I have only one homeland. One place where my roots run deep, and the heritage left for my children is the same one my parents passed down to me. There’s nothing I can do to change that. America is my home, and it will always be.
The weight of this realization hit me with a sting as I processed my emotions after the election. Each day since the election, I went to bed with feelings of shock, disbelief, disappointment, and despair, and woke up to the same. It felt like I was carrying the burden of Christian in Pilgrim’s Progress—a heaviness that paralyzed me, keeping me from wanting to speak, consult, or even engage in the work of racial healing, classical education, or anything else (and I needed to lay that burden at the foot of the cross like Christian did!). Since the election, there’s been a growing trend on social media where Black women are declaring that they will only focus on themselves from now on because we are tired.
The election thrust us all into a place of hopelessness, leaving us to wonder, “What’s the point of any of this anymore?” Our degrees, our diligence, our experience—all of it seems to mean nothing. No matter how hard we try, we’ll never be enough. I don’t know why we took it so personally, or maybe I do. But you don’t have to understand it. I’m not seeking pity, and I don’t need anyone to try to convince me that people’s votes weren’t a personal attack on me. I’m just processing. I’m healing. A glimmer of hope and a better perspective are starting to take shape, but it will be a long road. I don’t need anyone to offer me special opportunities or patronizing words to make me feel better about myself. This election didn’t create new wounds; it reopened old ones that have been there since 1619. Wounds that heal and then reopen with every heartbreak in this country. Wounds that my grandmother passed on to my mother and my mother passed on to me. Wounds of men, women, and society rejecting us after working us to the bone.
As I read the posts and watch the videos of Black women vowing to focus on self-care and rest, I feel despair even in that. As a Christian, I know God has a different perspective, a different purpose for me. He wants me to see things differently. I will stand before Him one day, and I want to be able to say, “I did my best to spread His love and goodness to the world, even when my own country symbolically rejected me in rejecting Kamala.” I know this may not make sense to everyone, and that’s ok…this is my story and maybe someone who does understand will be blessed by my openness.
As these thoughts swirl, I bring them to God, asking, “Lord, is this real? Are these feelings right?” And He reminds me that Kamala rejected Him when she aligned herself with those who oppose His Word. When she celebrated abortion as if it was an easy decision (although sometimes necessary, it is never something to celebrate). He also reminds me that Trump rejected Him by failing to show love to his neighbor, constantly bullying and being cruel. God’s perspective brings me back to the truth: We all fall short. Kamala was not the Messiah. Trump is not the Savior. They are both fallible humans. Regardless of who is in office, however, His command to me remains unchanged: share the gospel (now you know I’m gonna always talk about my Jesus to somebody!), show the world God’s love, and advocate for racial healing and reconciliation.
In the days after the election, I remembered an upcoming speaking engagement in Philadelphia for the National Summit on Civics Education, sponsored by the Jack Miller Center. When I looked at my calendar, I felt dread. Lord, I’m not ready to be in a space that’s tied to American government right now. What if I feel that same rejection I felt on Election Day? How do I do this? I’m not ready. I emailed some friends, sharing my fears and insecurities. Each of them either called, texted, or emailed with words of encouragement, perspectives, or just a listening ear, offering to pray for me. I kept praying, too, in the days leading up to the event. The night before, I tossed and turned, asking God for confirmation. If He was leading me to go, I would trust that everything would be okay. I rest in the comfort in knowing that the safest place to be is in His will.
And that morning, as I prepared to leave, God gave me an unmistakable peace and clarity about what to say. It was clear He was leading me to go. No matter who’s in office, children still need a quality education. They still need access to enriching civics education. Children in my community still deserve truth, goodness, and beauty, and they deserve to understand how this democracy functions. No matter what happened on Election Day, these needs are still here.
At the National Summit for Civics Education, I was blessed in ways I can’t even fully describe. When I arrived, Eric Liu gave a powerful talk about what our democracy is—a large, ongoing conversation. The blueprint of our country calls us to engage in civil discourse, to work together for the common good. I almost shouted, “Amen!” but quickly remembered I wasn’t in church. It was such a powerful talk. As I looked up the bios of the speakers and other attendees, I realized that this event was a nonpartisan gathering (there are a lot of organizations that say they are non-partisan and it’s not really true)—celebrating democracy and the passion for training the next generation on how to participate in this great American conversation. There were people from different political affiliations, organizations, and faiths. Some I agreed with, and some I didn’t (Bari Weiss and I may need to have a private conversation one day, but I digress). But we all agreed on one thing: that we each have the equal right to exist, think, believe, and speak as we do, and to show respect for others’ right to do the same.
What struck me even more was that there was little talk about the election (thank you, Jesus). Instead, we simply enjoyed being in a democratic community. It was like water for my soul. It was exactly what I needed. This gathering reminded me of my sense of purpose in this work, even after the heartache of the election. It felt like a family room—where we could gather, eat, laugh, hug, debate, and just breathe.
I was given space to share my passion for bringing classical education to all people, and for teaching students from marginalized communities about our democracy. After the election, I had felt like my voice didn’t matter anymore. The decision had been made for a president who didn’t seem to care about people of color and who didn’t make room for our stories in the story of America. But this event reminded me that America is still my home, equally my home, and there are spaces in this country that welcome my voice, that facilitate my sense of belonging. At the National Summit, I wasn’t judged by the color of my skin but by the content of my character. And it wasn’t about being “colorblind”—I was seen. The work I do to serve my community and advocate for racial healing was seen and valued.
America has been grappling with the idea of being a land where all people are created equal since its very beginning. It has been a messy, painful, beautiful, violent, and remarkable journey—and I am part of that story. I do not shy away from my hurt, but I do not allow myself to remain mired in it, either. I reflect on my own pain, and the pain of my ancestors, as a way to understand how we can use that pain to contribute to the ongoing American story.
After reflecting on the final conversation between Pete Peterson and Bari Weiss during the dinner at the National Constitution Center, I came to appreciate several things Bari Weiss expressed. She spoke with unapologetic love for both America and her Jewish heritage. She sees herself as equally Jewish and American, embracing both identities with a deep pride that she seamlessly blends. Isn’t this what America is meant to represent for all of us? As she spoke at the National Constitution Center, surrounded by statues of the Founding Fathers and walls inscribed with excerpts from the Constitution, she conveyed both gratitude and pride in being American, while also celebrating her identity as a Jewish woman. I can’t help but think that the Founders could never have imagined a Jewish woman standing where they once stood, sharing her personal story of how she became part of the American story. E pluribus unum. Out of many, one. America is a nation built on diversity, with each individual a unique thread woven into the larger fabric of the country.
All of me is part of this story. All of us are. Our children, too. Every one of us adds a distinct and invaluable thread to the larger picture of the American story. Civics education is the tool that helps our children understand how to weave their unique thread into that story.
Thank you to the Jack Miller Center and the National Summit on Civics Education for reminding me of this essential truth.
Dr. Anika T. Prather 