I was reading Michael Kazin’s recent essay in The Atlantic arguing that the Left needs to rediscover patriotism. His argument was straightforward: successful movements don’t emerge from contempt for a country. They emerge from belief in it. The civil-rights movement, labor organizers, and reformers succeeded because they appealed to America’s promises rather than dismissing them.
As I read it, I found myself nodding. I’ve attended protests. My kids know the fast-food restaurants on my do not go tolist. And yet, I sighed deeply when I cancelled another subscription last week.
Lately, I find myself turning off podcasts by Meidas Touch or Robert Reich halfway through their shows. I know their reporting is new every time but somehow, they still sound the same. I close Heather Cox Richardson’s newsletter before reaching the end. My eyes close, my brain wanders so I don’t have to read about another vanity project or another citizen who has been detained without due process.
Recently, I’ve started wondering if it will ever end. Kazin may say, I gave up the fight. Whenever I stop reading or listening or when I buy another item from Amazon, I feel guilty. I then think maybe Kazin is right.
But I don’t want to give it up. We’re not supposed to give up. Not on our children. Our parents. Our communities. Our country.
Criticism is okay. We may become frustrated. We may even walk away for a time. But underneath it all is an expectation that we continue to care. That we remain invested. That we keep showing up. But the tools that are there to support us simultaneously drain us.
In Kazin’s piece, he assumes that because America is worth fighting for, Americans will continue fighting for it in the ways they have in the past. But being worthy of a fight and having the bandwidth to do so are not the same thing, especially when there are so many fights that are worthy. Not just civic ones like Kazin writes about. We also have personal fights that draw on that same bank of reserves.
Recently, I found myself in an argument with my daughter, a new college graduate. I was trying to navigate her decreasing dependence on me. She was trying to navigate her increasing independence from me. The tension was demanding something from both of us — caring about each other’s perspective long enough to see the argument to its end. I was lucky. She had enough reserves and I did too. Other families are not so lucky.
Sometimes those arguments become fights. Sometimes those fights lead to the recent cultural phenomenon where adult children sever ties with their parents. I wonder if my daughter will have enough reserves in five years. Then I wonder if that is too optimistic.
We tend to talk about caring as a moral choice — you either do or you don’t. But what we often forget is that caring has a cost. Every relationship, every cause requires something of us. And sometimes we just don’t have enough left for the causes. When that happens, we stop listening to podcasts or our adult children go non-contact with us.
We saw this on a grand scale during the COVID-19 pandemic. When it first arrived in early 2020, people understood the gravity of the sickness. They stayed home. They supported essential workers even those that we don’t traditionally consider essential like service industry workers or those that participate in the gig economy. But by summer, you could see a change in how people were behaving. Grocery stores were full again and the NHL season which had been paused resumed in August. The danger hadn’t passed; the number of deaths hadn’t dramatically decreased.
Some people asked how Americans seemed able to move on so quickly as if they no longer cared. Maybe they had become cynical. I would say maybe they were just too tired to sustain the level of vigilance that was being asked of them. Nobody can stay on high alert forever. Eventually the body reacts and the headaches start and the insomnia begins. To survive, we have to stop listening or engaging.
Then I wonder how often we misdiagnose exhaustion as cynicism.
The demands on our caring are constant. Maintain friendships. Respond to our family’s group chat. Go to another protest. Stop shopping here. Don’t subscribe to that. We assume that if you care enough, you will never tire. But the noise is loud.
Perhaps that is what I kept thinking about while reading Kazin’s piece.
He writes as if caring is an infinite resource. But for many Americans — carrying debt, working multiple jobs, navigating relationships, there just isn’t enough left for the battering ram of the news cycle.
These Americans aren’t cynical. Cynics are loud. We notice them.
Exhausted people are quieter. They stop listening to podcasts. They stop engaging with the news. They stop showing up at meetings. They stop responding to text messages. They stop arguing. They stop believing their effort matters. Not because they no longer care, but because their reserves are empty. I know what this feels like. I also know what this costs.
Years ago, I got divorced. After the divorce, my ex-husband and I went round and round on matters related to our kids. I know he was tired. I know I was tired. Eventually, the friction wore us down until we simply stopped fighting. Fourteen years later, the relationship is so strained that at my daughter’s recent graduation, we barely said a word to each other. I wonder if we stopped caring or was it that we ran out of the reserves required to keep trying.
I still think Kazin is right that countries need citizens who care. Relationships also need people who care. To sustain that care over time, sometimes, we have to know when to step away.
Our son will graduate in two years. This time, I won’t feel guilty if I step away. I want my reserves full.