Camelot Still Lives
“History doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes,” Mark Twain said—and while it’s easy to look backward, the horizon only sharpens when we let history light the way forward. We often flip back through the chapters of history with warm nostalgia—for a time that felt more noble, more sure of itself. Good writers borrow from others; great ones steal outright. Moving forward doesn’t require a new manuscript—it means returning to the authors of history who once captured lightning in a bottle—and believed it just might light the way forward.
We romanticize kings and emperors, inscribe their names in the chronicles of old, and retell their legends on screen. But the truth runs deeper. Their names echo through the ages, but none rose by the will of the people. Their greatness wasn’t earned—it was written in by bloodline or forced into the margins by power.
America is set apart. No nation shares the story we’ve lived—or continue to write. Any scripture of liberty that speaks the names Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, and Kennedy makes one truth clear: this country does not retreat from the future—it reaches for it.
Benjamin Franklin once said that our critics are our best friends—because they show us our weaknesses. Far from a threat, criticism has been the secret to our strength. We never claimed to be perfect. But at our best, we lead not by tearing each other down—but by building each other up. We don’t hoard greatness. We share it, we multiply it, and we pass the torch to the next hand ready to carry it higher.
We do not have a singular idea—except that every citizen should share an equal path to greatness, regardless of race, religion, or sex.
That American experiment is what makes this country exceptional. It doesn’t need to be made great again—just led by those who still believe in its promise and can carry its light forward.
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. But the answer isn’t to follow those with the loudest voice or the narrowest view—it’s to open our eyes and remember who we are.
We didn’t go to the moon for glory. We went because it demanded everything from us: our minds, our spirit, our will. It was a quiet decree to the world that America does not wait for permission—we lead. And when the American flag met the lunar dust, it wasn’t just science. It was where destiny met determination.
America is at its best when the challenge seems impossible.
And yet, for all our strength, we must not forget this truth: we campaign in poetry, but we govern in prose. The ideals we shout in the square must face the tests of reality, compromise, and consequence. That’s the burden of democracy. But it’s also the beauty of it. Because the American story has never been about avoiding hard times—it’s about meeting them head-on, and walking through them together.
Whenever we fear a throne, we return to the round table—side by side, as Americans. Our foundation was built differently—by men who knew tyranny firsthand and designed a republic to withstand it.
We don’t shy from the hard things—we run toward them. We go farther, reach higher, and rebuild faster. It’s the leaders who shield the flame, who face it head-on, that remind us who we are. We don’t make excuses—we make history.
As we watched American astronauts return home—falling through the sky, splashing down in the ocean like a scene remembered from a dream once shared—we weren’t just witnessing a mission complete. We were watching something return to us. A spark. A memory. A moment when vision met will, and daring became destiny.
We went to the moon because a generation believed in what America could be—and dared to chase that dream together. We don’t need to return there to prove who we are. What matters is that the torch still burns.
Though the flame may flicker, the night is always darkest before the dawn. And in its enduring light, we must ask—not what our country can do for us, but what we can still do for it. Democracy was never meant to be easy. It isn’t a promise—it’s a partnership. And it prevails only when we choose to carry the torch forward.
The torch we carry doesn’t just light the path ahead—it reminds us to keep reaching for the stars. That first step onto the moon wasn’t the end of something—it was the beginning of a belief. And from that moment on, we’ve had leaders who carried that belief forward—be it a voice of hope from Arkansas, or a call of “Yes We Can” from Illinois.
We didn’t tune in to witness another landing—we watched to be reminded: of the dream, the courage, the spark. Of what it means to believe again.
We’ve been here before. And every time, we rise.
We look back to chart the course ahead. While we long for a New Frontier in our endless search for answers on that somber Dallas day, one lesson is etched into the final pages of history:
Camelot lives.