The Principle We Keep Forgetting

Birthdays have a way of making me philosophical, whether I want them to or not. This one, I'm sitting in my office on a Friday, the building is quiet with almost no one here, and I can't shake the feeling that the number on my cake keeps pulling me toward a harder question about the country we're living in right now.

We're in a semiquincentennial year. In less than three months, America turns 250. There are parades being planned, a Navy fleet review scheduled for New York Harbor on the Fourth of July, baseball's All-Star Game booked for Philadelphia, the cradle of the whole thing. The bunting is going up. The speeches are being written. And underneath all of that, if you're paying attention, a harder question keeps trying to get a word in edgewise.

What, exactly, are we celebrating?

On June 4, 1958, President Dwight D. Eisenhower stood before the graduating class of the United States Naval Academy and said something that, in a different era, might have seemed too obvious to bother saying. He reminded those young officers, men who had deliberately chosen a life of service, that American democracy rested on three things: personal liberty, human rights, and the dignity of man.

Three things. Not a party platform. Not a policy agenda. Three principles that Ike believed were so foundational, so basic (to use his word), that they were the binding matter of our entire civilization.

That quote has been following me around. The third one is what stops me.

The dignity of man.

Liberty gets the speeches. Rights get the lawsuits. But dignity? Dignity just quietly sits there, the least defended of the three, and the one we seem most willing to erode without even noticing we've done it.

What gives that observation its weight is what Eisenhower had actually seen. He commanded armies against a regime that had decided, systematically and with great bureaucratic thoroughness, that certain categories of people did not possess dignity. That those people's lives did not have weight. That their suffering was acceptable, or irrelevant, or frankly useful. He had walked through what that looks like at the end: the liberated camps, the skeletal survivors, the scale of what happens when the dignity of man is removed from the list of non-negotiables. And then he went home, became president, and thirteen years later stood in front of a graduating class and said: remember, this is basic. This is the foundation. Don't lose it. He wasn't being rhetorical. He was being precise. The man had receipts.

I've visited the Eisenhower Presidential Library in Abilene, Kansas, with my daughter. Two self-avowed history nerds on something close to a pilgrimage, en route to Philadelphia, where she was starting medical school. I remember standing in front of a display about Ike's farewell address and feeling the particular weight that comes from being in a place where someone's actual life is laid out in front of you. His letters. His mother's Bible. His uniform. The library sits right there in Eisenhower's hometown, modest and serious, very much like the man it honors.

What struck me then, and what strikes me even more now as this anniversary year unfolds, is the gap between the man and the moment we're living in. Eisenhower was not a perfect president, and he would have been the first to say so. But he understood something that feels almost quaint in the current political climate: that the people on the other side of an argument are still people. That disagreement doesn't require dehumanization. That you can fight hard for what you believe and still, at the end of it, extend the basic courtesy of acknowledging another person's dignity.

I don't think that's where we are right now.

This spring, the United Nations' top human rights official issued a formal warning about what he called the "growing dehumanization" of migrants in the United States. Federal agents are conducting immigration enforcement operations in hospitals, schools, and churches. Parents are detained without information about where they're being held, leaving children at home uncertain whether they'll come back. The UN High Commissioner described his astonishment at the "routine abuse and denigration" that has become, in his words, normal. Amnesty International, preparing for the World Cup that comes to this country in June, characterized what it found here as a "human rights emergency."

I'm not going to turn this into a policy argument. That's not what this is. You can hold a dozen different views on immigration law and enforcement and the proper role of the federal government, and reasonable people do. What you can't do is look at a child wondering where their parent is and conclude that the person who was taken doesn't possess dignity. That their suffering is an acceptable variable in someone else's political equation. Eisenhower had seen that logic carried to its endpoint. That's why he stood up in front of those officers in 1958 and said: remember, this is basic. Don't lose it.

And yet that's the direction the drift seems to be going, and not just on immigration. Freedom House just recorded the nineteenth consecutive year of global decline in democratic freedom. Politicians now aim the word "enemies" at fellow citizens with increasing ease. People get sorted into categories of the worthy and the unworthy, the real Americans and the not-quite-Americans, with the line shifting depending on who's drawing it that week. We're preparing to celebrate 250 years of a republic built on the proposition that all men are created equal, and the conversation underneath the bunting has a very different character.

Years ago, I lost someone I cared deeply about to a sudden illness. Yoko had been my assistant for nearly a decade: my partner, my protector, my work mom, and my dear friend. When she died without warning, the absence she left was enormous, and one of the things I kept bumping into in the grief was how much of what she gave me was simply the daily, unremarkable gift of being treated with dignity. She saw the whole person, not just the professional. She anticipated what I needed before I knew I needed it. She made room for me to be a complete human being at work, flawed and tired and occasionally very wrong about things. I remember one afternoon, in the middle of a stretch when I was running on empty and short with everyone around me, she set a bottle of Coke Zero on my desk without a word and closed the door on her way out. No commentary. No judgment. Just the quiet signal that she saw what was happening, and it was okay. That's what dignity looks like when it's not performing.

That's a small-scale version of what Eisenhower was describing. Not grand declarations, but the practice of it. The daily decision to treat the people around you as people, not as obstacles or instruments or demographic categories or enemies, but as human beings who possess the same irreducible worth you'd like to think you possess yourself.

When I think about what made Yoko extraordinary, it wasn't that she agreed with me. She didn't, plenty of times. It's that she never let a disagreement become a diminishment. There's a whole leadership philosophy hiding in that sentence, and I've spent years trying to live up to it.

Eisenhower was speaking specifically to officers, men who would spend their careers ordering others into harm's way and, when necessary, being ordered there themselves. The military understands that the person beside you, the person under your command, is not interchangeable. Their life has weight. Their suffering is real. Mission, hierarchy, and discipline are all essential, but they function, at their best, in service of people. Not the other way around.

On this birthday, I think about what I've tried to pass on. Not the obvious lessons, which are easy to name. The quieter ones. The ones I hope stick, even though I'm never quite sure they did.

When Ted was pitching Little League one afternoon and struggling, I walked out to the mound in the wrong mood and said exactly the wrong thing. I was so focused on the performance that I momentarily forgot the person. He knew it. I knew it. We've laughed about it since, but the lesson went in deep, into me more than into him. Parenting teaches you, over and over again, that dignity isn't a reward you hand out when someone has earned it. It's the starting condition. You begin from a place of respect and work from there, through the hard conversations and the disappointments and the long silences and the sudden unexpected moments of grace.

