Steeped in fear and driven by hatred, we have seen an alarming trend toward polarization that has crept into nearly every facet of our lives.

America is angry, addicted to outrage, and has no yearning for a cure.

Have we ever been this divided? Perhaps so. The blinders of modernity prevent us from seeing history beyond our own recollection. History, to us, is viewed in the abstract. The pages, the pictures, they’re little more than art to our curious eyes. We once had a war that tore our nation in half and left over half a million brothers to rest eternally on the battlefield. We had moments of intensive strife during the Civil Rights era. Are we more divided today than we were when the likes of Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy were assassinated just months apart?

Those are questions with which historians will have to contend in the future, but for us living in today’s America, it certainly feels as if this is the worst it has been in our lifetime.

As Democrats celebrate the lack of a “red wave” coming to fruition in most states–save for wins in Florida and impressive gains in New York–and Republicans search high and low for any excuse for their loss that isn’t related to the 45th President, there is an incredible lack of introspection across the political divide.

In the weeks leading up to the 2022 midterms, I wrestled with leaving the Republican Party, regardless of the results. As long as I can remember, I have identified as a Republican. I’ve spent my entire adult life committed to its ideals and electing its candidates, both with varying degrees of success and failure.

As the primary election season started in 2016, I was just beginning to discover what kind of Republican I was. I rested my support on Rand Paul, despite my never being a big fan of his father. I found the Senator to be agreeably libertarian while also still maintaining appeal to a broader electorate. I was excited to finally participate in a presidential election (I turned 18 just a few months after the 2012 election).

As we know, Rand Paul didn’t receive the nomination.

I never expected Donald Trump to win the nomination in 2016, much less the Presidency.

It was the first presidential election in which I was eligible to cast a vote. How could I not vote for the nominee of the party for which I work? Alas, I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wrote in Senator Mike Lee of Utah, a man I had met just a few months before at a party function. A decision that is seemingly ironic today, considering his recent victory over the man for whom he voted instead of Donald Trump in 2016. On election night, my attention was turned toward local races, believing that Donald Trump stood no chance of becoming our next President.

I distinctly recall the excitement coming from the downtown San Diego hotel where Republicans rented a ballroom every election night. An individual ran up to me and said “Isn’t this exciting?” or something to that effect. I replied “Our party just committed suicide tonight” and quickly walked outside to get some nicotine.

Since then, my remaining in the Republican Party has been with the belief that I could help in some small way steer the party away from whatever it was heading toward. For the record, I didn’t cast my vote for him in 2020 either. I wrote in Senator Mitt Romney–it seems I have a thing for Senators from Utah.

I recently heard somebody put it well when they said that the Republican Party, in the era proceeding Trump’s ascension to the helm, was reverse engineering its ideology. Organizations have hired policy teams to take burps of Donald Trump’s speeches and tweets and attempt to find enough philosophical flavor and fluff to advertise itself as a well-thought ideology. “America First” they call it.

When he lost in 2020, I thought the end was nigh. But as we know, Donald Trump did not retire to Mar-A-Lago to paint portraits, nor did he decide to return to The Apprentice or to his standard corporate adventures. Allegations of a stolen election, starting his own social media company, and maintaining his oversized influence over the Republican Party added chapter to chapter to what I had hoped was a dime-store novella. It has become the goddam magnum opus of political misery.

For candidates and elected officials not beholden to the former President, it becomes a game of chicken, continually dodging questions on his candidacy or stating a position of support that stems from a fear of the base rather than an earnestly held sentiment. Interviews with now cast-aside members of congress, such as Peter Meijer of Michigan, reveal that the vast majority of Republicans in the body want nothing more than to be done with Donald Trump, but they are afraid to speak.

Afraid of what, exactly? Surely, afraid of the base of Republican voters! But their fear isn’t that their life is in danger or even that their careers post-Congress are in jeopardy. Instead, it is their fear of losing the power and prestige of being a member of Congress. Perhaps, what they should fear more, is what conclusions their grandchildren will draw when reading the stories of their ancestor’s cowardice.

The Republican Party has been, for generations, the best vehicle for the conservative movement. Without a suitable replacement, it most likely still is, but the pain that the movement will have to endure to achieve momentary victory in every next election is potentially too great to survive. In 2020, the party declined to even adopt a new platform.

And now, Donald Trump has announced his third bid for the Presidency.

Donald Trump is antithetical to conservatism. Full stop. While his expansion of the executive branch, friendliness with dictators across the globe, and protectionist trade policy is enough to discredit his facade of conservatism, it is his disregard for our institutions that solidifies it. At the core of conservatism is a belief that the institutions established in the Constitution by our founding fathers are sacrosanct, and at the core of Donald Trump’s moral center is the belief that they are mere obstacles to his continued holding of power.

There is no doubt that any individual who still yearns for Trump’s return residency in the White House will find my words, thus far, to be nothing short of treasonous. For this, I make no apologies, but I will cast my ire across the political pond for a brief moment.

