The Transparency Tightrope: Leading with Clarity Without Losing Focus

In today’s workplace, “transparency” has become a buzzword—often invoked with the best of intentions, but not always with a shared understanding. As senior managers, we’re frequently asked to walk a fine line: be open, be honest, be accessible—but also, deliver results, protect strategic priorities, and maintain momentum.

But what happens when transparency is interpreted as “tell me everything, all the time”?

This is the tension many leaders face. The desire for openness can sometimes morph into a culture of over-disclosure, where colleagues expect to be looped into every decision, every nuance, every draft. And while inclusivity is vital, so is clarity of purpose.

Here’s how I think about navigating this balance:

1. Define What Transparency Is—and Isn’t

Not long ago, a few team members expressed frustration that they hadn’t been informed about a personnel change until after the action had been finalized. Their concern was rooted in a genuine desire to feel included and informed. But it also revealed a common misconception: that transparency means real-time access to every decision as it unfolds.

I reflected on that moment a lot. The truth is, there are times when we simply can’t share everything—especially when it involves sensitive personnel matters. Transparency doesn’t mean violating confidentiality or prematurely disclosing decisions that are still in motion. It means sharing what we can, when we can, with honesty and context.

This tension is often amplified by generational expectations. For example, younger colleagues—raised in an era of open-source collaboration and instant updates—may expect a level of visibility that feels excessive to more seasoned professionals who were trained to compartmentalize information until it’s fully baked. Neither perspective is wrong—but they do require calibration.

Transparency, in this sense, is not about omniscience—it’s about trust. It’s about ensuring that when we do communicate, it’s with clarity, purpose, and respect for all involved.

2. Anchor Communication in Purpose

When we communicate, we should ask: What does this person need to know to do their job well? Not: What do I know that I haven’t shared yet? This shift keeps transparency aligned with action.

I remember a time when we rolled out a new reporting tool. A Gen Z analyst asked why they hadn’t been included in the early planning meetings. Meanwhile, a Gen X team lead said, “Just tell me when it’s live.” Same project, different expectations. We realized we needed to clarify not just what we were doing, but why certain people were involved at different stages.

Purpose-driven communication helped us bridge that gap. We didn’t need to loop everyone into every meeting—we just needed to explain the roadmap and how each role fit into it.

3. Use Transparency to Build Trust, Not Noise

Trust grows when people feel informed, not overwhelmed. That means being honest about challenges, clear about direction, and intentional about what’s shared. Oversharing can dilute focus and create confusion.

This is especially important in multigenerational teams. Millennials may interpret silence as secrecy, while Boomers may see constant updates as a distraction. The goal is to build a rhythm of communication that respects both preferences.

A few years ago, we tried a “radical transparency” experiment by opening up all project dashboards to the entire department. Within weeks, we were fielding questions about line items that had nothing to do with most people’s work. It created anxiety, not alignment.

We learned that transparency without context is just noise. Now, we focus on curating what’s shared—providing the right level of detail for the right audience. That’s what builds trust.

4. Create Channels, Not Floodgates

Structured updates, regular check-ins, and accessible documentation can satisfy the need for visibility without turning every conversation into a town hall. Transparency thrives in systems, not in spontaneity alone.

During a cross-generational team project, we noticed that our younger staff preferred real-time updates in Teams, while others wanted a weekly summary email. We ended up creating a shared OneNote with key decisions and action items, updated weekly, and linked in both formats.

It wasn’t flashy, but it worked. Everyone had access to the same information, in the way they preferred to consume it. That’s the kind of channel-building that supports sustainable transparency.

And those systems should be flexible enough to meet people where they are. A Gen Z team member might prefer a shared dashboard or real-time doc, while a Gen X colleague might appreciate a weekly digest. The medium matters as much as the message.

5. Model the Balance

As leaders, we set the tone. When we’re thoughtful about what we share—and when—we teach others to do the same. We show that transparency is a tool, not a trap.

I once had a direct report who was hesitant to hold back information, fearing it would be seen as secretive. We talked about the difference between being transparent and being indiscriminate. I shared how I decide what to communicate: Is it actionable? Is it timely? Is it respectful of others?