That's what I want my kids to understand, and what I've tried to model, not always successfully. That dignity isn't something you perform for an audience. It's something you practice when no one is watching. When it's inconvenient. When you're losing the argument. When the other person hasn't, by your estimation, done anything to deserve it.

We've become quite skilled, as a culture, at winning arguments. We're much worse at keeping the person intact while we do it. The argument can be correct, and the relationship still irreparably damaged. We announce our commitments to human rights while treating the specific humans before us as props in our own narrative.

Ike's three principles are worth reading in order. Liberty is what we're free to do. Rights are what we're protected from. But dignity is what makes the other two mean anything at all. Without it, liberty becomes license and rights become weapons. Dignity is the premise, the thing you have to believe about a person before any of the rest of it holds.

In three months, we're going to stand in Philadelphia and celebrate 250 years of a country founded on the idea that certain truths are self-evident. That all men are created equal. That they are endowed with rights that can't be taken away. That's worth celebrating. It's also worth asking, on a birthday in a semiquincentennial year in a spring that feels more complicated than most, whether we still believe it. Not as a slogan. As a practice. As a daily choice about how we treat the person in front of us, regardless of where they came from or what side of the line they're on.

I drove through Abilene on a hot July afternoon with my daughter, taking photos as memories, and I lingered in the room with Eisenhower's letters longer than she probably wanted to. There's something in those letters, in the care of the language and the attention to the person being addressed, that you don't see much of anymore. A five-star general writing to a grieving mother with the same deliberate respect he'd bring to a letter to a head of state. He called it basic. He was right. It's also, apparently, the hardest thing in the world. 

But it's not nostalgia. It's a standard. One we set for ourselves once, and can set again.

—

"Basic to our democratic civilization are the principles and convictions that have bound us together as a nation. Among these are personal liberty, human rights, and the dignity of man."

— President Dwight D. Eisenhower, U.S. Naval Academy Commencement, June 4, 1958

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 forces me to stop scrolling and actually think. Not just about the dead, but about what I'm doing with what they left me. Am I building something worth their sacrifice? When I vote, when I speak up, when I choose how to spend an ordinary Tuesday - am I honoring what they died for, or am I just coasting?

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

No headstones. No names. Just grass and the weight of knowing they're down there.

The flame flickers above them, and carved into stone are words that won't leave me alone: 

"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. I'm as guilty as anyone. I check my phone for election updates the way I used to check baseball scores. We treat politics like some kind of reality show, who's winning, who's losing, who said what stupid thing today. My dad did it, my neighbors do it, I do it. But when I stood in that square, looking at that flame, it hit me: those guys didn't bleed out in some field so we could turn their gift into cable news drama. They died for something more challenging and less exciting: the daily grind of citizens actually governing themselves.

History doesn't just happen; we write it, one vote, one conversation, one choice at a time. 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.

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 from Boise to Syracuse, I figured I'd run into a few bumps, unpacking chaos, hunting down new grocery stores, and learning to live with colder, wetter weather. What I didn't see coming was life without a washer and dryer. My trusty electric dryer, after years of faithfully tumbling load after load, turned out to be useless in a place that runs almost entirely on natural gas. Now it's stuck in a storage unit across town, probably wondering what it did to deserve exile, which is how, one Saturday, I ended up at the local laundromat—basket of dirty clothes in hand and a faint whiff of nostalgia in the air.

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 have no idea if someone meant to leave it there or if a cat lover just happened to be into the Founding Fathers, but I grabbed it. As my clothes tumbled around me, I found myself drawn into a story about revolution and the struggle to keep a country together when everything's 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 actual 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'll admit, I've tried dropping "Publius" into regular conversation a few times. Most people have no clue what I'm talking about. My friends just look at me like I dropped some random professor name at a cookout.

Ellis's book hit me differently, though. It felt messy and urgent in a way history books usually don't. No sanitized founding fathers nonsense. Just these guys scrambling around, making deals, staying up too late arguing about whether any of this would actually work. Washington, Hamilton, Madison, Jay: they weren't just standing around making grand speeches in some stuffy Philadelphia room. They were making deals, twisting arms, probably losing sleep, and doing whatever it took to convince a bunch of stubborn states to actually stick together instead of going their separate ways.

Ellis doesn't present these men as statues in a park. They're human: brilliant, flawed, and sometimes just plain stubborn, wrestling with the chaos of post-war America. Washington's steady presence and self-control become political weapons in their own right. Hamilton brings sharp financial thinking and a gift for verbal fireworks to the push for federal authority. Madison, the grinder of the group, is everywhere: crafting the Virginia Plan, pounding out the Federalist Papers, and shaping the Constitution's bones. And Jay, who usually gets the least fanfare, turns out to be the glue guy, quietly brokering peace, building trust, and lending the whole project legitimacy.

The unnerving part? It all feels too familiar. The stuff Ellis writes about sounds way too familiar. Political gridlock, sketchy alliances, everyone freaking out about big government taking over. You could swap out a few names and publish these stories in today's news. Yeah, people yell louder now (thanks, internet), but we're still having the exact same arguments: Should states call their own shots or should Washington be in charge? Do we go with what sounds good or what actually works? It's the same old fight between big ideas and the ugly reality of trying to run anything. Ellis doesn't sugarcoat it: our system wasn't built for speed or comfort. It was built for haggling, horse-trading, and keeping the whole messy thing from collapsing.

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)

The whole idea that the Constitution wasn't supposed to be some set-in-stone rule book really hits different these days. Madison and the others knew people would keep arguing about what it all means, and that was the point. They built the argument on purpose. Which feels relevant when every big issue we face comes down to how you read the thing and whether anyone's willing to actually talk to people they disagree with.

What I loved about Ellis's book is how straightforward it is. Ellis cuts through the heroic glow that usually surrounds the Constitution's origin story and shows us the mess underneath. This wasn't the nation locking arms in perfect agreement. It was a bruising campaign waged by a stubborn minority convinced the American experiment needed sturdier bones if it was going to make it. On paper, the Articles of Confederation had a certain nobility. In practice, they left the country broke, politically unsteady, ignored on the world stage, and hanging together by a thread. Washington, Hamilton, Madison, and Jay saw what plenty of others didn't want to admit: the revolution hadn't tied up the story with a neat bow. It had kicked off a brand-new chapter, one that promised to be just as messy as the last.