The average individual aligned with the “Never-Trump” movement looks upon the average Trump-supporting American with derision when the national moment calls for curiosity. The found solution may be disagreeable, but the hopes and fears of many millions of Americans are not to be met with such callous disregard unless further division is sought. Indeed, I find myself disagreeing with the direction of the political party that I’ve devoted my entire adult life to advancing, but I try to do so with disappointment, not disgust.

Admittedly, my own mind is troubled by those who find themselves devoted absolutely to a man who I find valueless, narcissistic, and otherwise unintelligent, but to submit to this reaction is to discard the mind in favor of the heart.

Conservative-aligned groups that spawned from and in disagreement with Donald Trump’s rise to power, such as the Lincoln Project, have been just as quick to disregard the principles they sought to preserve. Understandably, organizations such as these quickly found that the pool of donors and surrogates who were willing to take a stand against Trump while still defending traditional conservatism was relatively small. Beyond that, what vulnerable Republican would accept support from a group that seemingly betrays its own base?

Fortunately for this special class of grift, there is a large pool of people angry at Donald Trump willing to give their hard-earned dollars to any organization that promises to fight him.

Donald Trump may very well be the object of your hatred, but extending that hatred to the millions who supported him without giving careful regard to their reasoning is nothing short of dehumanization. For decades, many of these Americans have felt that the ruling political class has ignored them. Whether their logic or conclusions are at fault or not, their emotions are just as real as those you feel toward their chosen leader.

By all means, work to prevent Donald Trump from ascending to the Presidency again. In that effort, I lend my support, but do not pretend as if the bubbling current of populism and nationalism running beneath our political landscape rests solely upon his chances of being elected again. Any true effort to bring an end to reactionary politics begins with a deeper understanding of those with whom we disagree with — and an effort on all of our behalf to recognize the humanity in those who think differently.

Most Americans–be they Trump or Biden voters–are good humans. If you disagree with such sentiment, then I suggest you not concern yourself with who ascends to the Presidency, and instead focus upon the next life. Solace will seemingly always escape you in mortality.

So, yes, I remain a Republican, if for no other reason than to take a final stand for the political party that spawned the likes of Calvin Coolidge and Ronald Reagan.

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Okay, him going to prison had nothing to do with the sandwich he made for Johnny Cash, but now that I have your attention, I’ll get back to that in a minute.

As humans, we derive inspiration from an abundance of sources.

Perhaps it’s the story of an athlete coming from the mean streets of an inner city and making it to the big leagues, or maybe the TEDtalk video you saw while scrolling Facebook of a refugee who escaped unimaginable abuse to start a new life in America. For some, it’s the homeless man with a big smile on the street despite his destitution, or just a random act of kindness we witnessed at supermarket checkout line. Heck, sometimes even a good 1980s rock ballad will get you inspired.

Since I was a teenager, my source of inspiration has been my father. If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to give you a bit of a look into the life of the man I’ve come to admire.

Born in 1966 as the third of five children, Steven Thomas Naumann was raised by William (Bill) and Patricia (Pat) in upstate New York. Born-again Christians, my grandparents sent their kids to a private Christian school where they would be taught biblical values and stray from trouble.

My father was dedicated to getting as deep into that trouble as possible, quickly asserting himself as the rebel of the family. He was barely a teenager when the FCC showed up at his family’s home with complaints about a certain unlicensed CB Radio operator — nicknamed “Moonraker” — whose signal was messing with everybody’s television sets in the Lyell-Otis neighborhood of Rochester. It’s safe to say that my grandfather was unaware of the enormous antenna my father had strapped to the top of the house.

A move to Florida in 1983 further pushed him towards rebellion, eventually leading him to drop out of high school to work in local restaurants and party on the weekends (note: and weeknights).

My father moved to New York City around 1989, where he worked at restaurants such as Isabella’s on the Upper West Side (closed in 2017) and The Coffee Shop in Union Square (closed in 2018). He eventually landed his first head chef gig at a popular restaurant near Madison Square Park, Live Bait, where he met my mother who was then moonlighting as a waitress while she wasn’t away on a modeling gig (Live Bait shut it doors in 2018 as well).

In 1990, he became the lead vocalist in a rock band called Pistol Dawn, which achieved moderate success with gigs played at historical venues such as The Limelight.

(Fun Fact: In the early 1990s, in a penthouse somewhere in the Upper East Village of New York City, my father also briefly met Donald Trump.)

From a now-defunct musical periodical, Rough Mix, in October 1991: “…if Pistol Dawn keeps up their hard work they will eventually get the interest needed for their next big step — a shot at major label land.”

A local music beat reporter, Aviva Levy from Long Island Sounds, reviewed one of Pistol Dawn’s performances, “The sore spot of the performance was lead vocalist Steve Slapdash. While his style sounds quite versatile on tape, he does not come off nearly as well in a live setting.” My dad would attribute that poor review to the countless number of alcoholic beverages he consumed before each show — though the cocaine surely wasn’t helpful either. The band disbanded in 1993 after failing to get a record deal.

