“The genius of the United States is not best or most in its executives or legislatures, nor in its ambassadors or authors or colleges or churches … but always most in the common people,” Walt Whitman wrote in his preface to “Leave of Grass,” lauding “… their deathless attachment to freedom.”
As satisfying as it is to offer such quotes at face value, as eternal truths — Walt Whitman said it, he’s famous, so it must be true — this one might merit a little picking apart.
First, the line was written in 1855. Meaning the American public’s attachment to freedom wasn’t so deathless that the country wouldn’t soon be ripped apart in civil war over whether fellow human beings should be kept as slaves.
Who were these common people, anyway? Who are they now? The millions who turned out Saturday for massive “No Kings” rallies across the country? Or the millions more who voted for the president three times? Who support him now, and who will continue to do so no matter what. Even if he runs for a third term in direct violation of the U.S. Constitution?
We were divided then. We are divided now. In 2024, 49.8% of voters cast a ballot for Donald Trump. And 48.3% voted for Kamala Harris. Almost an even split.
Once, a tight election might have led to efforts toward bridge building, reconciliation. Now Trump is implementing radical change by executive fiat, without congressional approval or concern for public reaction, which was in full cry Saturday.
I slid over to the “No Kings” protest in Highland Park and was immediately struck by just how old everybody seemed. Gray hair, walkers, wheelchairs.
Why is that?
“It’s an older crowd because we remember the way America was, and we want to get it back,” said Betty Kleinberg, 83, of Deerfield. “It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than it is now. We’re doing this for our grandchildren.”
“I’m a very active member of our community and am so appalled by everything going on,” Joanne Hoffman, 92. “As long as I still have my wits about me, I’m going to keep doing this.”
You must really want to be here, I told Phil Reinstein, 87, tapping his rollator.
“I do,” he said. “To try to save this country.”
But as I looked around, I realized something — the impression of an elderly crowd was premature, formed by noticing other cautious seniors such as myself who showed up half an hour early. A self-selected group. As the event unfolded, I realized there were plenty of families and children, too.
“We need more young people,” said Grace Goodrich, 25, of Northbrook there with her father Paul. “It’s going to eventually affect us more. We need to stand up for what makes this country great.”
Jennifer Eason came with her 9-year-old daughter, Victoria.
“I’m here because Donald Trump is doing bad things,” the 4th grader said.
Betsy and Curtis Porter of Glencoe brought their 6-year-old son Ethan, already at his second protest — he also went to the first “No Kings” protest in June. I asked him why he was there.
“America is free,” said the 2nd grader.
And what does being free mean?
“We make our own choices,” Ethan said.
Sometimes those choices conflict. Several came to protest but didn’t want their own voices cited. A woman holding a sign reading “I’M A 77 YEAR OLD GRANNY FOR FREEDOM” quailed at the prospect of having her photo in the newspaper.
“I want to live,” she explained, fleeing.
That conflict — speak out versus shield yourself — is found in the best of us. Always has been.
Whitman is remembered for his poem’s bold opening line. “I celebrate myself.” Less known is that he published the book anonymously — well, without his name. His included a title page photo of himself, looking very rakish, hand in pocket, in an open shirt and wide-brimmed hat.
“Do I contradict myself?” Whitman asks. “Very well then I contradict myself. (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”
As do we all. The United States is large: 340 million people. Of course, our multitudes contradict ourselves and each other. The trick is for that third of a billion people to realize we’re all in the same country and must somehow get along.
Or not. As bad as it seems today, it can always get worse.
Eight years after Whitman was celebrating his fellow Americans for their “generosity of spirit” —”The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem … not merely a nation but a teeming nation of nations” — he was volunteering at a Washington, D.C., hospital, tending to the wounded and dying harvested from blood-soaked battlefields.
Don’t say it can’t happen; it has before.