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 this book while I was dealing with my own move and starting over made me think about how much work it takes to build anything that's going to last. Whether you're trying to make a new place feel like home, fit into a community, or keep a whole country from falling apart. Moving to a new city and starting over in a dozen different ways, I felt an unexpected connection to the story of four men trying to stitch together a brand-new country from a jumble of states that didn't always trust (or even like) each other. The whole thing reminded me that reinventing anything, whether it's a country or just yourself, takes more than big ideas. You need patience. You need to stick with it when things get messy. And you have to be willing to face some truths that make you squirm a little.

What Ellis really gets at in The Quartet is the idea of second chances. Not just for America back then, but for what America could be, or can be again. He shows how those founding principles we all learned about in school are only as strong as the people willing to fight for them. And honestly, given how chaotic our politics feel right now, there is something reassuring about reading how messy things were back then, too. The United States made it through that chaos, so perhaps we can figure out the current moment as well. Ultimately, it simply takes people willing to do the actual work instead of just yelling at each other.

If you come across The Quartet somewhere, maybe at one of those Little Free Libraries or on a shelf at your bookstore, pick it up. You'll walk away with more than just some historical facts. You might even remember why any of this stuff matters in the first place.

Read more of my reviews

The Parapet Moment: Leadership, Courage, and the Duty to Stand

159 years later, reflecting on the Battle of Fort Stevens and the leadership lessons we still need

I have an Abraham Lincoln-related photograph not unlike the one I've shared before of my children at Gettysburg that captures the VI Army Corps Monument, a commemorative stone and marker at Fort Stevens in Washington, D.C. The earthworks at the fort are modest now, hemmed in by suburban streets and the ordinary rhythm of modern life. But standing there, you can almost feel the weight of what happened on this sweltering July day in 1864, when Lincoln became the only sitting president to face enemy fire.

VI Army Corps Monument

Today marks 159 years since that remarkable moment, and I've been thinking about it more than usual, particularly as we approach the 160th anniversary next year and head into another presidential election season. The story of Fort Stevens isn't just about bullets and bravery; it's about leadership under pressure, the courage to stand when others might flee, and the delicate balance between personal risk and public duty. In a political climate where leadership often feels performative rather than principled, Lincoln's example on that parapet feels both distant and urgently needed.

When Leaders Must Stand

On July 12, 1864, Abraham Lincoln stood on the parapet of Fort Stevens, five miles north of the White House, watching Confederate forces under General Jubal Early probe the defenses of the nation's capital. The stakes could hardly have been higher. Early's raid represented a last-ditch Confederate attempt to disrupt Union supply lines, weaken Northern morale, and potentially capture Washington itself.

When a Confederate sharpshooter's bullet struck an officer standing near the president, those around Lincoln urged him to take cover. Whether it was General Horatio Wright who politely asked him to withdraw, or a young Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. who allegedly shouted "Get down, you damn fool!", the message was clear: the president's life was in immediate danger.

But Lincoln had come to Fort Stevens for a reason. As historian Charles Bracelen Flood observed, "It became a remarkable scene: the commander-in-chief at the head of his marching soldiers and a great crowd of civilians, all headed out of the city along a wooded road toward the thunderclaps of cannon fire." Lincoln understood that leadership sometimes requires physical presence and showing up, even at personal risk, sends a message no speech can convey.

This wasn't recklessness. It was calculated courage. Lincoln knew that his presence at Fort Stevens would inspire the soldiers defending the capital and reassure a frightened civilian population. As one of his closest confidantes, Orville Browning, later recorded, "The President is in very good feather this evening. He seems not in the least concerned about the safety of Washington." Lincoln's calm in the face of danger became a source of strength for others.

As we head into 2024, an election year that promises to test our democratic institutions once again, Lincoln's example feels particularly instructive. In an era when political leadership too often means retreating to safe spaces, echo chambers, and carefully managed appearances, the image of a president willing to share genuine risk with those he leads offers a stark contrast.

The Moral Turning Point

What happened at Fort Stevens went beyond military tactics. Union Colonel John McElroy later called it "the Moral Turning Point of the War," arguing that the successful defense of the capital restored Northern confidence in multiple ways: economically, politically, and spiritually.

The battle inspired Americans' confidence in the Union economy the value of government-backed currency rose from 35 cents to 48 cents after the victory. More importantly, it demonstrated that the Union could protect its most sacred symbols and institutions. As McElroy explained, "The soldiers of the North, while fighting for the preservation of the Union, always had on their hearts the capital of their country, and they fought that the government might live."

The defense of Fort Stevens represented something larger than military victory; it was a defense of democratic governance itself. Lincoln's willingness to share in the danger, to stand with his soldiers rather than retreat to safety, embodied the kind of leadership that democracy requires: present, accountable, and willing to bear the consequences of collective decisions.

The Forgotten Hero

But perhaps the most compelling lesson from Fort Stevens comes from someone who received no official recognition that day. Elizabeth Thomas, a free Black woman whose property was requisitioned by the Union Army for the fort's construction, not only lost her home and livelihood but may have saved Lincoln's life.

According to historical accounts, when Thomas saw Lincoln standing exposed on the parapet, she "yelled to the soldiers standing near him, 'My God, make that fool get down off that hill and come in here.'" Her quick thinking and fearless advocacy shouting at the President of the United States to take cover, exemplifies the kind of active citizenship that democracy depends upon.

Years earlier, when Union soldiers had demolished her home to build the fort, a "tall, slender man dressed in black" had consoled her with the words, "It is hard, but you shall reap a great reward." That man was Lincoln himself. The "great reward" may indeed have been the opportunity to save his life and with it, the future of the nation.

Thomas's story reminds us that citizenship isn't just about voting or holding office; it's about the willingness to speak truth to power, even when that power towers above you. Her courage that day was no less significant than Lincoln's decision to stand on the parapet in the first place.

Leadership Lessons for Today

The Battle of Fort Stevens offers three enduring lessons about leadership and citizenship that feel particularly relevant as we face our own civic challenges:

• First, presence matters. Lincoln could have monitored the battle from the safety of the White House, receiving reports and issuing orders from a distance. Instead, he chose to be where the work was being done, sharing the risk, demonstrating commitment, and inspiring others through his example.
• Second, moral courage is contagious. Lincoln's willingness to stand firm in the face of danger gave strength to others. When leaders demonstrate genuine courage, it creates permission for others to act courageously as well.
• Third, democracy thrives on unlikely heroes. The most important voice at Fort Stevens that day may not have belonged to the president or his generals, but to a Black woman who had already sacrificed her home and still found the courage to protect the man who embodied the Union cause.