In 1994, my mother discovered she was pregnant (a Sage surprise) and my parents quickly tied the knot in what could only be described as a shotgun wedding in the small backyard of a friend’s home. Soon after their marriage, my parents moved out to San Diego, where my mother was originally from, to raise me. My father quickly picked up his culinary career in Southern California, first as the head chef for Leucadia Pizzeria for a short period of time, then moving towards catering for television shows and movies filming in the area.

This is where Johnny Cash comes in.

In 1996, Johnny Cash was the celebrity guest on Season 4, Episode 22 of Renegade. My father made a sandwich, as requested, for the great country singer. If you’re wondering, his order was two eggs, over easy, bacon, and mayonnaise on sourdough bread. He enjoyed it so much that his personal assistant returned sometime later to order another for the road. This is more of a side note than a significant life event, but it surely grabs ones attention, doesn’t it?

During this time, while managed, my father’s alcoholism continued, as did his casual addiction to cocaine.

In 1998, my brother, Dylan, was born. After his delivery, doctors noticed he had petechiae, which are spots of blood under the skin of his face. While not usually a cause for alarm, this led them to run some additional tests — and eventually a scan of his brain — when doctors recognized that something had gone terribly wrong. Lesions of darkness scarred a large swatch of my brother’s brain.

“Something attacked half of your son’s brain during the pregnancy,” my father recalls being told to him. The diagnosis was quite vague — “mental retardation.” The prognosis wasn’t great — potentially a permanent vegetative state.

(I don’t have the room to discuss my brother in this piece, but he is not in a permanent vegetative state and is a happy 22-year-old with the precious mind of an 18-month old.)

My father’s addiction began to spiral from this point. Drinking no longer began at 5 PM, it began at 9 AM. Soon, he was introduced to methamphetamine by a crew member at the restaurant he was working. At the time, this seemed to be the solution to alcoholism as the meth eliminated the desire to drink.

In 2001, my father fell into a string of drug-induced arrests that eventually landed him at the Vista Correctional Facility (county jail) for a year. Originally intended to be just a six-month stay became a full year when a little knife — fashioned from the pot of a cooking pan — was discovered in his shoe.

Once my father was released, he was soon arrested again for possession of meth, but released due to California’s Proposition 36, which allowed him to waive prison time in exchange for attending a rehabilitation center.

(Fun Fact: He did not attend a rehabilitation center.)

It took two more arrests before a judge finally ordered my dad to serve two years in state prison. Part of the his time was spent at Richard J. Donovan Correctional Facility, while the bulk was spent at Baker Correctional Facility, a now-defunct private prison that is located in the California desert. My father eventually became the warden’s trustee, and while he didn’t have a Shawshank Redemption moment, he does have a fun story of being the “escapee” in a facility-wide drill.

Once my father was release from prison in February of 2005, he immediately went to his parole office, where he discovered that his parole officer was on vacation. Those at the office informed him of a seminar — in two weeks time — about a residential substance use disorder facility in Vista called Casa Raphael.

What was he to do for two weeks? Get high, of course.

My dad managed to get what he wanted, being arrested once again that evening. What kept him from going back to prison was the fact that he quickly swallowed his bag of drugs to prevent a possession charge. What he wasn’t counting on was the bag exploding in his stomach, resulting in a high that lasted another day (and another arrest that next night).

On February 19th, 2005, my father was released from jail again, quickly shopped for some clothes and stopped by the liquor store, eventually coming down from his high and falling asleep at the Oceanside pier. He awoke, many hours later, with a grey hoodie being placed upon him by a stranger.

He headed to an enclosed bus stop as it began to rain.

There, he prayed for an answer. He made a decision.

February 20th, 2005 marked the first day of my father’s sobriety.

Spending his nights at Bread of Life in Oceanside and his days laying on the beach, my father made it those two long weeks.

There’s a great span of time between 2005 and today. My father stayed in Casa Raphael for 14 months, worked through the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, and eventually rooming with a few other recovering alcoholics. From there, he began working in the pool cleaning industry, eventually starting his own business that he still operates to this day. He restarted his relationship with me, who was ten at the time.

In 2011, while I was still in high school, my parents reunited. They eventually moved back in together and remarried in 2015. I unfortunately lost my mother on July 2nd, 2016 from the same disease that nearly took my father, which I’ve written about before. Despite this, my father still remained sober and committed to living his life to the fullest with the time he didn’t think he’d have.

Today, my father is at peace.

He owns his own home. He has a cat named Taboo. He constantly debates whether it’s worth maintaining the grass in the front yard versus laying down some decorative rocks. He is in fantastic shape, running a few miles every day and lifting weights. He occasionally plays Xbox. He dabbles in cryptocurrency, calling to fill me in on what I’ve missed in this new digital wonderland. He has been dating for awhile now and is currently in a relationship with a wonderful woman with an amazing story and a selfless career of her own. He still plays his guitars and sings daily.

