up my hope – to give up on hope. After all, it is part of my calling, for people to experience hope and revelation with and through me. I am absolutely convinced we’ve been here before in some form or fashion. History has shown us that democracy, even in its most battered state, can rebound if enough people rise up to reclaim it, and to reform it into a version that is indeed more inclusive, representative, and just. If we lean into empathy more than fear, if we choose trust over suspicion and division, and if we continue to foster relationships across dividing lines, we just might make it. Our democracy might be messy, but it’s also “brilliant and broken,” and in this space, hope-filled renewal is always possible.
So if you feel the way I do – scared, tired, and uncertain – know you’re not alone. Even if you’re scared, tired, and uncertain for entirely different reasons, because we don’t vote the same or look the same or come from the same place or see things the same, just know that you’re not alone. This isn’t just your burden or mine; it’s ours, now. We can still shape what comes next. This might be the beginning of the end if we do nothing. But it can also be the end of the beginning—the moment when we, as Americans, decide we’ve had enough of fear and division. The moment we choose empathy, unity, and the radical idea that we’re all interconnected, whether we like it or not.
America, This Is Me. I’m sharing my fears, my hopes, my vision. I’m ready to listen to yours. Let’s see if we can build something better together.
A Parting Thought
These reflections draw on my past writings about fear, trust, and bridging divides—from exploring the joys and challenges of an interracial, interfaith family to pondering how we rebuild a nation’s faith in itself. I’ve stood in countless spaces where hope felt thin, but I’ve also seen moments of profound human connection. My prayer, my call, is that we lean into those moments now—showing up, telling our stories, and daring to trust that democracy isn’t finished with us just yet, and that we are not finished with it. If we choose to hold empathy, to risk vulnerability, to extend trust, to seek connection, and let it guide our actions, perhaps we’ll look back on this period as the crucible that forged a stronger, more inclusive America. I know it feels like I’m asking a lot, and maybe I am. But the alternative is not appealing to me. Rather than stay the course or dismantle everything we know, I’d rather we experience an evolution, together. May it be so.