Standing on Our Own Parapets

We may not face Confederate sharpshooters, but as we approach both the 160th anniversary of Fort Stevens and the 2024 presidential election, we face our own version of Early's raid challenges to democratic norms, institutions under pressure, and a citizenry that sometimes seems more interested in retreating to safety than standing firm for shared principles. The question isn't whether we'll face moments that test our civic courage, but whether we'll be ready when they come.

The lesson of Fort Stevens isn't that leaders should seek out unnecessary danger, but that they should be willing to share in the risks that democracy entails. That means showing up for difficult conversations, defending unpopular but necessary truths, and remaining present even when it would be easier to retreat to the safety of like-minded communities. As we evaluate candidates and platforms in the coming election cycle, perhaps we should ask not just what they promise to do, but whether they demonstrate the kind of leadership that shows up when it matters most.

And for the rest of us, those who may never hold high office but whose voices matter just as much, Elizabeth Thomas stands as a powerful reminder that speaking up isn't just a right; it's a responsibility. Democracy doesn't preserve itself. It requires ordinary people doing extraordinary things: running for school board, speaking at town halls, volunteering for campaigns, or simply refusing to stay silent when they see something that threatens the common good.

The Unfinished Work Continues

Today, Fort Stevens remains a humble earthwork that once hosted the only moment in U.S. history in which a sitting president faced direct and purposeful gunfire from an enemy. It's a quiet place now, visited more by joggers than pilgrims. But as we mark the 159th anniversary of that July day and look ahead to next year's milestone and the choices that await us in 2024, the lessons it offers about leadership, courage, and active citizenship remain as relevant as ever.

Lincoln's decision to stand on that parapet and Elizabeth Thomas's decision to yell at him to get down remind us that democracy isn't a spectator sport. It requires leaders willing to share in the dangers they ask others to face, and citizens willing to speak truth even to the most powerful among us. As we approach an election that will test these principles once again, we might do well to ask ourselves: Are we prepared to stand on our own parapets when the moment demands it?

The parapet moment comes for all of us eventually, that moment when we must choose between safety and service, between retreating and standing firm. When it comes, may we find the courage that Lincoln and Thomas showed on that July day in 1864: the courage to stand where we're needed, to speak when silence would be safer, and to remember that the work of democracy is never finished it just passes from one generation to the next, one choice at a time.

---

The lessons of Fort Stevens remind us that courage isn't the absence of fear—it's the willingness to act in spite of it. As we mark 159 years since that remarkable day and prepare for both the 160th anniversary and another presidential election, we need more leaders willing to stand on the parapet and more citizens brave enough to tell them when they're making dangerous mistakes. The republic they defended that day in 1864 still depends on both.

Liberty in Three Acts: My Fourth of July Tradition

There are fireworks, there are flags, and there's always something grilling on the Fourth of July, but for me, Independence Day wouldn't feel complete without a familiar duo of movie musicals, now made into a trio. Each year, like clockwork, I settle in for a binge that spans the centuries of American spirit and song: 1776, Yankee Doodle Dandy, and now, Hamilton.

It all starts with 1776, the spirited (and yes, dramatized) story of the Continental Congress and their march toward independence. I first saw the film in college, but its roots in my heart go back even further to 1976, when I was in middle school and the country was awash in stars, stripes, and a very particular kind of patriotic fervor.

Living in Pennsylvania in 1976, I was surrounded by history, not just the kind in textbooks, but the kind etched into buildings, monuments, and local pride. That year, our social studies lessons were laser-focused on the Revolution. We didn’t just learn about 1776, we practically lived it. Our classroom projects involved hand-drawing the Declaration of Independence on parchment-style paper. We staged mock debates about taxation and liberty. Field trips took us to Independence Hall and Valley Forge, places that felt suddenly alive with meaning.

And it wasn't just school. The Bicentennial bled into pop culture and everyday life. Cereal boxes had red-white-and-blue logos. Gas stations handed out commemorative coins. ABC aired "Schoolhouse Rock" segments that made civics catchy, and I still remember the thrill of seeing the Liberty Bell featured in commercials and TV specials. Everywhere you turned, there was this sense that America was not just looking back, but trying to understand itself in real time.

That summer, parades were filled with fife and drum corps and colonial reenactors in full regalia. I remember feeling that I was witnessing something big, like history had its own gravity and I was standing in its pull. That Bicentennial year didn't just make me aware of America's founding; it made me curious. It made me care. And when I eventually discovered 1776 in college, it gave all those half-formed impressions a voice, a cast, and a score.

While no historian would recommend the film as a primary source, 1776 brought the story of independence to life. It showed me that history isn't made by marble statues, but by flawed, passionate people wrangling over ideals in hot rooms. Watching it each Fourth of July has become my own secular ritual, less barbecue, more parchment and powdered wigs. Even now, every time I hear the opening drumbeat and that call for "a resolution for independence," I'm that Bicentennial kid again, filled with curiosity, awe, and patriotic pride.

Then there's Yankee Doodle Dandy. Sure, it's a full-throated piece of WWII-era propaganda, but that's not all it is. In its own way, it's a tribute to a very American kind of optimism, the kind that sings and taps and waves a flag without irony. James Cagney's George M. Cohan is a showman's showman, full of brash energy and patriotic fervor. And somehow, despite the bombast, it always hits the right tone for the day. It's a celebration of performance and pride, and it reminds me that love of country doesn't have to be loud or naive it can be knowing, complex, and deeply felt.

That’s part of what keeps me coming back to it year after year. But I think the deeper reason has more to do with how musical theater, in all its forms, became a language of connection in my life first through my mom, and later, through my daughters.

My affection for musical theater didn't just materialize on one Independence Day. It was passed down, the way the best traditions are. My mom was the one who first gave me an appreciation for musicals. She loved the genre not just the catchy tunes and elaborate staging, but the way music could tell a story straight to your soul. While her talent for performance didn't quite make it to me (though it clearly resurfaced a generation later in Faith), I did my part in high school by working behind the scenes with the stage crew. Painting sets, running lights, helping with props, I may not have been center stage, but I was there in the wings, soaking up the energy, the teamwork, the transformation of a bare auditorium into a world of its own.

That experience, paired with a college course I took on the history of musical theater, helped me see the genre as more than just entertainment. Musicals, at their best, don't just reflect culture, they help define it. They distill big ideas into melody, character, and story. And in America, perhaps more than anywhere else, the musical has evolved as a uniquely democratic art form: built on collaboration, born from diverse influences, and often focused on who gets to tell the story of "us." That context helped me place Yankee Doodle Dandy, 1776, and Hamilton not just as three shows I love but as touchstones of how Americans have chosen to remember, reimagine, and reclaim their history. 