The first Christmas my wife and I had in our new home in Brighton, Colorado, my father stayed at a nearby hotel. One night, he declined my offer for a drive back to the hotel despite the temperature being well below freezing. I was a bit puzzled, and my father dismissed my inquiries into why he was making such a choice.

The next day, he turned to me and said, “You asked me why I walked in the cold. Sometimes it’s good to be reminded of what the cold feels like — because I’ve been out in it without any other option.”

I sometimes find myself sobbing — for no apparent reason — when thinking of my father’s journey. It usually happens when listening to some of the 1990s grunge music that my father has had me listening to since I was a young kid. This story always has a tragic ending, but this time, perhaps through the grace of God or a ripple in spacetime, it didn’t. My father’s resolve, his wisdom, and his faith continue to inspire me on a daily basis.

There is so much more that I wish I could write about my father’s life. So many lessons learned, so many stories to tell. Prompted by a tweet, I was asked what sort of book I’d write if I was given a $50,000 advance.

I think I just started it. Where’s the check?

Happy Father’s Day, pops. I couldn’t have hoped for a better dad.

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You may want to call your childhood babysitter — and her mother — to apologize for that temper tantrum you threw years ago. If you’re a parent, perhaps have your nanny sign a nondisclosure agreement now, or else risk them spoiling the political career of your little Jimmy or Susie.

That may sound ridiculous, but our modern era of zero-sum politics has apparently rendered youth to be no excuse for bad behavior — and perhaps a notable indicator of future behavior.

“We’re not sure what reason you put gum in Billy’s hair in the third grade, but we’re certainly sure it was indicative of how you’ll act in elected office!”

I find little joy in coming to the defense of Missouri’s Junior Senator, Josh Hawley, who has consistently proven his uncanny ability to exchange principle for popularity at a time where real leadership was never more desperately needed in that chamber.

Alas, because of principle, I must.

On Sunday morning, the Kansas City Star ran a front page article delving deep into the supposed roots of Josh Hawley’s flirtations with “radicalism.” Amongst the “facts” gathered on this most enterprising of journalistic endeavors was the opinion of Shirley Guevel, the 87 year-old mother of a woman who “babysat Hawley a few times as a child.” According to this irrefutable source, Hawley was never told “no” as a child and was perhaps was groomed at an early age to run for office.

The article continues by providing quotations from Hawley’s middle school principal, Barbara Weibling, reaffirming that Hawley was prepared by his parents for a political future. She goes on to state that she believes Hawley’s propagation of the lie that Donald Trump won the 2020 election was “a way to get attention.”

I agree, it most certainly was. But did we really need to ask his middle school principal that question?

This pathetic attempt at journalism is nothing short of emotional extravagance. Whether the reporters’ emotions or the emotions of the Kansas City Star’s readership — or a combination of both — were the motivating factor is not necessary to determine. The increased national focus on Hawley has driven the media and pundits alike to produce every “hot take” they can muster.

In this case, they struck ice, and in doing so, shamed their profession and reinforced a dangerous precedent that is unfortunately becoming more commonplace as standard operating procedure.

More than anything, we need journalists who are dedicated to fostering discourse and debate at an intellectual level. That doesn’t mean we need Ivy Leaguers hurling together sentences of great complexity at each other, but it does mean bringing differing views, perspectives, and ideas head-to-head in a civil forum in an effort to enlighten. I work with reporters daily in at the Colorado State Capitol that continue to amaze me with the articles they write, the perspectives they bring, and the intellectualism they promote. They make mistakes, like we all do, but I genuinely believe the majority of those in journalism have their heart in the right place, which is why the blame cannot simply be laid on the feet of journalism at large.

No, supply is useless without demand, and the public demands blood.

It’s not a partisan issue, it’s an American issue. A desire to fuel our outrage with skewed commentary that reinforces our biases and hardens our hearts has replaced a desire to learn and understand those around us. Our news outlets have political parties associated with them, and they have begun to embrace those pigeonholes, skewing their coverage further to whichever side consumes their content the most.

It’s a vicious cycle that will require the adults in the room to stand up to break it — we just have to find the adults in the room. It’s time for us to ask ourselves at what cost we are willing to destroy those we disagree with. I believe the bid has risen to a price we should not be willing to pay.

Social media has made these attacks quick and their bite ever more painful — it has also forced journalism into a situation where being the quickest to publish is arguably more important than the most comprehensive or informational. The good news is that this has also resulted in the consumer — the voter — holding more power via their speech than ever before in human history. That gives us — the little people — a unique opportunity to lead the about-face and be the adults in the room that our nation desperately needs. It just requires a willingness to say enough is enough.

Once the dust settled and the raccoon-hatted, face-painted knuckleheads were forced outside of the United States Capitol on January 6th, Nebraska Senator Ben Sasse gave a short speech that I encourage you to watch.

