A Republic, If We Deserve It.

Shortly after the ratification of the Constitution in September 1787, Benjamin Franklin—one of America’s Founding Fathers and arguably the Renaissance Man of them all, given the sheer number of innovations he made across multiple fields—stated that America would be “A republic, if you can keep it.”

Now, what exactly did he mean by that?

The first part is simple. The United States was designed to be a republic—a nation governed by principles and laws that put power in the hands of its people. The people decide the fate of the country. That part is clear. Almost textbook. Simple. Direct. To the point.

But it’s the second part—the warning—that keeps getting ignored. And that’s a shame because it’s not just the most potent part of the sentence—it’s the most dangerous. It’s the part that should be bolded, underlined, and carved into the walls of every government building. It should be playing on repeat in the background of every presidential debate, every legislative session, every election cycle: “If you can keep it.”

The five most consequential words in American history.

Because when you look at the nation in its infancy, one thing becomes obvious: the Founding Fathers weren’t just well-educated—they were obsessed with learning. They pushed themselves to understand more. They debated. They studied. They refined their thinking. They understood that knowledge wasn’t just power—it was the only safeguard against collapse. And they did all of that without instant search results, without real-time updates, without a vast global database at their fingertips. They had to work for it. They had to read, experience, and argue their way to understanding.

That doesn’t mean they were progressive by today’s standards. Not even close. Google any of them and "slavery," and you’ll find more than a few results that—at minimum—make them look deeply backward. And yeah, by today’s moral lens, they were. But despite their flaws, despite their hypocrisies, they built a system that, for all its imperfections, relied on one critical thing: a citizenry that valued knowledge. Because without that, the whole thing was doomed from the start.

If the last few decades—at the very least, since 2008—have shown us anything, it’s that we’ve strayed from those ideals.

We lead in technology, finance, entertainment, and defense—pillars of modern civilization. We have the most advanced economy in the world. And yet, across multiple administrations, we’ve seen a persistent, almost desperate push for education reform—whether it be A Nation at Risk under Reagan in 1983, Goals 2000 under Clinton in 1994, No Child Left Behind under Bush in 2001, Race to the Top under Obama in 2009, or Every Student Succeeds Act under Obama in 2015. Each was introduced with the promise of improving standards, increasing accountability, and restoring America’s edge in education.

And yet—despite decades of bipartisan concern, billions of dollars in funding, and countless policy shifts—the results have been underwhelming at best, disastrous at worst.

Because despite our economic dominance, we are facing a deepening crisis. A decline in curiosity. A decline in knowledge. A decline in the pursuit of advancement in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

We have an average IQ of 97.43—the twentieth highest in the world. Twentieth. We sit behind not just Japan, Taiwan, and Germany, but also Estonia, Cambodia, and even Greenland. And if that isn’t enough, try this: name a right we would lose if the Constitution disappeared tomorrow that isn’t freedom of speech.

Can’t think of one? You’re not alone.

Only 1 in every 20 American adults can name all five freedoms protected in the First Amendment alone. One-third of the country didn’t even vote in the last election. And why? The reasons vary—anger over the war in Palestine, the belief that our vote doesn’t count anyway, a lack of faith in the institution, a sense that the political system is out of touch.

But where did those beliefs come from? From us.

We spent decades feeding this idea that the system is rigged, that votes are pointless, that nothing can be fixed. We let populism take over both sides of the aisle, offering buzzphrases and outrage instead of solutions. We fueled echo chambers, isolating ourselves from real debate and real thinking. We let frustration override responsibility. We stopped demanding better—because we stopped believing anything could get better.

And, of course, we let the media become a circus.

Traditional journalism helped lay the groundwork for the mess we’re in now. It sold us narratives instead of facts. It blurred the line between news and entertainment until they became indistinguishable. It ran with every sensational headline, every overhyped scandal, and every pointless horse-race political analysis because clicks and ratings mattered more than substance. So of course people turned to podcasters, influencers, and YouTube conspiracy theorists. When mainstream media lost the public’s trust, people went looking for alternatives. And, naturally, those alternatives turned out to be even worse.

Call Her Daddy. Joe Rogan. The entire network of influencer-driven content that has replaced traditional journalism as the primary source of information for millions. These are the people shaping public discourse. And yet, they answer to no one. They operate without oversight, without accountability, without the expectation that they must get it right.

If you’re going to be put on a pedestal, then let the pedestal be high. Let it be built on integrity. On fact-checking. On curiosity. Not just for profit, not just for engagement, not just to ride the algorithm wave.

Because here’s the thing: we got here together. And we will get out of it together.

Want an actual solution? Fine. Here’s a real one: demand better. If a journalist does their job well, support their work. If an influencer spreads misinformation, hold them accountable. If a media company runs garbage, stop clicking. If a politician lies, don’t just roll your eyes and tweet about it—vote them out. If a company funds disinformation, boycott them. If a school district refuses to teach basic civic education, fight to change the curriculum.

It is really that simple. Not easy, but simple.

Because the second you have a microphone and an audience, you’re influencing people’s worldviews. And if you’re doing that without care, without research, without regard for the consequences, then you are no better than the institutions you claim to be rebelling against.

It’s time to stop lying to ourselves. We need to stop acting like this is all just happening to us, as if we’re passive players in a game we never signed up for. Because the truth is, we did sign up for it. Maybe not explicitly, maybe not in some grand declaration, but in our complacency, in our disengagement, in our willingness to accept easy narratives instead of challenging them.

We take responsibility. We stop waiting for someone else to fix it. We stop looking to politicians to suddenly grow spines, to corporations to suddenly develop ethics, to the media to suddenly remember what its job is supposed to be.

Because they won’t—not unless we make them. Not unless we demand it.

And me? I’ll do my part. I will walk the walk and talk the talk. I will put in the work, ask the questions, dig where others refuse to dig. I will hold power accountable, regardless of party, regardless of ideology, regardless of whether it makes people uncomfortable. I will not be part of the problem. But none of that matters if the people don’t allow me to do so.

Because this fight? It isn’t about me. It isn’t about any one person. It’s about all of us.

A republic, if you can keep it.

So the only real question is—will we?