Editor's Note: Here's a link to a post where I've written more about how these three films work together as a musical portrait of American identity.

Faith at the Hollywood Pantages
in December 2017 for Hamilton.

It was with this deeper appreciation for the form that I later found myself sharing these same passions with Faith. She's always been a theater kid through and through, with a deep appreciation for not just the story being told, but how it's told. So it was no surprise when she was captivated by Hamilton. Like so many in her generation, she was swept up by the phenomenon, listening to the cast album on repeat, quoting lyrics in everyday conversation, diving deep into the lives of the Founding Fathers. She knew every word, every harmony, every historical reference. Her passion was infectious, and soon I was listening too, hearing echoes of the same stories I'd grown up loving but now pulsing with a fresh, urgent rhythm.

That Christmas in 2017, "Santa" delivered something extraordinary: two tickets to see the touring production of Hamilton in Los Angeles. She hadn't expected to actually get to see it live. The show was a cultural phenomenon, and seats were hard to come by. So when she unwrapped that gift, the look on her face, part disbelief, part pure joy, was a highlight of the holiday season and of fatherhood.

And then there was the afternoon itself. Sitting next to her in the darkened theater, watching the story unfold not just in song but in movement, light, and staging, it was electric. Even though she knew the entire score by heart, seeing how each song was brought to life within the full framework of the book gave her a deeper understanding of the story and its historical context. The choreography, the way scenes transitioned, the layering of narrative, she was fully immersed. And so was I.

Truth be told, I wasn't expecting Hamilton to hit me the way it did. Lin-Manuel Miranda's reimagining of the Founders, filtered through hip-hop, R&B, and unapologetic modernity, struck a chord I didn't know needed striking. It captured the ambition, contradiction, and grit of early America in a way that felt new and yet deeply familiar. It spoke to both our nation's promise and its imperfections. And that night, sharing the experience with Faith, I felt the beautiful convergence of our shared passions for history, for storytelling, for truth told in harmony and rhythm.

So when Disney+ released the original cast recording, it wasn't even a question. Hamilton joined the July 4th lineup without hesitation.

Now, every Fourth, I travel through time from 1776's congressional chambers, to Cagney's Vaudeville stage, and finally to the turntables and duels of Hamilton. It's a deeply personal tradition, stitched together from family, history, and a little Broadway sparkle. What began as a childhood fascination with the Bicentennial has evolved into a kind of secular ritual of its own, less about fireworks and more about reflection. A quiet act of remembrance, through song and story, of who we were, who we are, and who we still might become.

Each film reminds me that the American story isn't finished; it's still being shaped, sung, and rewritten by each generation.

It's a small tradition, but it connects me to family, to history, and to the imperfect, ongoing story of America itself.

When Satire Becomes History

In a world where civic education is increasingly marginalized and political discourse seems dominated by soundbites and social media posts, the loss of comic strips like Doonesbury represents more than just the death of a medium. It's the loss of a particular form of civic engagement, one that combined entertainment with education, irreverence with insight, and daily habit with long-term perspective.

"Good news, kiddies! Time for another exclusive WBBY 'Watergate Profile!' Today's obituary—John Mitchell! John Mitchell, the former U.S. Attorney General, has in recent weeks been repeatedly linked with both the Watergate caper and its cover-up. It would be a disservice to Mr. Mitchell and his character to prejudge the man, but everything known to date could lead one to conclude he's guilty! That's guilty! Guilty, guilty, guilty!!"

— Mark Slackmeyer, Doonesbury, May 29, 1973

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One year ago today, our democracy faced its most serious test since the Civil War. As I watched the events of January 6, 2021 unfold the breach of the Capitol, the Confederate flag carried through the halls of Congress, the threats against elected officials I found myself thinking about a comic strip from nearly fifty years earlier, and how it first taught me that paying attention to politics isn't optional for citizens in a democracy.

I discovered Doonesbury the way most teenagers discover the things that shape them: accidentally, and at exactly the right moment.

It was the fall of my junior year of high school, and I was taking an American Foreign Policy class, one of those electives that seemed sophisticated and important, the kind that made you feel like you were finally learning about the "real world." Our teacher, Dr. Alan Sheffer, was the sort of educator who believed current events should be current, not relegated to dusty textbooks. He'd bring in newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and political cartoons to supplement our discussions about détente, the Cold War, and America's role in the world. He taught us via simulation and was the first adult I knew who played board wargames.

One day, I read a comic strip I'd never seen before. Four panels of a character named Mark Slackmeyer doing a radio show, gleefully declaring former Attorney General John Mitchell "guilty, guilty, guilty" of Watergate crimes. It was dated May 29, 1973, I was old enough to remember Watergate and Nixon's resignation but Dr. Sheffer relayed how this single strip had caused such controversy that more than a dozen newspapers, including The Washington Post and The Boston Globe, refused to run it, concerned that such a statement of Mitchell's guilt would compromise their journalistic integrity even on the funny pages.

That strip was my introduction to Doonesbury, and through it, to the radical idea that comic strips could be more than just entertainment; they could be journalism, commentary, and history all wrapped up in four panels. More importantly, they could teach civic responsibility through irreverence, showing me that democracy works best when citizens think critically about power, hold leaders accountable, and aren't afraid to call out wrongdoing even when it's uncomfortable.

I was hooked.

The Daily Ritual

Throughout the rest of high school and into college, I developed what became a lifelong habit: checking the comics section first. Not just Doonesbury, but a carefully curated selection that formed my daily media diet alongside the news and sports pages. Peanuts for its philosophical depth, disguised as childhood simplicity. Calvin and Hobbes for its perfect marriage of intellectual curiosity and pure imagination. Bloom County for its satirical edge and cultural commentary. Shoe, that wonderfully cynical bird-filled newsroom satire that felt like a master class in both journalism and gallows humor. And later on, post-college early-career, Dilbert for its dead-on corporate satire (this was the early 1990s, when Scott Adams was still just a brilliant observer of office life rather than... well, whatever he has become).

Each strip served a different function in what I now realize was my civic education. Peanuts taught me about resilience and the quiet dignity of persistent failure, essential qualities for any democratic citizen. Calvin and Hobbes showed me how imagination could transform the mundane into the magical, but also modeled the importance of questioning authority and thinking independently. But Doonesbury did something unique: it made current events feel immediate and urgent, and taught me that citizenship requires paying attention, especially when the news makes us uncomfortable.

