Portside

Not long after the November election, new members of Congress gather for a couple of weeks of orientation. Consistent with that tradition, Sarah McBride, a Delaware Democrat, made the short trip from Wilmington to D.C. to meet with her fellow first-termers. At a hotel in the capital, she learned about the lottery for office space, how to assemble a staff, and the intricacies of the legislative process. As the first transgender member of Congress in history, she also experienced an orientation in naked aggression. Within days of her arrival, Nancy Mace, a Republican from South Carolina, introduced a resolution that would restrict access to all “single-sex facilities” on Capitol Hill to those of the “corresponding biological sex.” In other words, Mace sought a bathroom bill—and made clear that she “absolutely” intended it as a reaction to McBride.

“I’m not going to stand for a man, you know, someone with a penis, in the women’s locker room,” Mace, who had claimed to be “pro-transgender rights” as recently as last year, said of her new proposal. She also added an odd, pseudo-feminist twist: “It’s offensive that a man in a skirt thinks that he’s my equal.” Mace found support among Republicans, including Speaker Mike Johnson and Marjorie Taylor Greene, who, according to Politico, told colleagues that she would fight McBride were the two of them ever to meet in a women’s bathroom on the Hill.

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez was among those who leapt to McBride’s defense, calling the bill “disgusting.” McBride, for her part, refused to take the bait, saying that she would “follow the rules as outlined by Speaker Johnson, even if I disagree with them.”

McBride was born in Wilmington; her father was a lawyer and her mother a high-school guidance counselor. At American University, she was active in Democratic politics and worked on Beau Biden’s campaign for Delaware attorney general. In her senior year, she served as student-body president, and ended her term by publishing a moving coming-out article for the Eagle, the A.U. paper, called “The Real Me.”

McBride had been hesitant to acknowledge her trans identity, she explained, because that might prevent her from pursuing a career in politics. “I wrestled with the idea that my dream and my identity seemed mutually exclusive; I had to pick,” she wrote. In the end, she realized that she would have to embrace both: “My life was passing me by, and I was done wasting it as someone I wasn’t.”

In 2020, McBride was elected to the Delaware State Senate. And this November she was elected to the United States House. At the start of our conversation, which has been edited for length and clarity, she seemed determined to keep her cool, despite the insult she had just suffered. “I think in many ways I got a fuller orientation this week, where I actually got to see not just the nuts and bolts of Congress,” she said drily, “but also some of the performance of Congress, too.”

Well, let’s talk about that. Nancy Mace, one of your colleagues now, immediately came forward and decided that this would be a good time, a perfect time, to introduce a bathroom bill, all directed at you. How did you take this piece of what can only be called aggression?

I always knew that there would be some members of the Republican caucus who would seek to use my service representing the greatest state in the Union in Congress as an opportunity for them to distract from the fact that they have absolutely no real policy solutions for the issues that actually plague this country. And, in some cases, to grab headlines themselves. I was not surprised that there was an effort to politicize an issue that no one truly cares about—what bathroom I use. I did think that it might wait until January. It happened a little earlier than I anticipated. I was still getting lost in the tunnels of the Capitol when we got the news that this was coming.

What was your first reaction to it?

“Here we go.” Throughout the campaign, I really focussed my campaign on my record in the Delaware General Assembly: of passing paid leave, expanding access to health care, and the kitchen-table issues that I know keep voters across Delaware up at night that I will be working on in Congress, like lowering the cost of housing, health care, and child care. But, as I got questions about the added responsibilities that sometimes come with being a first, the first thing I would always say is that I know that the only way I can do right by any community I’m a part of is to quite simply be the best member of Congress for Delaware that I can be, to be an effective member working on all of the issues that matter.

When I was watching this play out on television, reading about it, in the past week or two, I looked up how the first Black member of Congress was received, Hiram Revels. This is in the nineteenth century. He was treated with a great deal more respect than you were. I understand your desire to be poised about this, and straightforward, and to move the issues to the issues you ran on. But I wonder what your emotional reaction was to what you could only have taken as an enormous gesture of deep disrespect.

Look, I’m human, and it never feels good to be used as an opportunity to get headlines. It never feels good to have people talk about deeply personal things. I think I knew what I was signing up for, though; I know what the Republican Party in this country, in Congress, has become.

Which is what?

A party that is more interested in performance art and being professional provocateurs than being serious legislators and a serious governing party. I think they have come to the conclusion that they are able to get enough votes if they occasionally throw red meat to folks, because that red meat might satiate what is an authentic crisis of hope that I think people across this country face right now.

I think we have to be crystal clear in calling them out on what they are doing, and pull the curtain back to really dull the effect that these manufactured culture wars have on the American voter. Some people do receive this red meat, and it resonates with them—it makes them feel better, but it doesn’t actually address the real pain in their lives. And I think we should be calling that out and obviously modelling an approach to governing that genuinely solves the real problems that people are facing that create a level of insecurity and fear that allows for culture wars to satiate at least something instantaneously.

