The Light for Which Many Have Died

Memorial Day 2025

I always return to Memorial Day not only as a moment of remembrance, but as a reminder of responsibility. If you’ve read my earlier reflections—on the quiet lessons of cemeteries, the fraying threads of our civic fabric, or the unfinished work we inherit as citizens—you know I believe history isn’t just something we study; it’s something we carry. Memorial Day, especially, asks us to slow down and shoulder that burden. It’s not only about honoring the fallen, but about asking what we owe them—what kind of country we are building in their absence, and whether we are prepared to defend the ideals they died for with our words, our votes, and our daily lives.

There is a quiet place in the heart of Philadelphia, bracketed by trees and hemmed in by the rhythm of the city. Washington Square—once a burial ground, then a grazing field, later a parade ground—holds beneath its grass the remains of thousands of unnamed soldiers who fought for the fragile, radical idea of American independence.

They lie there still, without headstones, without certainty, but not without honor.

Their tomb is marked by a flame and a carved warning, both solemn and illuminating:

"Freedom is a light for which many men have died in darkness."

That line has settled in my head this year. It feels like a whisper from the past, growing louder as the headlines grow noisier.

These men died in obscurity, in suffering, in the confusion and chaos of a war that had not yet produced a nation. They died not for a flag or a president or a party, but for an idea—half-born, fragile, and still unproven: that people could govern themselves.

They did not live to see if it would work. They gave their lives for a future they could not claim, only imagine.

We are that future.

And the question we must ask this Memorial Day is not merely, “Do we remember them?” but rather, “Are we worthy of them?”

Because freedom’s light still burns—but it flickers.

In recent months, I’ve felt it dim in the distance, dulled by cynicism, selfishness, and a national attention span grown brittle. We argue more than we understand. We scroll more than we serve. We mock before we mourn. And too often, we confuse personal grievance with public virtue.

We’ve come to treat democracy as a spectator sport. We tally wins and losses like baseball box scores, forgetting that self-government was never meant to be a game—let alone a blood sport.

But history doesn’t unfold by accident. It is written by hands like ours—in ballot booths and classrooms, in boardrooms and around kitchen tables. The soldiers in Washington Square died without knowing who would take up the work. That task was left to us.

George Washington, in his 1796 Farewell Address, reminded the country:

“The independence and liberty you possess are the work of joint councils and joint efforts of common dangers, sufferings, and success.”

It was true then. It remains true now.

So this Memorial Day, we are called not only to decorate graves, but to defend ideals. To honor the dead not just with flags and flowers, but with action—with civic learning, civil dialogue, and a renewed belief that our shared work is still unfinished and still worth doing.

Because if freedom is a light, then we must be its keepers.

And if others have died in darkness to bring us this light, let us not extinguish it with our indifference. Let us carry it forward—however imperfectly, however urgently—so that future generations might look back and say:

They remembered.

They were worthy.

Washing Clothes, Reading History, and Rethinking the Constitution (REVIEW)

The Quartet: Orchestrating the Second American Revolution, 1783–1789
by Joseph J. Ellis

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

When I moved cross-country from Boise to Syracuse, I expected a few inconveniences—unpacking chaos, unfamiliar grocery stores, and adjusting to a colder, wetter climate. But I didn’t anticipate being without a washer and dryer for the first time in years. My appliances, loyal veterans of countless laundry days, were sitting in a storage unit across town. Which is how I found myself at the local laundromat one Saturday, armed with a basket of dirty clothes and a faint sense of nostalgia.

After jockeying for a dryer and realizing I’d forgotten both my Bounce sheets and my earbuds (rookie mistake), I did what any self-respecting person without a podcast would do: I wandered around the laundromat. That’s when I stumbled upon a weathered Little Free Library tucked beside the soda machine. Most of the offerings were exactly what you’d expect—Go Dog Go!, a few romance novels missing their covers, and Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul. But sandwiched between them was something unexpected: The Quartet: Orchestrating the Second American Revolution by Joseph J. Ellis. I didn’t know if this was divine intervention or just a misplaced donation from a very patriotic cat lover, but I grabbed it. And as the spin cycle hummed behind me, I found myself drawn into a story about revolution, reinvention, and the stubborn art of keeping a country from falling apart.