“You can’t do big things, together, as Americans, if you believe other Americans are the enemy…If you’re angry, I want to beg you, don’t let the screamers who monetize hate have the final word, don’t let nihilists become your drug dealers…Organize, persuade, but must importantly, love your neighbor.”

Love your neighbor. If that fails, make sure to at least love the babysitter.

In politics, the overwhelming trend is to pick a side and pick up a sword in an effort to avoid being inevitably devoured by both sides on any debate — it tends to be quite black and white. As a student of political science and philosophy, it’s more difficult for me to admit a lack of conviction at all than it is to declare defiance to my own political party or philosophical allies. That’s what makes this so difficult, yet so liberating.

I am confident that I don’t know where I stand on climate change.

I have read the studies, I have listened to the pundits, I have seen the charts, and I have heard the scientists. Between Al Gore’s inconvenient bloviating in the early 2000s and Republicans apparent blowing off of huge swaths of the scientific community, it’s difficult to find intellectual refuge on the topic. Both sides default to dogmatism — many Democrats view Republicans as being paid off by big oil, while many Republicans see Democrats view as an authoritarian scheme (or even some sort of plot devised by the Chinese government).

It’s an unfortunate byproduct of the times we currently live in. Hyper-partisan, polarized, and unwilling to see merit in arguments made from across the aisle, or at the very least, acknowledge that those making such arguments have benevolent motives. My inability to decisively choose between the two sides has rendered me perceptively unable to participate in the broader discussion, something that many Americans feel, I assume.

Now, I may not know if man-made climate change exists as environmentalists seem to, but I do know that most major studies on climate change indicate that nuclear power ought to be a major — if not the predominate — energy source explored to replace fossil fuels. Ken Silverstein of Forbes recently pointed out that while President Trump views climate change as a hoax, his policy on nuclear energy is “spot-on.” This is one of the reasons it’s difficult to take any Democrat — such as Bernie Sanders — seriously when they desire action on climate change paralleled with an absolute desire to shut down nuclear energy production. If we’re talking about the potential end of mankind — shouldn’t every option be on the table?

At the very least, Republican support for nuclear power coupled with scientific support, should provide somewhat of a middle ground on climate change — regardless if the motives between the two differs.

I also do know that the results of state action in response to climate change have real impacts on everyday Americans. According to the 2019 U.S. Energy and Employment Report, there are 625,369 Americans who rely on natural gas for employment, 197,418 who rely on coal, 799,531 on petroleum, and we can even toss in another 72,146 for nuclear. Those are massive numbers — all of which are in some way under attack by statist solutions to forcefully transition our energy away from their respective industries.

Regardless if you believe climate change to be a threat or a farce, it’s important to understand that these nearly 1.7 million workers are in the direct crosshairs of any state action on climate change.

I do know that suggested “fixes” for climate change, such as those outlined in Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’ “Green New Deal” will heavily increase the powers of an already bloated central government. Setting aside the potentially massive costs to transition us to renewable energies within a relatively short span of time, doing so would result in massive reorganization of the United States economy via government orchestration.

Many on the left may not find issue with such expansion of government powers, but it is certainly an issue that any American skeptical of increasing the scope of government should be considerate of.

One does not need to believe in climate change to see that the issue is worth intensive discussion and debate, and one not need to disbelieve in climate change to critique some of the rhetoric and policy proposals coming from elected officials.

Undeniably, many partisans and zealots will find reason to critique my stance (or lack thereof) on this issue. Those who view climate change as an existential threat to our existence will find me to be just another cog in the pollution machine, whilst those who do not will not enjoy my unwillingness to admit climate change is just a statist plot.

I’ve met oil and gas workers, and I find no reason to believe that those who work, live, and raise their families in our communities to be willing accomplices to the destruction of our planet. As such, I’ve met climate change activists who overwhelmingly seem earnest in their convictions.

Harvard Professor Steven Pinker takes an interesting approach to the issue, stating in an article for The Breakthrough Journal that “Problems are solvable. That does not mean that they will solve themselves, but it does mean that we can solve them if we sustain the benevolent forces of modernity that have allowed us to solve problems so far…”

Pinker is full of optimism — even as a believer himself in climate change.

I may not have staked out a position on climate change, but I have concluded that it’s going to take an about-face from all of those engaged in the conversation if we are to ever make headway on the issue. Like Pinker, I’m optimistic — perhaps you should be as well.

As “hospice” replaced “recovery” in conversation, the Earth seemingly slowed its rotation.

We tried to ask the hospice representative questions, as if they’d lead to favorable answers or perhaps alternative realities, but the truth felt so real in that moment that I could taste it in my mouth, I could hear it ring in my ears, I could see it in the carpeting on the floor. It was a moment I knew I would never forget.