That conversation helped them find their own balance—and it reminded me that modeling transparency isn’t just about what we say. It’s about how we think.

In the end, transparency isn’t about knowing everything. It’s about knowing enough to move forward together—with empathy, intention, and respect for the diverse ways our colleagues process information.

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—that 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.

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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.

Long Journeys Begin with a Single Step

Every long journey begins with a single step—and for me, that step led to the starting line of the Robie Creek Half Marathon. Ever since moving to Boise, I’d heard whispers about the Race. Colleagues at work, neighbors—anyone who learned I enjoyed trail running—would ask, “Have you run Robie?”

Because of the race’s popularity, bibs are notoriously hard to come by. Registration opens on Presidents' Day in February, and they’re usually gone by the end of the day. Eager to test my limits, I woke up early on February 20 and secured my spot in this iconic event. At the time, I knew I was taking a risk: I was still recovering from a broken ankle I’d injured over Thanksgiving weekend. Little did I know, this race would not only push my physical boundaries but also teach me lasting lessons about resilience and determination.

The Race to Robie Creek

The Race to Robie Creek Half Marathon is renowned for its breathtaking views, challenging hills, and vibrant atmosphere. It is not for the faint-hearted and has earned the nickname "The Toughest Race in the Northwest." As a first-time racer attempting a distance over 10K (6.2 miles) and nursing a hurt ankle, I knew the journey ahead would be anything but easy.

The race begins at Fort Boise Park, situated at an elevation of approximately 2,725 feet. From there, runners embark on a grueling 8.5-mile ascent up Rocky Canyon Road, culminating at Aldape Summit, which stands at 4,797 feet. This climb involves an elevation gain of about 2,100 feet, testing even the most seasoned runners. After reaching the summit, the course descends approximately 1,700 feet over the remaining 4.6 miles to the finish line at Robie Creek Campground. 

The terrain transitions from paved roads in the initial miles to dirt roads as runners approach the summit, offering a mix of urban and rugged landscapes. The race is known for its unpredictable weather conditions, with possibilities ranging from sun and heat to rain and snow, adding another layer of challenge.

Organized by the Rocky Canyon Sail Toads, the event has a rich history dating back to its inaugural run in 1975. Over the years, it has grown in popularity, often selling out within minutes of registration opening. The race not only tests physical endurance but also fosters a strong sense of community, with volunteers and spectators providing unwavering support throughout the course. 

Preparation and Pre-Race Optimism

Looking back, I wish I could say I trained smart: balanced rest and recovery, consulted with a physical therapist, and followed a structured program. But I didn’t do any of that.

Instead, I began walking in March to strengthen my ankle and added short, relatively flat runs in early April. I thought I was ready. With the benefit of hindsight, I realize attempting such a demanding course without proper preparation was a mistake.

Race Day Arrives

Climbing Rocky Canyon
to Aldape Summit

On race morning, I stood among thousands of enthusiastic runners at the starting line, an eager energy pulsing through the crowd—and through me. The atmosphere was electric—charged with camaraderie, purpose, and nerves. Music blared from speakers, volunteers offered last-minute encouragement, and colorful costumes—some serious, some silly—added to the festive chaos. It felt less like a race and more like a community celebration, though the looming mountain reminded me of the task ahead.

From the start, I reminded myself of my only goal: to finish. I settled into a steady, conservative pace, resisting the temptation to chase the faster runners surging ahead. The rhythm of my footsteps became a kind of meditation—each stride a quiet promise to listen to my body, especially my recovering ankle. I paid close attention to the terrain, adjusting with each incline and curve, grateful for each mile that passed without too much pain. Around me, conversations sparked between strangers, cheers erupted from roadside supporters, and the scent of sunscreen and determination hung in the air. I wasn’t racing anyone but doubt...

Pushing Through the Pain

The initial miles were manageable, but as the course climbed into the foothills, the elevation began to test me. My ankle throbbed more each step, and staying focused became a mental challenge.

Though I never seriously considered quitting, I did wonder whether the pain would eventually force me to stop. The cheers from spectators and fellow runners helped tremendously. The natural beauty surrounding the course also served as motivation to keep moving forward.