But I truly believe that if we solve problems, if we are serious, people respond. I’ve seen that in Delaware as we have passed paid leave, raised the minimum wage. Voters here in Delaware are sort of bucking this national trend. We’ve expanded our majorities both in 2022 and 2024 in the Delaware General Assembly, I believe, as a byproduct of a record of results that voters are responding to, and a message focussed on kitchen-table issues and economic issues. And it’s allowed us to not only expand our majorities but to break through the culture wars that the Republican Party has pursued. Because we’re in Delaware, in the Philadelphia media market—we are getting those anti-trans Trump ads pumped into our state like we were in Pennsylvania. And yet, despite that, running on a message of paid leave, higher minimum wage, union protections, a trans candidate not only won here in Delaware but actually outperformed every major Democrat running for major office in Delaware statewide.

And yet the notorious ads that ended with “Kamala Harris is for they/them, President Trump is for you”—ads that were oriented around anti-trans sentiment—not only did they occur, they worked. Certainly, they worked in the interpretation of not only the Republicans but the press at large. They ran them over and over again and poured millions of dollars into them.

So, first off, I think there are two things. One, this country is still entering into a conversation about trans people. This country still is at a Trans 101 spot. And one of the things I think Democrats have to be more mindful of is that leaders should always be out in front of public opinion, but, in order to foster change in public opinion, we’ve got to be within arm’s distance of the public so that we can pull them along with us. If we get too out ahead of it, we lose our grip and we’re unable to pull the public with us.

Is that what’s responsible for your calm in talking about this? I remember very well that Barack Obama, when he was running for State Senate in Illinois, got a questionnaire, and one of the questions was “Are you for gay marriage?” He didn’t say yes. Now, everything I know about Barack Obama tells me that, at that time, a clear “no” was not his real sentiment, but that he didn’t want to get too far out ahead, for political reasons. He clearly changed later on. Is that part of your calculus in the way you talk about this? Because Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez answered Nancy Mace in much more vitriolic terms.

I think there is a space for diversity of messengers and a diversity of message. I would never presume what was in Barack Obama’s heart and mind on the issue of marriage equality. Many people authentically evolved. What we do know is that, as the movement for marriage equality moved forward, the most effective messengers for marriage were not same-sex couples, were not parents of same-sex couples or kids of same-sex couples. The most effective messengers for marriage equality were those who evolved. And they were effective because they gave a permission structure to people who had not yet gotten there that it was O.K. to be uncomfortable, it was O.K. to be on the other side of the issue. You weren’t a bad person; you weren’t wrong.

My motto has always been: I’ll extend grace so long as people demonstrate growth. But that is a two-way street. And I think that we are shooting ourselves in the foot, as people who believe in progress, when we create no incentive for people to grow, because they perceive that they will be permanently guilty for having been wrong. We create no space for them to grow by extending no grace for them to actually walk there. I think one of the reasons why we see people pushed into their respective corners is because you say something that’s deemed problematic, and you are immediately hounded by one side and immediately embraced by the other side. Human nature is to—when faced with that degree of extreme binary reactions—go to the people who are validating you instantaneously. We unintentionally actually push people further and further into their own corners and into their negative opinion by responding with a degree of condemnation and vitriol that creates no incentive and space for them to grow.

But I actually want to say something on those ads, because you did say the key sentence in that ad. It wasn’t the surgery point, it wasn’t the undocumented-immigrant point, it wasn’t the trans point, it was the concept in that line that Kamala Harris, according to the ad, was for a small group of people, and Donald Trump was there for “you.” The lesson of this moment, of this last week, is that we should be flipping that script. Because that’s the authentic thing—Kamala Harris was for everyone. And Democrats are for everyone. And every single time Republicans focus in on a small vulnerable group of people, not only are they trying to distract from the fact that they have no real solutions—not only are they trying to employ the politics of misdirection, to move your attention away from the fact that in that same moment they’re trying to pick the pocket of American workers, undermine union protections, and fleece seniors by privatizing Medicare through the back door—but every bit of time and energy that is diverted to attack trans people, that diverts the attention of the federal government away toward attacking trans people, is time and energy that is not being spent on you. It’s time and attention that’s not being spent on raising your wages or improving your benefits or lowering the cost of living. These attacks have costs. Republicans are focussed on attacking a small group of people, and we are here to actually address the issues that you care about.

You’ve now had a week with your new colleagues, and I wonder what kind of support, or the opposite, you felt in your orientation sessions after Nancy Mace made the statement she did.