In The Quartet, Ellis turns his considerable talents to the underexplored period between the end of the Revolutionary War and the ratification of the U.S. Constitution—a stretch of time often glossed over in high school textbooks. His thesis is simple but profound: that the true founding of the United States as a unified nation happened not in 1776, but between 1783 and 1789. And it wasn’t the result of some grand inevitability, but of the determined efforts of four key figures—George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay—who understood that liberty without structure was a recipe for collapse.

I studied The Federalist Papers and read Ketcham's The Anti-Federalist Papers and the Constitutional Convention Debates in college and have always considered myself fairly well-versed in the mechanics of the Constitutional Convention. I’ve even referenced Publius more than once in polite conversation—much to the confusion (and occasional concern) of friends. Yet what struck me most about Ellis’s narrative was how fresh and human the story felt. His account offered something different: a real sense of the urgency, messiness, and sheer improbability of what Washington, Hamilton, Madison, and Jay managed to pull off. These weren’t just abstract ideas being batted around in Philadelphia meeting rooms; these were strategic gambles, emotional appeals, and backroom compromises aimed at coaxing a fragmented confederation into becoming something that could survive.

Ellis presents these men not as marble-carved heroes, but as complex, occasionally conflicted individuals grappling with the chaos of post-war America. Washington’s quiet gravitas and personal restraint become political tools in their own right. Hamilton’s financial savvy and rhetorical firepower give backbone to the argument for federal authority. Madison, the book’s intellectual workhorse, emerges as a master strategist—crafting the Virginia Plan, writing the Federalist Papers, and shaping the very structure of the Constitution. And Jay, often the most overlooked of the four, plays a crucial role in diplomacy and consensus-building, bringing legitimacy to the process through his experience and careful words.

What’s most striking is how much of their work feels urgently relevant today. As I read Ellis’s account of political gridlock, fragile alliances, and public mistrust of centralized power, I couldn’t help but think about our current political climate. The rhetoric may be flashier now, and the internet has certainly raised the volume, but the underlying tensions—between state and federal power, between populism and pragmatism, between ideology and governance—remain stubbornly familiar. Ellis reminds us that our system was never designed for ease. It was built for negotiation, compromise, and above all, balance:

In the long run—and this was probably Madison’s most creative insight—the multiple ambiguities embedded in the Constitution made it an inherently “living” document. For it was designed not to offer clear answers…but instead to provide a political arena in which arguments about those contested issues could continue in a deliberate fashion. (Ellis, p.174) 

This idea—that the Constitution was never meant to be a static rulebook but a dynamic framework for ongoing debate—feels particularly resonant now, when so many of our most pressing challenges hinge on interpretation, intent, and the willingness to engage across divides.

The brilliance of The Quartet lies in its clarity. Ellis peels away the mythology surrounding the Constitution’s creation and exposes the deliberate, often messy reality underneath. This was not a moment of national consensus; it was a hard-fought campaign by a determined minority who believed the American experiment needed stronger scaffolding if it was to survive. The Articles of Confederation, noble in their idealism, had left the country vulnerable—economically unstable, diplomatically weak, and internally fragmented. These four men saw what others feared to admit: that revolution was not the end of the story, but the beginning of a new and equally complicated chapter.

Ellis walks us through the Philadelphia Convention, the state ratification battles, and the artful persuasion that made unity possible. He brings a historian’s rigor to the narrative but writes with the accessibility of someone who wants his work to be read on park benches, in coffee shops—and yes, even in laundromats. His focus on character-driven storytelling makes the political feel personal, which is a good reminder that it always has been.

Reading The Quartet while navigating a personal transition gave me a deeper appreciation for the kind of collective work that goes into building anything lasting—be it a new home, a new community, or a functioning republic. Moving to a new city, starting over in many ways, I found a surprising kinship in the story of four men trying to knit together a fledgling country from a patchwork of states that didn’t always like or trust each other. It reminded me that reinvention takes vision, patience, and a willingness to wrestle with uncomfortable truths.

In the end, The Quartet is a book about second chances—not just for the country, but for the idea of America itself. It challenges us to recognize that founding principles are only as strong as our ability to uphold them. And maybe, as we navigate our own uncertain political era, there’s something comforting in the reminder that we’ve faced this kind of instability before—and that good ideas, backed by hard work and a willingness to compromise, can still win the day.