My father — losing the love of his life — had a tougher time keeping his anger in check. He couldn’t understand why she was sent home from the hospital a week earlier despite not being in any state to return. He couldn’t understand why they couldn’t force medicine on somebody who was delusional and convinced that her hallucinations were real. My parents divorced when I was seven years old — and reunited when I was seventeen. Between those years, my father battled his own alcoholism, alongside an addiction to methamphetamine. He spent time living on the streets, in and out out of jail, and eventually, landed himself in prison. He called my once to inform me that the birds were chasing him. We can laugh about that one today.

His journey, alone, could fill pages.

The hospice representative was just doing her job, but it felt so cold.

Why doesn’t she understand how insane all of this is?

My mother, brother and I were on our own for the next few years. My mom, one of the most creative minds I’ll ever know, decided to sew children’s clothing to sell on eBay under the name “Cottage Closet.” That venture, alongside the SSI payments she received for taking care of my disabled brother, helped keep us alive. Later, my mother would develop painful arthritis in her back from continual lifting of my brother — something that arguably contributed to her alcoholism as well.

When I was ten, my mother remarried to a wealthy mortgage executive. Suddenly, I had a backyard, my step-father owned a Porsche, and our home was massive. I even went to a Christian private school. It was during that marriage that my mother’s alcoholism started to rear its ugly head. Mental and verbal abuse, mixed family drama, and my step-father’s crumbling mortgage business (this was during the height of the Great Recession) were a large factor in my mother turning to the bottle. Again, this is another story that could fill pages.

My mother divorced her second husband when I was just fourteen. In the meantime, my father had finished his prison sentence and entered a program known as Casa Rafael, operated by Alpha Project in San Diego County. He got sober, started a new career, and eventually, his own business. I finally had my father back. While my father never hid his continued affection for my mother, he was respectful to my mother’s second marriage. When she divorced, he made his feelings known.

I was seventeen when my mother decided to take my father up on his offer of reunion — despite my stubborn rejection of the notion. They eventually remarried just a few months prior to my mother being hospitalized.

It wasn’t until my mother accidentally spilled her hidden wine bottle under the kitchen sink that my father realized that my mother, too, was an alcoholic. My father pledged to help her towards the road to recovery — himself being six or seven years sober at that point.

Back at the hospital, my eyes felt heavy as I glanced at my father and my aunt. With every glance came the weight of their pain, multiplying and multiplying and multiplying. My heart felt like it would just slump right out of my body and land on the floor with a magnificent thud. To be honest, I probably wished it would at that moment. My eyes again turned to the floor.

Our entire realities were altered forever at that very moment by a woman with a patient file and a paycheck.

“Are you ok, Sage?” somebody asked.

I pulled from eyes from that carpeting— and looked at my father, aunt, and the representative. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I can certainly remember what I was thinking.

“What do you think?”

She would never get to hold my future children, or enjoy a Christmas dinner at our home, or even see where my career was to take me. I knew she was proud of me, but I felt I had so much more to show her in my future. I just wanted her to know how thankful I was that she was my mother. I never got to say that enough.

I walked into the hospital room to see my mother again. I used a straw to deliver a small amount of water to her mouth — she vomited immediately.

It was clear — she was dying — but her delusions kept her from this truth. Every bone in my body wanted me to shake her in the hopes that I could pull her from the hallucinations just to tell her goodbye with the knowledge that she knew what I was speaking about. I still keep the voicemails she left me in the middle of the night from the hospital, claiming that the nurses and my father were stealing money from her. She told my father that little elves were in the room playing with her belongings.

I’m still not sure she ever understood the finality of it all.

I’m not sure she ever knew she was dying.

She was afraid, but she wasn’t sure what of. Her eyes cried out for help, but there was nothing more to do. Less than a week later, her heart ceased its beating, and she slipped into infinity.

On Friday, July 1st, Sara and I fell asleep around 9 PM after a grueling week of emotional hospital visits. I suddenly woke up around 2 that next morning, and as I usually do, immediately reached for my phone. As I pulled it to my face, a call came in from my father.

“Mom’s gone.”

I hurried over my parent’s house to watch my brother, Dylan, while my father said goodbye to my mom. He had already departed by the time I arrived. I feel to my knees in the kitchen and cried. I have never cried so hard in my life. I prayed to God — I even prayed to my mom. I told her how sorry I was that she had been through so much — I told her how thankful I was to have her as my mom.

I’ll never forget the tearful embrace my father and I shared when he came home. It felt like that hug lasted hours, and I remember it so vividly. Immediately, my worry turned to him. He spent years rebuilding his life for it to slip away.

It will have been three years ago tomorrow.

Since my mother’s death, I’ve had many of her closest friends and family relatives plead the same line:

“I didn’t think it was my place to say anything.”

I don’t blame them. It’s never easy to interject yourself into a situation like this. You don’t want to alienate, you don’t want to humiliate. This end was not their fault. But, if anything can be made positive by the death of my mother, it’s to hopefully spread a message to others either dealing with addiction or who know somebody who is. Say something. Do something.

The pain of losing a friend, a family member, a mom, will be far greater than that of alienating a friend. For all you know, you could save their life.