As cartoonist Garry Trudeau noted, because electronic media bring the harshest realities into every home, there was no need to avoid a satirical, humorous approach to these same topics in the comics. What he created was something unprecedented: a comic strip that refused to stay safely in the realm of make-believe, one that engaged directly with the messy realities of politics, war, and social change.

Learning History Through Satire

In college, I began reading Doonesbury differently. What had started as entertainment became a form of historical education. I'd haunt the campus bookstore, drawn to the collected Doonesbury volumes like "The Doonesbury Chronicles" and "Dare to Be Great, Ms. Caucus." I should have been reading assigned chapters about détente and Cold War diplomacy, but instead I'd find myself absorbed in Trudeau's take on the same events, learning about Nixon's presidency through Uncle Duke's gonzo antics and Vietnam through B.D.'s tour of duty.

Just this week, browsing through a bookstore bargain bin, I stumbled across "Dbury@50: The Complete Digital Doonesbury," a massive compilation celebrating the strip's 50th anniversary. Reading the back cover brought back vivid memories of those college afternoons when I'd choose Trudeau over my political science textbooks, often learning just as much (sometimes more) from his irreverent commentary as from whatever academic analysis I was supposed to be absorbing.

The infamous "Guilty, guilty, guilty" strip wasn't just a joke; it was a snapshot of a moment when American journalism was grappling with how to cover an unprecedented political scandal. The character of Mark Slackmeyer became a kind of tour guide through five decades of American political culture, from Watergate to Iran-Contra to the War on Terror to Trump.

Through Doonesbury, I learned about events that textbooks either glossed over or hadn't yet had time to process. The strip pioneered coverage of issues like Vietnam War protests, AIDS, gay rights, and premarital sex, often years before mainstream media was ready to address these topics openly. Reading through collections of old strips was like taking an alternative history course, one where the perspective was irreverent, unfiltered, and surprisingly insightful.

I began to understand something that traditional news coverage often missed: that political events aren't just about policy and process, but about human behavior, ego, and the often absurd theater of power. When Trudeau lampooned the "bloodlust" surrounding Watergate with Mark's gleeful pronouncement of Mitchell's guilt, he wasn't commenting on Mitchell's innocence or guilt; he was satirizing those who were obsessed with seeing justice done. It was a level of meta-commentary that went over my teenage head initially, but gradually taught me to look beyond the surface of political coverage and think critically about how we process democratic discourse.

This kind of media literacy feels more crucial than ever. In an era when misinformation can fuel actual violence against democratic institutions, as we witnessed one year ago, the ability to think critically about what we read and hear isn't just useful; it's essential for the survival of our republic.

The Disappearing Daily Ritual

But here's the thing about discovering your civic worldview through newspaper comic strips: you're depending on an ecosystem that was already beginning to crumble. And when that ecosystem collapses, we lose more than entertainment; we lose a shared foundation for democratic discourse.

The golden age of newspaper comics, when strips like Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes could command massive audiences and cultural influence, was built on the foundation of daily newspaper readership. In 1931, George Gallup's first poll had the comic section as the most important part of the newspaper. Comics sections were often arranged at the front of Sunday editions, and comic strips were created by editors and publishers for a very good business reason: to attract and hold readership and, by extension, create an informed citizenry.

That shared civic foundation has largely vanished. Newspaper chains like Lee Enterprises have cut back comics pages across nearly 80 newspapers, with many transitioning to "uniform sets of offerings" rather than the diverse, locally curated selections that once defined different papers. In Australia, major chains like News Corp have eliminated comic strips entirely from over 100 newspapers, citing "changing readership habits" and focusing instead on puzzles and games.

The economics are brutal and undeniable. While small-town newspapers still get sufficient revenue from local advertising, large metropolitan papers have lost both national advertising (which moved to television) and classified advertising (which moved online). As newspapers shrink, comics sections are often among the first casualties, seen as expendable entertainment rather than essential content.

What We've Lost

The decline of the daily comics page represents more than just the loss of a few laughs with morning coffee. It's the erosion of a shared cultural experience that once connected generations of readers and, more importantly, generations of citizens. As cartoonist Patrick McDonnell, creator of "Mutts," observes: "Over time, the characters are like family. Newspapers should consider this bond before they decide to make drastic changes."

But the deeper loss is one of civic cohesion. When we all read the same comics section each morning, we shared not just entertainment but a common reference point, a set of cultural touchstones that helped us navigate the complex realities of democratic life. In an era when we increasingly retreat into information silos and echo chambers, that shared foundation feels more precious than ever.

Perhaps no moment captured this better than the final Peanuts strip, published on February 13, 2000, the day after Charles Schulz died peacefully in his sleep. That last Sunday strip featured Snoopy at his typewriter atop his doghouse, with panels showing remembered scenes from nearly 50 years of the strip, and Schulz's own farewell message: "Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Linus, Lucy... how can I ever forget them..."

What made that final strip so poignant wasn't just Schulz's death; it was his insistence that the strip die with him. "There's a clause in my contract that says if I retire or die, the strip ends," he had said just months before. In an era when comic strip properties are often handed off to other artists to continue indefinitely (think Garfield or Wizard of Id), Schulz understood that an authentic artistic voice can't be corporately maintained. His family honored his wishes: no new Peanuts strips would ever be created, only reruns of the nearly 18,000 strips he had drawn over five decades.

The contrast with today's comics landscape is stark. For someone like me, whose understanding of current events was shaped by the interplay between news reporting and comic strip commentary, the loss feels particularly acute. Doonesbury still exists, still comments on current events, still maintains its edge after more than 50 years. But it no longer reaches the broad, diverse audience it once did through daily newspapers. Instead, it exists primarily online, reaching people who already know to look for it rather than discovering new readers through the serendipity of flipping through a newspaper.

The same is true for all those strips that once formed my daily media diet. Peanuts ended with Charles Schulz's death in 2000. Calvin and Hobbes concluded in 1995 when Bill Watterson chose to end it rather than let it overstay its welcome. Bloom County has had various revivals but never recaptured its original cultural impact. Only Doonesbury soldiers on, still sharp, still relevant, but increasingly invisible to all but the faithful.

The Enduring Power of Satirical Truth

What strikes me now, looking back on that high school classroom where I first encountered Mark Slackmeyer's gleeful proclamation of John Mitchell's guilt, is how prescient that moment was. Mitchell was indeed found guilty of conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and perjury in 1975 and served 19 months in prison. The "Guilty, guilty, guilty" line became such an iconic piece of political satire that Trudeau recycled it decades later during the Trump administration, demonstrating his ability to connect past and present political scandals.

