Standards Optional

There is a habit in American politics to reduce serious disagreements to tone, loyalty, or personal preference, as if every concern is merely a difference of opinion. That approach feels fair-minded, but it breaks down when actions touch the core principles that hold a constitutional democracy together. Some behaviors aren’t controversial because they’re misunderstood; they matter because they test whether the rules apply equally and whether human dignity is treated as non-negotiable.

Many Americans value strength in leadership. But strength is not the same as cruelty. Publicly mocking people with disabilities wasn’t simply rough humor or an offhand remark—it signaled that vulnerability is acceptable to target. Across religious traditions, conservative philosophy, and civic ethics alike, there is agreement on one point: dignity is inherent, not earned. When leaders model contempt, it lowers the standard for everyone.

Likewise, criminal convictions are not supposed to be political weapons—but they also aren’t optional. Due process exists precisely to protect the innocent and restrain the powerful. Rejecting verdicts outright because they apply to influential figures weakens the rule of law conservatives have long argued is essential to a free society. If laws apply only to those without power, equality before the law becomes an illusion.

January 6th deserves careful and honest evaluation. Peaceful protest is a constitutional right. But encouraging distrust in a lawful election and pressuring supporters to overturn its outcome by force crosses a line that conservatives historically warned against. The peaceful transfer of power is not a partisan tradition; it is a foundational safeguard. When violence in service of loyalty is excused, the precedent endangers everyone, regardless of party.

Courts exist to limit executive power—not to obstruct leadership, but to prevent tyranny. Ignoring court orders is not bold resistance; it is the rejection of constitutional checks and balances. Limited government only works when no one is placed above the law.

The same standard applies to military force. The Constitution assigns war-making authority to Congress to prevent unilateral decisions that cost lives. Acting without authorization may appear decisive, but it bypasses democratic accountability and treats human life as expendable. Conservatism has long argued that war should be rare, justified, and lawful—because its consequences are irreversible.

Transparency is another conservative value. Attempts to delay, obscure, or interfere with accountability surrounding the Epstein records raise serious ethical concerns. Abuse flourishes in secrecy. This is not a partisan issue, and protecting the powerful from scrutiny—especially when exploitation of minors is involved—undermines moral credibility entirely.

Domestically, enforcement without accountability invites abuse. Immigration enforcement, for example, does not require abandoning due process or separating families without recourse. Government power, when unchecked, inevitably harms the innocent—something limited-government advocates have warned about for generations.

Internationally, alienating allies while praising authoritarian leaders weakens stability and American credibility. Diplomacy isn’t weakness; it is a tool to prevent conflict and protect national interests without unnecessary loss of life.

At home, deploying military force against citizens exercising constitutional rights crosses a dangerous threshold. The military exists to defend the nation, not intimidate it. When dissent is treated as disloyalty, citizenship becomes conditional.

Economic policy follows the same ethical test. Cutting services for ordinary people while enabling personal enrichment is not fiscal discipline—it is a misuse of public trust. Government exists to serve the common good, not private gain.

None of this is speculative. Impeachment is not symbolic outrage; it is a constitutional mechanism designed for serious abuses of power. It exists precisely for moments when ordinary safeguards are strained.

Taken together, these issues form a pattern rather than isolated controversies. They raise questions not about ideology, but about accountability, restraint, and moral responsibility.

These are not ordinary policy disagreements. They are thresholds.

A democracy cannot survive selective accountability. Justice cannot exist when consequences depend on status. And leadership loses legitimacy when cruelty is reframed as strength.

History will not only record what happened—it will remember who excused it, who questioned it, and who refused to look away.

I know where I stand.

The Spaces That Hold Us

Equal access is often celebrated as progress. The argument goes: if everyone can attend the same schools, live in the same neighborhoods, or worship in the same churches, why do separate Black institutions still matter? On the surface, it seems logical. But access is not the same as equity. Access is not the same as belonging. Access is not the same as home.

Being allowed in a room doesn’t mean the room was built for you. You can attend the school your parents didn’t, sit in the pews of a church that wasn’t designed with your culture in mind, or move into the neighborhood your grandparents couldn’t afford. You can do all of it and still feel like a guest. Safe? Maybe. Belonging? Rarely.

Inequity in access persists in ways that are often invisible. For example, during a year of budget cuts in Louisiana, LSU wasn’t going to get a new dorm built, while Southern University wasn’t going to get new boilers. Two public universities, both educating students and serving the state, yet one clearly received advantages in funding, maintenance, and infrastructure. Access existed in theory, but resources did not. That imbalance isn’t just a line in a budget—it shapes experiences, opportunities, and outcomes.

Black institutions were never just about access. They have always been about safety, belonging, leadership, and the preservation of culture in a world that systematically denied those things. Black churches offered sanctuary and guidance when no one else would. HBCUs created leaders and scholars in spaces where Black excellence was expected rather than exceptional. Neighborhoods, communities, and family networks provided support when larger systems actively withheld it. These spaces were—and remain—lifelines.

The same choices are framed differently depending on who makes them. When white families live in the neighborhoods they grew up in, send their children to the schools their parents attended, or worship at the churches of their ancestors, it is celebrated as tradition, loyalty, and roots. When Black families do the same, it is often labeled limiting, sentimental, or even backward. The decisions themselves do not change. Only the lens does.

Many traditions that persist in Black communities today have roots in slavery. Sunday church services, family gatherings, storytelling, soul food, quilting, dance, and communal child-rearing were originally acts of survival and resistance. Spirituals were sung under threat, often carrying hidden messages of hope and escape. Quilts were used to communicate routes to freedom. Families gathered wherever they could to reclaim connection after being torn apart. These practices were never optional—they were lifelines.

Even the painful, negative parts of history are important. Erasure of suffering is not progress. History matters in its entirety, just as a doctor relies on a patient’s full medical history to treat the present and prepare for the future. Understanding the oppression, stolen lives, and systemic barriers is essential to preserving Black spaces today. It teaches resilience, ingenuity, and community in ways that “equal access” alone cannot.

Black institutions are not relics; they are living proof that Black culture has endured, adapted, and thrived despite systemic barriers. They remind us that supporting these spaces is not about resisting integration—it is about protecting spaces that affirm identity, nurture belonging, and pass knowledge across generations.

Churches, HBCUs, neighborhoods, family traditions, and Black-led spaces exist because elsewhere was never designed to fully hold Black communities. They preserve culture, identity, and history, while teaching lessons from both the triumphs and the hardships of the past. Progress without understanding history is incomplete. Proximity without belonging is hollow.

Supporting Black institutions is not nostalgic—it is practical, cultural, and essential. Access may open doors, but belonging, culture, and home are cultivated. To abandon spaces built for Black communities in pursuit of systems that were never designed to fully sustain them is not progress—it is erasure.

Black institutions do more than preserve tradition—they preserve life, history, and the lessons that come from surviving and thriving in a world that didn’t design itself for Black people. That is why they still matter.