So if you find a copy in a Little Free Library—or in your local bookstore—pick up The Quartet. It won’t just teach you about history. It might just remind you why it matters.

View all my reviews

The Art of Being Lovably Flawed

What Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster Taught Me About Building a Life

I am part of the Sesame Street generation, not the nostalgic, "remember when" generation, but the actual first one. I was there for the beginning, sitting cross-legged in front of our wood-grain Zenith television in 1969, watching something that had never existed before: a show that talked to kids like we had brains, that mixed education with pure silliness, and that populated a neighborhood with characters who were unapologetically, authentically themselves.

Ask me about my favorite Muppets, and I'll tell you without hesitation: Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster. Not Big Bird, despite his gentle wisdom. Not Kermit, despite his earnest leadership. The grouch and the glutton. The cynic and the chaos agent. The two characters who, even at age three or four, I somehow knew were telling me something important about what it meant to be human.

Decades later, as I reflect on the life I've built—the career choices I've made, the way I've tried to parent, the relationships I've formed—I realize how profoundly those fuzzy philosophers shaped my understanding of what it means to show up authentically in the world. More importantly, they taught me lessons I hope I have passed on to my own children.

The Grouch's Gift: Permission to Be Real

Oscar the Grouch was revolutionary, though I didn't have the vocabulary for it then. Here was a character who refused to perform happiness. In a world of relentless cheer, Oscar said, essentially, "Some days are garbage days, and that's okay."

He wasn't mean or cruel. He was just... grouchy. Honest about his mood, authentic in his preferences, and completely uninterested in making others comfortable with his state of mind. Oscar taught me that being real was more valuable than being pleasant—a lesson that would prove essential throughout my life.

When I found myself translating between temperamental programmers and impatient fundraisers, Oscar's influence was there. When I chose to sit in the political middle seat while others retreated to comfortable extremes, that was Oscar's gift at work. When I admitted to my team that I was struggling after losing my dear friend and colleague Yoko, rather than putting on a professional mask, I was practicing what the grouch had taught me: that authenticity creates deeper connections than any performance ever could.

To my children, I hope you've learned this lesson through watching me navigate both my good days and my difficult ones. When I write about feeling like Charlie Brown most days instead of pretending to be someone more optimistic, that's not pessimism—that's honesty. And honesty, even when it's not pretty, builds trust in ways that false cheer never can.

Cookie Monster's Chaos: The Power of Unfiltered Enthusiasm

Cookie Monster was Oscar's perfect counterpart: pure, unfiltered enthusiasm taken to absurd extremes. He didn't just like cookies; he was consumed by them. He made messes. He lost control. He spoke in fractured grammar and sprayed crumbs everywhere, and somehow, this made him more lovable, not less.

Cookie Monster taught me that passion doesn't have to be polite—a lesson that became the foundation for some of my most meaningful choices. When I decided to bring donuts to a struggling database conversion team on Fridays, that wasn't strategic planning. That was Cookie Monster-level enthusiasm for simply showing up and caring about people.

I see his influence in my obsessive Cubs fandom that defies all mathematical logic. In my willingness to drive cross-country with dogs in a U-Haul, turning a practical move into an adventure. In my decision to volunteer in Faith's computer lab not because I was the most qualified, but because I genuinely loved being there. Cookie Monster showed me that enthusiasm, even when imperfect, creates magic.

Kids, you've seen this in action—whether it was our elaborate Christmas traditions born from last-minute improvisation, or my insistence on keeping score at your baseball games when everyone else was just watching casually. What I hope you learned is that it's better to care too much about the things that matter to you than to care too little about anything at all.

Building a Career on Beautiful Disasters

The art of being lovably flawed became the foundation of my professional life, though I didn't realize it at the time. I built a career as a translator—bridging gaps between different types of people who needed to work together but spoke different languages. My success came not from having all the answers, but from being comfortable admitting when I had questions—and suspecting others did too.

When I started PRSPCT-L it wasn't because I was an expert. It was because I was willing to say, "I don't know everything, but maybe together we can figure it out." That simple acknowledgment of shared uncertainty became one of the field's most valuable resources.