The lesson wasn't just that satirists can sometimes see truth more clearly than straight journalists, though that's certainly part of it. The deeper lesson was about the power of sustained, honest observation. Trudeau has been watching American politics for more than five decades now, developing the kind of institutional memory that allows him to spot patterns, call out hypocrisy, and provide context that 24-hour news cycles often miss.

That's what we lose when newspapers abandon their comics sections: not just entertainment, but a particular form of cultural memory, a way of processing current events through the lens of humor, irreverence, and long-term perspective. The comics page once served as a kind of national conversation, where different strips offered different viewpoints and approaches to making sense of the world. When we lose that shared conversation, we lose part of what holds a diverse democracy together.

Digital Displacement

The strips I grew up with have found various forms of digital afterlife. Doonesbury maintains a strong online presence. Classic Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes strips circulate endlessly on social media. New webcomics have emerged that tackle political and social issues with the same fearlessness that once characterized the best newspaper strips.

But something profound has been lost in translation. The daily ritual of sitting down with a physical newspaper, the shared experience of readers across a community encountering the same strips on the same day, the serendipitous discovery of new perspectives while flipping through the paper, these created a kind of cultural cohesion that fragmented digital consumption struggles to replicate. When everyone reads different things at different times in different ways, we lose the common ground that healthy democratic discourse requires.

Moreover, the economic model that supported comic strip creation has largely collapsed. Modern newspaper comics often prioritize licensing and merchandising over actual storytelling, leading to what one critic describes as "inane, artless garbage" that bears little resemblance to the medium's greatest achievements. We've traded civic engagement for corporate branding, sharp social commentary for safe platitudes. The result is a comics landscape that entertains but doesn't challenge, that comforts but doesn't educate.

The Classroom Connection

I've pondered Dr. Sheffer's decision to bring that Doonesbury strip into his classroom. He understood something that many educators miss: that learning about civic life requires more than just studying institutions and policies. It requires understanding how citizens actually process and discuss political events, how humor and satire shape public opinion, and how comic strips can sometimes capture truths that straight journalism misses.

That single strip opened up a way of thinking about politics that has stayed with me through decades of elections, scandals, wars, and social changes. It taught me to look for the human drama behind political theater, to appreciate the power of persistent observation, and to understand that sometimes the most serious insights come wrapped in humor.

The Legacy of Looking

The comics section taught me how to read not just literally, but how to read between the lines, how to spot patterns, how to find humor in darkness and hope in absurdity. Doonesbury showed me that politics is fundamentally human drama, full of the same petty motivations, grand aspirations, and comic failures that characterize all human endeavors. But more than that, it taught me that paying attention is a civic duty.

As newspapers continue to struggle and comic sections continue to shrink, I find myself grateful for that accidental education I received through the funny pages. It was an education in media literacy before that term existed, a lesson in critical thinking disguised as entertainment, and an introduction to the idea that democracy works best when its citizens are informed, engaged, and just a little bit skeptical of those who claim to lead them.

Forty-four years after Mark Slackmeyer first declared John Mitchell "guilty, guilty, guilty," Trudeau recycled the gag for Donald Trump, demonstrating how certain patterns in American politics seem to repeat themselves. The medium may be dying, but the need for that kind of sustained, satirical observation remains as urgent as ever, perhaps more so after what we witnessed one year ago today.

Maybe that's the real lesson of Doonesbury: that paying attention is a civic duty, that humor can be a form of resistance, and that sometimes the most important truths are hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone brave enough or foolish enough to point them out in four panels or less. In an era when lies can incite violence against the very foundations of our republic, we need voices willing to stand up and say, clearly and without apology: "This is wrong."

So thank you, Garry Trudeau, for fifty years of fearless truth-telling. Thank you, Dr. Sheffer, for showing a sixteen-year-old that citizenship begins with paying attention. And thank you, Doonesbury, for proving that sometimes the most important lessons come disguised as entertainment, hidden in plain sight on the funny pages where we least expect to find them.

The Sweet Tradition: Five Years of Donuts and the Unexpected Power of Showing Up

Sometimes the smallest gestures create the most lasting traditions.

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It started with a box of donuts and a team that needed to remember they weren't alone.

A "standard" Friday box.

June 6th, 2014, was National Donut Day, and our CRM conversion team was drowning. These were the "back of the shop" folks, the ones who kept our systems running while the rest of us went about our daily work, blissfully unaware of the digital architecture holding everything together. They'd been pulling long hours on what felt like an impossible project, dealing with frustrated internal clients, and facing technical challenges that seemed to multiply faster than they could solve them.

The mood in those basement offices was heavy. You could feel it when you walked by the weight of stress, the quiet frustration, the sense that they were fighting a losing battle. I'd worked with some of these people for years. I knew how good they were, how much they cared about getting things right. But here they were, toiling away on critical infrastructure that everyone depended on, yet somehow invisible to the broader organization. The irony wasn't lost on me: the people keeping our entire operation running were the ones feeling most forgotten.

That morning, I made a decision that would unknowingly become part of our office DNA for the next five years. I stopped by Foster's Family Donuts in La Crescenta, a small neighborhood shop that had become a regular stop along my commute to work. These weren't mass-produced donuts from a chain; they were the kind of fresh, made-that-morning pastries that only a true family bakery can produce. I brought in a few dozen for the team.

It wasn't a grand gesture or a calculated management strategy; it was simply a recognition that these people deserved to know their work mattered, that someone saw the long hours and appreciated the sacrifice. And if I were going to make that gesture, it should be with donuts that were as thoughtful as the intention behind them.

The History Behind the Gesture

National Donut Day has roots that run deeper than most realize. Created in 1938 by the Chicago Salvation Army, the holiday honored the "Donut Lassies," brave women who served donuts and coffee to soldiers during World War I. These volunteers worked close to the front lines, often in dangerous conditions, bringing comfort food to troops who were far from home and facing unimaginable challenges.

The parallel wasn't lost on me. Here was our own team, working in their own kind of trenches, dealing with the pressure of a massive system overhaul while everyone else depended on them to keep things running. Those Salvation Army volunteers understood something fundamental about leadership that transcends military conflict: sometimes the most powerful support comes not in grand gestures, but in simple acts of recognition. A warm donut. A moment of connection. The acknowledgment that someone sees your struggle and values your contribution enough to show up for you.

This wasn't about the food itself; it was about visibility. About making the invisible work visible, even if just for a moment.