I’m doing just fine. My addictions are limited to caffeine and nicotine, and while not a gleaming image of health by any means, I’m very blessed to have bucked a trend (so far). My wife and I just purchased our first home, we have a Basset Hound puppy named Milton and an old fat cat named Groucho. I’ve somehow managed to develop a career without a degree, many old books adorn our bookcases, and my mother is carried with us always in our hearts.

I’m also extremely thankful to the man above for giving me my father back. If it wasn’t for a bit of divine intervention and amazing organizations such as Alpha Project, I may not have either parent today. He is still sober (14 years), operates his business, plays his video games, and has started dating again.

Today is the one day I reserve for mourning my mother each year — the other 364 days are reserved for making her proud.

Conservatives are losing the battle with the next generation, and fear tactics aren’t the solution.

One must concede the simplistic beauty of a conceptual national commune — a society of men that need not and want not by design. I lay no blame at the feet of my millennial counterparts that have found philosophical refuge in such beliefs. Indeed, the American conservative movement has been quick to dismiss this subscription as the result of an endemic laziness or addiction to instant gratification, granting little (if any) consideration to what may be a well-informed train of thought. To our own peril, we have forgotten the “next generation” has a historical trend of bucking the status quo in search of a better alternative, or perhaps we have simply forgotten the allure of socialistic policies in the young mind. Regardless, it is time to reflect on this failure, recognize the ineffectiveness of our current tactics, and adjust our future strategy accordingly.

If one reads Marxist literature, you’ll see no mention of Mao’s Five-Year Plan or the mass starvation of an entire nation, nor will you see any endorsement of tyrannical dictators such as Joseph Stalin. That is worthy of our attention in the realm of informed debate and discussion. Conservatives ought not allow an endemic laziness force us to regulate our arguments to atrocities of the past committed in the name of communism or socialism. While the memes that highlight the number of those killed under these dictators may rile up the base, we must recognize that the base isn’t who we’re trying to convince.

If you’ve ever spoken to an informed communist, they’ll be the first to denounce these “communist” dictators and their shameful actions.

Firstly, we must attempt to understand the differences between socialism and communism. While conservatives tend to view them as interchangeable, communism is really the extreme camp within the broader tent of socialism. One common trait shared by even the most moderate socialists, though, is the use of power to reach more-desired outcomes. Marxist theory dictates that capitalism must come before socialism, which is state control of all industry, which then leads to communism, which is the dissolution of the state and the power being transferred to the workers.

Obviously, Marx’ definition of socialism doesn’t necessarily fit our modern view, as “democratic socialists” in the United States aren’t calling for full government takeovers of all industry, but again, they share the common belief that government must act to “right the wrongs” that capitalism has brought, it’s more or less an argument of how far.

Regardless, a 2016 poll proved that 69% of voters aged 18 to 29 were willing to vote for a socialist, and a 2017 poll found that 44% of millennial voters preferred to live under socialism, and a 2018 poll found that 62% of those age 18 to 34 believe “we need a strong government to handle today’s complex economic problems.” While it is easy to state that these individuals will follow the trend of becoming less inclined to favor government solutions throughout their lives, that isn’t a risk we should be willing to take. I shudder to think what the numbers in 2019 are.

Secondly, I suggest a turn towards the importance of individualism. Individuality remains a driving force in the minds of the youth, compelling them to differentiate themselves from their peers, trailblaze new paths through their blossoming careers, and continually push the boundaries of human ability. Millennials are no fans of authority, yet their willingness to cede power from themselves to it should cause conservatives pause, not ridicule.

If, in fact, this generation of cultured, educated, and hungry individuals are turning away from the system that will allow them the most freedom and the most opportunity, perhaps it is due to the defenders of that system lacking the ability to effectively defend it.

Third, conservatives must embrace compassion once again. Compulsory charity is nonexistent by its nature, and as such, conservatives should practice what they preach in being involved in our communities, givers to our churches and charities, and committed to helping our fellow man. This requires no new legislation, but it does require a personal commitment from those that seek to stem the rising tide of statist philosophy.

The early-19th century French economist Frederic Bastiat wrote that, “every time we object to a thing being done by government, the socialists conclude that we object to its being done at all.” Those words still ring true today, but by championing charitable solutions and their successful applications, we can begin to present a superior alternative to government growth.

As younger generations turn down a path that seems inconceivable to those who think of themselves as wiser, recognize that both prosperity and despair are relative and subjective. Consider that suicide rates in both the United States ($62,518 per capita GDP) and Eritrea ($1,253 per capita GDP) are extremely similar, despite any objective analysis showing that those living in the United States are far more fortunate by any measurable economic analysis. The younger generation is constantly in search of meaning, of purpose, of belonging, and the burden lies with us to communicate that perhaps we have already discovered that light at the end of the tunnel. Let us convey to them the most self-empowering, individual-centric system that the Earth has ever seen: capitalism.