The Power of Community

One of the most uplifting parts of the Robie experience was the community support. Strangers offered high-fives, encouragement, and even refreshments. As we passed through a foothill neighborhood, parents brought their kids out to cheer, blow horns, hand out orange slices, and offer hose showers. One family was barbecuing hamburgers and even offered me one.

Around mile 8, where the course steepens before Aldape Summit, a runner noticed I was struggling. They offered a few kind words and handed me a Honey Stinger chew. I hadn’t planned to stop, but the gesture—and the sugar—lifted my spirits and fueled my climb.

A late-season storm had blanketed the summit and descent in several inches of snow. By the time I reached the top, the trail was a slick mess of slush and mud. I slipped and fell more than once. Finally, I sat on the trail’s edge to put on my Yaktrax. Another runner stopped to check that I was okay. Despite my weak ankle and growing exhaustion, these moments of kindness reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

A Milestone Achievement

I had assumed the downhill stretch would be easier—that I’d make up some time. What no one tells you is that the post-summit descent is even steeper than the climb. My ankle still hurt, but now my knee was screaming, too.

For the first time, I genuinely questioned whether I’d finish. The issue wasn’t mental resolve—it was the physical pain. Was I doing long-term damage? I didn’t want to quit, but I knew I couldn’t keep running. I chose to walk the steepest sections.

Because I had missed training from Thanksgiving to March and had skipped physical therapy, walking seemed like the safest call. As others passed me, I felt a tug of competitiveness and occasionally jogged—but the downhill grade punished every stride.

Eventually, the slope eased, and I was able to pick up my pace again. As I neared the final stretch, I passed a spectator dressed like a biblical prophet holding a sign: “The End is Near!” I laughed through the pain, carried forward by a mix of fatigue and pride.

Crossing the finish line, I was overwhelmed with emotion. The Robie Creek Half Marathon had pushed me to my physical and mental edge—and I had made it.

Lessons Learned

Running Robie on an injured ankle taught me more than I ever anticipated:

• Perseverance: Progress doesn’t require speed—only forward motion. One step at a time can get you to the finish line.
• Mind Over Matter: A positive attitude is powerful, but it isn’t a substitute for preparation. I deceived myself into thinking I could tough it out—and I paid for that. Still, mental strength helped me endure.
• Community Support: The kindness of strangers—runners and spectators alike—carried me when my own strength faltered. Being part of something bigger than myself made all the difference.

Conclusion

My first Robie Creek Half Marathon was far more than a race—it was a test of resilience, grit, and spirit. Completing it on an injured ankle, with limited training, reinforced a lesson I’ll carry for life: with the right mindset and support, we can endure more than we think—even when our plans fall apart.

Whether you're a seasoned runner or considering your first race, I encourage you to embrace the challenge. The path may be steep, but the view—and the victory—are worth every step.

I’ll be back next year, hopefully better trained and less injured. This time, I’ll bring the lessons I learned with me—about preparation, patience, and the importance of listening to my body. But I’ll also return with the same spirit of determination, ready to take on the mountain again. Because while the finish line marked the end of one journey, it also sparked the beginning of another.

The Middle Seat: On Liberty & Responsibility

There’s a particular kind of discomfort that comes from sitting in the middle seat on a long flight. Wedged between two strangers—one hogging the armrest, the other nodding off on your shoulder—you’re denied both the view of the window and the freedom of the aisle.. You’re stuck. But you’re also, quite literally, in the middle of everything.

That’s where I’ve found myself lately—not on a plane (even if every seat feels like a middle seat today), but in the broader sense of American life. In the middle. Again.

I’ve spent most of my adult life there—ideologically, emotionally, and professionally. Generationally, I’m a “cusper”—born at the tail end of the Baby Boom but raised with the ethos of Gen X. I remember rotary phones and dial-up internet, but I carry a smartphone that unlocks with my face. I grew up with Walter Cronkite and now scroll through newsfeeds that refresh every 30 seconds. I was taught to write thank-you notes by hand, and now I send emojis to express condolences. I’ve seen the world change—fast—and I’m still trying to figure out how to change with it without losing myself in the process.