What Happened Next

The response surprised me. What I'd intended as a simple morale boost became something more, a moment of genuine recognition in the middle of chaos. People lingered in the break room longer than usual. Conversations started flowing between team members who'd been heads-down at their keyboards for weeks. Someone cracked a joke. Someone else shared a breakthrough they'd had the night before.

For the first time in months, the team felt seen. And feeling seen, they began to feel like a team again.

The database conversion was still challenging. The technical hurdles remained formidable. The internal clients were still impatient. But something fundamental had shifted. There was a sense of camaraderie that hadn't been there before and, more importantly, a recognition that their work mattered not just to the project, but to the people around them. They weren't just fixing systems; they were the guardians of our institutional memory, the architects of our future efficiency.

When One Day Became Every Friday

Foster's on Foothill Boulevard
in La Crescenta, CA

The following Friday, I found myself back at Foster's. Not because it was a holiday this time, but because I'd seen what a small gesture could do. The team's response was immediate and enthusiastic, and they specifically commented on how good these donuts were compared to the usual office fare. Word began to spread beyond our database group to other departments. People started asking if I'd be going to Foster's again for "donut Friday," it had become "a thing."

What began as a one-time act of support for a struggling team evolved into a weekly tradition that started defining our Development and Institute Relations (DIR) office culture. Foster's Family Donuts became our unofficial bakery partner, though they never knew it. Fridays became something people looked forward to. New employees learned about "donut Friday" during their first week and quickly developed preferences for Foster's glazed old-fashioned or their surprisingly perfect raised chocolate donuts. The tradition grew beyond the original database team; now staff from multiple floors and different departments within DIR make their way to our break room for their Friday morning "fix."

I kept bringing the donuts, week after week, because I could see what it meant. Not just the sugar and caffeine, though those helped, but the ritual of gathering, the informal conversations that happened over glazed and chocolate-frosted, the way it created space for connection in the middle of busy workdays. And yes, the quality mattered. Foster's donuts had that fresh, made-with-care taste that reminded everyone this wasn't just about convenience, it was about doing something thoughtfully.

The Ripple Effect

Over the years, I've watched this simple tradition create ripples far beyond what I ever expected. Team members from different departments began mixing during Friday morning donut breaks, leading to cross-functional collaborations that might never have happened otherwise. New hires found their footing faster, welcomed into conversations and inside jokes over coffee and pastries.

The tradition has morphed in wonderful ways. We've expanded beyond just donuts to include bagels some weeks, accommodating different tastes and dietary preferences. People have gotten comfortable making special requests; someone might mention they're craving an apple fritter, or ask if I could pick up those cinnamon sugar ones that Foster's makes so well. These little requests have become my informal barometer for reading the team's mood and stress levels. When someone specifically asks for comfort food, I know they're dealing with something challenging. When the requests get more adventurous, "Could you get some of those maple bacon ones Foster's had last week?" I can sense the team is feeling confident and playful.

Foster's became such a fixture in our office culture that when well-meaning colleagues would occasionally bring donuts from Winchell's or Krispy Kreme, people would politely partake but inevitably comment on how much they missed "the Foster's quality." It became a running joke and a testament to how even small details matter when you're trying to show people they're valued.

The tradition has become so embedded in our DIR culture that when I'm out of the office vacation, travel, whatever, someone else automatically steps up to make the donut run. It's not assigned or mandated; it just happens. People understand instinctively that Friday morning isn't quite right without that gathering, that moment of sweetness and connection to start the weekend. The tradition has become bigger than any one person because the principle behind it, recognizing and valuing each other's contributions, has become part of who we are.

The CRM conversion project? We completed it successfully, though not without its struggles. Those team members who had been drowning found their rhythm, supported not just by technical expertise but by a sense of belonging and appreciation. Many of those team members are still with Caltech today, and they often reference those difficult months not just as a professional challenge overcome, but as the time when our department culture really took shape around the idea that everyone's work matters, especially the work that often goes unnoticed.

More Than Sugar and Caffeine

Looking back, National Donut Day 2014 taught me something important about leadership and recognition. Sometimes the most powerful gestures are the simplest ones, not because they're easy, but because they cut straight to what people need most: to know that their contributions are seen and valued.

In any organization, there are people doing essential work that rarely gets acknowledged. The folks who keep the lights on, who maintain the systems, who solve the problems that others don't even know exist. They're often the most competent and least recognized members of any team. The lesson of that struggling CRM conversion team wasn't about donuts or morale boosting; it was about learning to see the invisible work and finding ways to make those contributions visible.

The Salvation Army's Donut Lassies understood this during World War I. They knew that acknowledgment and comfort could provide hope in the darkest times. In our own small way, our Friday tradition carried forward that same spirit using food as a vehicle for recognition, connection, and community.

I think about those World War I volunteers often when I'm standing in line at Foster's on Friday mornings. Their work was obviously more dangerous, more consequential than mine. But the impulse was the same: the recognition that people doing hard work need to know they're not alone, that their efforts are seen and valued, and that someone is willing to show up for them, consistently, with the best you can offer, not just the most convenient.

A Sweet Legacy

As I write this on National Donut Day 2019, the tradition continues. Five years and hundreds of Fridays later, those weekly donut runs have become part of who we are as a department. New team members quickly learn that around here, we believe in marking small victories, supporting each other through challenges, and never underestimating the power of showing up with something sweet to share.

What strikes me most is how the tradition has become self-sustaining. It's no longer dependent on my initiative alone; it's become part of our collective identity. When I return from time away, people eagerly fill me in on who covered the donut run, what varieties they chose, and which new person got initiated into our Friday morning ritual.

The database conversion team that started it all has long since moved on to new projects and new challenges. But the culture they helped create, one donut at a time, remains. It serves as a reminder that building strong teams isn't always about formal programs or grand initiatives. Sometimes it's as simple as showing up with a box of donuts and saying, "I see the hard work you're doing, and I appreciate it."

Every National Donut Day, I'm reminded of how a single moment of thoughtfulness can grow into something lasting. And every Friday, as I watch colleagues from across DIR gather in our break room, sharing stories and sugar in equal measure, I'm grateful for that struggling database team from 2014 who taught me that sometimes the smallest gestures create the biggest impact.

The tradition started with a team that needed to know they weren't forgotten. It continues because we've learned that recognition, real recognition, isn't something you save for annual reviews or formal ceremonies. It's something you practice weekly, with intention and consistency, especially for the people whose work makes everyone else's possible.

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What started as support for an overlooked team became a cornerstone of our company culture. Sometimes the best leadership lessons come not from business books, but from the simple recognition that everyone deserves to feel valued—especially those whose contributions often go unnoticed.