Photo: United States Senate, Public Domain

Recent days have revealed very little about the direction our nation is heading in regards to firearms. Despite the mainstream media having their armory of reporters focused on guns and every Twitter activist wearing down their keyboards in 280-character diatribes against the other side, we’re not any closer to finding resolve.

This cancerous, roundabout debate on firearms will end the same way most end in America. Perhaps we will see a revival of the Assault Weapons Ban that we saw from ’94 to ’04, or perhaps Trump’s proposal will alleviate concerns for the time being. Regardless of what happens, this won’t be the last time we have a national discussion on guns, and it won’t be the last time we find each side calling the other fascists and murderers.

What today’s debate regarding firearms will do, undoubtedly, is divide our nation further. The insults have reached a disturbing, personal level, the conspiracy theorists are busier than they have ever been, and both sides have lost sight of the fact that their mental opponents are really their American brothers and sisters. This issue, if anything, will serve as a spotlight on a cultural crisis that has been brewing in our nation for decades, extending far beyond the issue of guns.

This crisis wasn’t manufactured by the gun lobby and it certainly isn’t the fault of any single politician or party. This crisis began at the dinner table.

Gone should be the days of banishing controversial political topics at the American dinner table. Holding a secretive, vitriolic hatred for the individuals across the lumber, nails, and feast should not be a point of pride, nor should one’s ability to divide the individual from their beliefs for momentary solace be any sort of accomplishment. Holding one’s tongue breeds contempt, discourse gives birth to progress.

I shall not go as far as to say that personal restraint is irresponsible, but the opposing extreme of constant self-censorship in the name of preserving peace is utter nonsense. To discuss, to debate, to discourse is to show great respect for your philosophical adversary and give the utmost regard for the American ideals of democracy.

If we are to resist sharing our hearts and minds with those we are closest to, both in proximity and relation, then how are we to have these discussions on the nation stage? Whilst issues of national and international intrigue are not to be solved at the dinner table, the character of our leaders — and our voters — will certainly be molded there.

How are we to prepare our children — our nation’s future leaders — for introspective thought and self-critique if not challenged from an early age?

A decades-long held practice of secrecy on these issues has bred generations of individuals who are unable to respect differing opinions and unable to articulate their own beliefs. The term “snowflake,” while certainly derogatory, holds a great deal of truth in relation to the delicacy of individuals’ ability to engage with opposing sides. In contrast, those that cast the term upon others do little justice to reversing this trend.

We have done no service to our future generations by shielding them from the truths of democracy. Despite the rhetoric, we do not live under tyranny. Why must we teach our children to hide their beliefs and submerge their discomfort with other beliefs as if the likes of the KGB or Gestapo are to suddenly arrive in disagreement?

The recent reemergence of the “debate” surrounding the Second Amendment is only a “debate” as far as television ratings go. Both sides already hold their views as truth, armed to the teeth with a quiver of insults and labels to stoke fear and hatred in the eyes of Americans. The fact that so many Americans are willing to cast others as willing accomplices to murder — and with such haste — shines a light on the state of our nation’s discourse.

In not preparing our children, we have failed them. Generations look upon their fellow man with blood boiling, fists clenched, and while most have remained behind their screens, it requires only certain circumstances to turn keyboard warriors into wannabe revolutionaries. Our children are also quick to lazily turn to government solutions, resulting in massive growth in the power of government — from the local level to the federal level. There was once a time where both parties could agree that the accumulation of power by our government shackled our citizens and starved the flames of liberty.

Sadly, those who claim that the police are corrupt and the government is a sham are the first to look to government to not only regulate, but to oversee and control entire industries of our economy. When our children see the man sleeping on the sidewalk, they do not turn to the shelter to render aid or to the donation bin to volunteer their paychecks. Instead, they call to the government, they plan a protest, they post on Instagram, and they sleep feeling accomplished. They were part of something bigger than themselves!

Instead of utilizing their voices — which have been amplified by our advancements in technology — to bring their communities together in a voluntary fashion, they have instead turned to government coercion. Compassion at gunpoint. We don’t know our neighbors, but based upon the NRA sticker on their car and the American flag flying outside their home, we are certain to conclude we wouldn’t want to associate with them.

Conservatives conduct themselves in the same fashion. For every liberal who judges a conservative based upon their Trump sticker, there is a conservative doing the same due to a Hillary or Bernie sticker. Unfortunately, for conservatives, we have lost sight of the fact that our philosophical fight doesn’t just occur on the floor of the House of Representatives, but at the end of our cul-de-sac, on our campuses, and in our own homes. While we are to fight to keep government small, we must also fight to keep hearts big.

It begins at the dinner table, where we can have open and honest discussions about important issues, understanding that opposing views aren’t discouraged, they’re encouraged, and that they are indicative of the American way.

We may not have the answers for the gun debate, the abortion debate, or the immigration debate today, but if we start these conversations at the dinner table, perhaps we’ll have them tomorrow.