My weekly donut tradition at Caltech exemplifies this approach. Faced with a team drowning in impossible deadlines and technical challenges, I could have brought in motivational speakers or implemented productivity systems. Instead, I brought Foster's Family Donuts every Friday for years. Not because it was strategic, but because it felt right. Because sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is show up with something sweet and say, "I see you."

That tradition worked not despite its simplicity, but because of it. Like Cookie Monster's single-minded pursuit of cookies, the gesture was so genuine, so unfiltered, that it cut through workplace cynicism and created real connection.

Parenting Through Imperfection

These same principles shaped how I tried to raise you. When Faith worried about how Santa would find us in California without a chimney, I didn't have a perfect answer ready. So we invented Magic Reindeer Feed and Santa's Magic Key—traditions born from improvisation and sustained by enthusiasm rather than expertise.

When my attempts to get Kailey to eat everything on her plate led to the notorious episode of hiding sweet potatoes in milk, I learned that being lovably flawed meant acknowledging my mistakes, laughing at them (eventually), and adjusting course. Some of my best parenting moments came not from having all the answers, but from being willing to figure things out together with you.

The St. Nicholas tradition we maintained wasn't about creating perfect memories—it was about showing up consistently, year after year, with both celebration and honest reflection. The "however" paragraph in St. Nick's letter, acknowledging that we all have room to grow, became a family touchstone because it made space for the full spectrum of human experience.

I hope what you learned from watching me coach Ted's Little League teams, volunteer in your schools, and navigate the various crises and celebrations of family life is that parents don't have to be perfect to be good. In fact, the opposite might be true: perfection creates distance, while lovable flaws create connection.

The Wisdom of Messes

What Oscar and Cookie Monster understood—and what I've tried to practice throughout my life—is that our flaws aren't bugs in the human operating system. They are features. The grouchiness that makes Oscar lovable is the same quality that allows him to cut through false cheer and speak uncomfortable truths. Cookie Monster's chaos creates joy precisely because it's so genuinely enthusiastic.

When I lost my temper on the baseball field, made mistakes in parenting, or had relationships that didn't work out, I wasn't proud of those moments. But they were real. And in that authenticity—followed by genuine apology and growth—I hope you learned something more valuable than you would have from a father who never made mistakes.

This is what I hope you carry forward: that being human means being imperfect, and being imperfect can be beautiful. That your flaws, acknowledged and owned, can become sources of connection rather than shame. That showing up as you are—mess, enthusiasm, cynicism, and all—creates deeper relationships than any polished performance ever could.

A Letter to My Children

As I reflect on the decades since those first Sesame Street episodes, I realize that Oscar and Cookie Monster didn't just teach me how to live—they taught me how to love. How to parent. How to build a career and a family and a life worth living.

They taught me that authenticity isn't just more honest—it's more effective. More connecting. More human. And maybe, if we're lucky, more fun.

Kailey, Ted, and Faith: you've watched me practice this art your entire lives. You've seen me succeed and fail, show up and stumble, get enthusiastic about things that probably didn't deserve quite so much enthusiasm. What I hope you've learned is that this is what love looks like in practice—not perfection, but presence. Not having all the answers, but being willing to ask the questions. Not avoiding mistakes, but owning them, learning from them, and moving forward together.

The art of being lovably flawed isn't really about being flawed at all. It's about having the courage to be seen as you are, the wisdom to know that everyone else is just as beautifully imperfect as you are, and the grace to build relationships—and a life—around that fundamental truth.

The Inheritance of Authenticity

I hope I'm passing on to you not a roadmap to perfection but permission to be gloriously, beautifully, lovably yourselves. To care deeply about the things that matter to you, even when others don't understand. To be grouchy when you need to be grouchy and enthusiastic when something deserves your enthusiasm. To make messes in pursuit of what you love and clean them up with humor and grace.

In a world that increasingly rewards performance over presence, I hope you'll remember what those fuzzy philosophers taught us: that the strongest relationships aren't built on mutual admiration of each other's perfection, but on shared acknowledgment of each other's beautiful imperfections.

Because in the end, the best version of yourself isn't the most polished version—it's the most honest one. And honesty, even when it's messy, even when it makes mistakes, even when it sprays metaphorical cookie crumbs everywhere, is always worth more than the most perfect performance.

Even if it makes a mess.

Especially if it makes a mess.