“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”
Two-hundred and thirty-seven years ago, in May 1787, the Federal Constitutional Convention convened. Delegates from 12 of the original 13 colonies gathered in the State House in Philadelphia, swearing secrecy so they could speak freely. As the convention concluded, a Committee of Style and Arrangement refined the US Constitution into its final draft, condensing 23 articles into seven in just four days.
These delegates, wary of concentrated power and loyal to their states, still managed to build a strong national government through compromise. Despite vastly different perspectives and priorities, they forged a union meant to outlast centuries.
So, how did we get here?
In 2025, the United States no longer feels like a single nation. We still wave the same flag and vote under the same Constitution, but, increasingly, we speak different moral languages, inhabit separate realities, and view fellow Americans not just as political opponents but as existential threats.
How did this cold civil war—fought not with guns, but with culture, ideology, and contempt—take hold?
Politics today is less about problem-solving and more about identity, outrage, and the desire to “own” the other side. To cancel any opinion that varies from one’s own. To create a nationwide common thought. The divide goes deeper than Republicans versus Democrats. It’s a clash of two fundamentally different visions of America.
To the left, the right often appears stubbornly attached to outdated norms—more concerned with exclusion and tradition than true liberty. To the right, the left can seem radical and moralizing—so obsessed with change that it discards stability, free speech, and personal responsibility. Both sides believe they’re defending America. Both believe the other is destroying it.
It’s like flipping a coin: if it lands wrong, people don’t just disagree—they cheer for your misfortune.
We now choose where to live based on political comfort. Our media, our social feeds, even our dating lives are filtered through a red-blue lens. If you can’t picture yourself discussing the news over coffee with someone, you probably won’t even consider being friends. “Tolerance” has become a slogan, not a value. This isn’t democracy. This is dysfunction.
One of the most painful symbols of this division is the American flag itself. For some, it represents freedom, sacrifice, and unity. For others, it embodies injustice and broken promises. When Americans burn the flag in protest, it’s not just contempt—it’s a visceral rejection of the nation. To some, it is an act of protected speech. To others, it’s a betrayal of the very freedoms the flag claims to defend.
But neither side is without blame.
On the right, loyalty to prominent figures—especially Donald Trump—can sometimes overshadow core conservative values, with more attention given to stirring outrage than to advancing constructive solutions.
But the left isn’t off the hook. There’s a tendency to moralize every disagreement and dismiss dissent rather than engage with it. Some progressives focus more on language policing than on working-class struggles or achievable reforms. And far too often, there’s a condescending air—the belief that anyone who doesn’t vote blue must be ignorant, uneducated, or malicious.
Meanwhile, while the culture war rages on X and cable news, real Americans, those not portrayed in the media, struggle. Healthcare is still a mess. Wages have stagnated. Trust in institutions—Congress, the White House, even the Supreme Court—is disintegrating. But instead of addressing these crises, our leaders grandstand for applause.
So again—how did we get here?
Was it Vietnam? That war didn’t just divide generations; it shattered trust in government. Showed Americans the United States’ true position in the world. Or was it 9/11? We came together for a moment in the wake of foreign terrorism when digital media was still young—but then we splintered over Iraq and Afghanistan, surveillance, and militaristic torture methods. Even the search for Osama bin Laden, a shared mission worth 10 years, gave way to bitter fights over strategy, secrecy, and what kind of nation we were becoming.
Wars once united Americans. Now they expose our fractures.
And what about our classrooms? Civics education has become yet another battleground of this political civil war. To teach politics is to tell someone how to think, not what to think. But today, even that goal feels endangered. Education is increasingly politicized to make it more appealing, not necessarily true. Every textbook, history lesson, and reading list dissected for bias. Instead of encouraging curiosity and critical thought, we push conformity and suspicion. We teach a sugar-coated, almost false reality—far from the historical accords generations previous can speak of first hand.
Politics has become theater. A sport. A tribal contest to bare teeth. And in turning it into spectacle, we’ve forgotten the point of democracy: to build something better—together, united as one.
Is there a way back?
It’s hard to say. But it won’t come from politicians or pundits. The media thrives on outrage. Politicians fundraise on fear. And many Americans are simply exhausted from overbearing radicalism. Young people, new to the world of politics and the supposed guiding-light into the future, are inhibited from seeing both sides, from finding any ground in the middle.
But if there’s any hope, it lies there—in the middle. Not necessarily the political center but the emotional one: the space where disagreement doesn’t equal animosity. Where we can argue without contempt. Where we can talk—not tweet.
It starts with conversation. With listening. And maybe, with the humility to admit that our own side doesn’t always get it right.
America isn’t broken. But we’re breaking it. The question is: do we care enough to stop?