That same “middle seat” has defined my professional life as well. I’ve built a career as a translator—bridging the gap between fundraising practitioners and the data professionals who support them. I’ve helped frontline fundraisers understand that data isn’t just a report—it’s a story waiting to be told. And I’ve helped programmers understand that “donor intent” isn’t just a field in a CRM—it’s a relationship. My job, more often than not, is to listen to both sides and say, “Here’s what I think they’re trying to say.” It’s not glamorous. It’s not headline-making. But it’s necessary.

Just as I’ve played translator in my career, I’ve also tried to translate—within myself—the often competing values of liberty and responsibility. I came of age with a healthy skepticism of government overreach, a belief in individual liberty, and a deep respect for personal responsibility. Libertarian ideals made sense to me: less interference, more autonomy, and a general wariness of anyone who claimed to know what was best for everyone else.

But some moments test even the most practiced middle-seaters. And for me, that moment came with the arrival of the COVID-19 vaccines.

As vaccines began to roll out last year, I found myself in a strange place. I believe in science. I trust the data. I want to protect my family (my oldest daughter is an ER doctor, after all), my neighbors, and the most vulnerable among us. I also believe in bodily autonomy and the right to make personal medical decisions without coercion. I can’t ignore the reality that public health isn’t just personal—it’s collective.

That’s the tension of the middle seat.

A few weeks after my "booster" dose, I had a long phone call with a dear friend—someone I’ve known for years, someone I trust and admire. She told me, gently but firmly, that she and her family would not be getting vaccinated.

She asked, so I told her the reasons I decided to get vaccinated. Because of my work, because I believe in the science and the data, because I want to protect the people I love. I told her that I made the decision not because I was mandated to do so, but because I truly believe that doing so is for the collective good.

She shared her concerns about the speed of development, about long-term effects, about what she saw as government overreach. She spoke with conviction, and I listened—really listened—because that’s what I do. I heard the fear in her voice. I heard the protectiveness. I heard the love. And in that love, I heard the echo of my own concerns—quiet, but present.

And still, I couldn’t find the middle ground.

That was new for me. Unsettling. I’ve made a life out of standing in the space between opposing views and building bridges. But this time, the gap felt too wide. I couldn’t meet her halfway—not because I didn’t want to, but because the stakes felt too high. Because this wasn’t just a difference of opinion—it was a difference in how we understood risk, responsibility, and reality itself.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t try to change her mind. I set the phone down with a heaviness I couldn’t shake.. Not because we disagreed, but because I realized that sometimes, the middle seat doesn’t offer a clear view. Sometimes, it’s just a place where you sit quietly, holding on to the armrests, hoping the turbulence passes.

It’s not easy.

Because the middle seat, uncomfortable as it is, gives you a unique vantage point. You see both sides. You hear both conversations. You learn to navigate tension, to mediate, to hold space for complexity. You learn that progress doesn’t always come from shouting the loudest, but from listening the longest.

In civic life, the middle seat is often dismissed as indecision or weakness. But I think it’s where the real work happens. It’s where compromise is forged, where empathy is tested, where democracy either stretches or snaps. It’s where we ask hard questions without easy answers. Where we resist the pull of extremes and try, however imperfectly, to hold the center.

And yes, it’s exhausting.

But it’s also hopeful.

Because I still believe that liberty and responsibility are not opposites—they’re partners. This isn’t a new tension—it’s embedded in the fabric of our democracy, from the Constitutional Convention to the civil rights movement. 

I haven’t come to this belief easily. I wrestled with it. I read. I listened. I asked questions. And in the end, I chose to roll up my sleeve—not because I was told to, but because I believe in doing my part. Because I believe that freedom isn’t just about what we’re allowed to do—it’s about what we choose to do for each other.

So here’s to the middle-seaters—the bridge-builders, the skeptics who still believe. We may not have the best view or the most legroom, but maybe that vantage point is exactly what the world needs right now.

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 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.

A Wedding Toast for Faith and Will

Dad and the Bride

Good evening. For those of you who haven’t met me yet, I am Joe, the bride’s father. You are each here because you touched Will and/or Faith in a very special way, and I would like to welcome you and thank you for coming.

Not everyone who wanted to be here could make it tonight. Most of my extended family is stuck on the East Coast after testing positive for COVID. So, for those watching or reading this afterward—we miss you, love you, and look forward to a time when we can be with you again.

This has certainly been a heck of a couple of years, and although this is my second pandemic wedding, being together still doesn’t feel completely normal…

Preamble aside, if you are enjoying yourself, I’d like you to know that I have had nothing to do with tonight (well, almost nothing).

Really, I want to thank and acknowledge Faith’s Mom, Amy, her husband, Kent, and Faith, who have done all the hard work to plan this wedding. Thank you for making this a special night for everyone.

While I was preparing tonight's toast, someone in my office told me a funny joke that I really wish I could take credit for, but even if I didn't write it, I have decided to use it…

Father of the bride toasts and raising children have a lot in common, both are a lot more fun to conceive than to deliver!

As the father of the bride, my job is threefold:

1. Stand up here, and welcome the assembled friends and family.
2. Keep the agenda moving, and
3. Offer the bride and groom unsolicited advice.

#1, check. However, because #2 and #3 conflict with each other, and history tells me Faith won’t listen to my advice for at least a year—I’ll try to keep my pontificating to a minimum…

That said, I do have some stories to share, as well as advice for the newlyweds...

When a couple decides to start a family, they have many hopes for their children… Will they have all their fingers and toes…? Will they look like my partner or her parents? Later on, those hopes turn into: Will they ever move out of the house…?

However, chief among those hopes is that she will find a soul mate, a family-oriented person with a dialed-in moral compass and high character and integrity. Faith has found that in Will. To Alan and Vicky, thank you for choosing to raise a son with these qualities.

Life is a series of choices; some are important, and others are trivial. Besides choosing to become a parent and devote your life to another human, there isn’t a more important choice than selecting your life partner.

Our Boeke Clan

No matter how seemingly consequential (at the time), other choices pale by comparison…

For instance, Faith announced to her mother and me (at age 14 or 15) that she didn’t need to go to college and was simply going to go to Hollywood and become an “actor…” Hours and hours of family counseling later, Faith decided college was a better idea. However, she insisted on majoring in Theater… (I hope you can imagine how worried her father was that she’d be able to make a living afterward).

When she graduated last month, she received a Bachelor of Arts in History, with a minor in Geospatial Information Systems… CHOICES…

Every choice, the small and the large, seemingly consequential or the not-so-consequential, add up and lead you to the most important ones… choosing your soul mate isn’t only important, but a reflection of who you are.

I have benefited so from seeing Faith mature and grow into adulthood; her choices have made me a better person. Similarly, Will’s qualities have made Faith a better person, and I believe that Faith’s qualities will also make Will a better person. As a couple, they are more than the sum of their parts and even better still.

Saying their vows

I have seen how Will looks at Faith. He is kind to her, cares for her, and is passionately and deeply in love with her—and there is nothing more important to a father than knowing his child has that kind of love. For that, Will, I can’t help but love you too and welcome you into our family.

Faith once told me she and Will were “saving themselves for marriage.” Surprised, I was silent. She followed with, “We are good kids… would you rather it be any other way?” Well… not really… CHOICES.

Will is polite and respectful. Faith is polite (in public), respectful, and strong-willed. When she was young, she couldn’t be separated from her mom… I was her bottle-fetcher until her mom left town one night. That night, we became closer. Each choice led us here tonight.

Will & Faith, now that you have joined each other to begin a new chapter in your life, I do have some fatherly advice:

• In searching for meaningful purpose in life, don’t seek outside experiences—you will find it at home, where your family will be.
• Continue to communicate with one another.
• Continue to fight life’s battles together.
• Continue to love, and more importantly, grow your love and build your family.

Because nothing of any value or magnitude tops your family.

Now, if everyone will join me in raising your glasses…

To Faith and Will, Lieutenant and Mrs. Witherow… our collective wish is that you remember this day with these people as you build your wonderful life together.

Cheers!