I have been overwhelmed and heartened by the love and the support of my Democratic colleagues. It was stunning. I got to Washington, and I’m at orientation. I’m grateful that I had a week before all of this started, because I had a week to just marvel at the fact that I was there. I had a week to marvel at the fact that I am serving in a body that Abraham Lincoln served in. One of the first nights we were there, we gathered in Statuary Hall, which is the Old Hall of the House, which is where Abraham Lincoln served. And then, after we gathered there, we walked onto the floor of the United States House of Representatives, where they moved in 1857, just before the Civil War broke out. And we sat in the chairs and I thought, This is the space where the Thirteenth Amendment and the Fourteenth Amendment were passed. This is the space where women got the right to vote. This is the space, these are the chairs. This is the job of the people who voted to pass the Civil Rights Act and the Voting Rights Act. And you feel this awesome responsibility, not just to deliver on the tangible policies for the constituents you serve in that moment, but you also feel that deep responsibility as you realize that you are one of a little more than five hundred people who have the responsibility to be stewards of a democracy—of the longest ongoing democracy in the world. That is an awe-inspiring responsibility.

I’m really grateful that I had that opportunity. But what was made that much more meaningful was that in that second week, as all of this noise happened—as I continued to be focussed on the actual work that I was there to do—the love and the support that came in from my Democratic colleagues really reinforced what I had already been hearing, which is that that caucus is a family.

And what about the Republican side? Did you get any support from there?

Yes. Look, there was a lot unsaid, but there was kindness and clear intentionality to say, “Welcome to Congress. It’s wonderful to serve with you.” That was quite a contrast to some of the other behavior we saw that week.

People actually coming up to you from the Republican side and embracing you in one way or another?

Yes. Staff and members.

The Speaker of the House, Mike Johnson, released a statement that said all single-sex facilities are for people of that “biological” sex. You responded to this on X, formerly Twitter (it’s interesting that you’re still on Twitter!), by calling this a distraction and saying that you’ll follow the rules as outlined by Johnson. But what do you say to people in the trans community who think you didn’t go far enough?

I understand that, at a moment where you are scared, you want to see someone fight. I understand that when you are a first, there are a lot of people who never dreamed that something like this would be possible, who are living on that journey with you. And so they feel very deeply the experience of discrimination. They feel very viscerally the experience of disrespect. I think what I would say is, This was not done to bar me from restrooms. This was done to invite me to take the bait and to fight. I am maintaining my power by turning the other cheek and doing what I promised Delawareans I would do, which is to focus on the job in front of me. Yes, when that calls for me to defend my L.G.B.T.Q. constituents, I will do that; when it calls on me to defend workers in my state, I will do that; when it calls on me to defend retirees in my state, I will do that. But I should not be the issue.

You must have anticipated, if not this, then something like it. And of course you are a first, a historical first. Do you face a lot of threats?

I think one of the problems in our politics right now is the level of toxicity has resulted in far too many people seeking to solve political disputes not at the ballot box but through violence. I am certainly not alone in Congress in having to think through that. I think it’s very early. There have been moments throughout my life where I have had to be cognizant. I’ve never had a job where I have not received death threats. Literally, I have never had a job—even when I was in my first, junior-level position.

How do you handle them?

Well, fortunately, we’ve got great law enforcement here in Delaware that I have worked with over the course of this campaign and throughout my time in the State Senate. Look, one of the things that I grappled with when I decided to run for this position is the risk that comes with being a first at this level. Even though I didn’t run to be a first, there’s obviously risk that comes with it. And there was a moment where I almost didn’t do it. Because of the fear.

Tell me about that. Was it a specific incident or just a generalized fear?

There were some rumors about what some far-right-wing groups might try to do, should I run.

When did this come up?

This was before I announced. There was a lot of speculation about me running.

So what within you allowed you to make the leap and declare yourself a candidate for Congress?

A couple of things. First off, I think that we delude ourselves into thinking that people don’t take these types of steps without fear. People aren’t fearless. Bravery only comes into play when you face those fears, when you pursue something despite the fears. I really do believe that we are at an inflection point where we need a politics of grace in this country if we are going to have any chance at not only restoring our capacity to have a national dialogue, which is fundamentally necessary in a democracy, but actually making government work better. I genuinely felt like I had something to contribute in that respect. I think I know how to get things done. I know how to legislate.

But you’re going to have to embody grace—and there’s every sign that you already do—but with a President who says, publicly, something like this: “Your kid goes to school and a few days later comes home with an operation.” That’s the President of the United States, come January 20th. How do you combat that, and all that’s behind it, and embody grace?

I think a couple of things, and I think this extends beyond Donald Trump. So I’m going to step back a little bit. I think Democrats struggle with extending one of our basic principles—which is that no one is their worst act, no one is their worst belief—to people on the other side of the political divide. I’m not talking about Donald Trump right now. I’m talking about Republicans. The question here is not how do I demonstrate grace in the face of Donald Trump; it’s how do I demonstrate grace in a world where people that I work with—where even people that I represent—hold positions and beliefs about who I am that are personally hurtful, potentially.

I think all of us need to do a better job of seeing the humanity of people on the other side of the aisle. Because I think what happens in this country right now is: The left says to the right, “What do you know about pain, white straight man? My pain is real, as an L.G.B.T.Q. person.” And the right says to the left, “What do you know about pain, college-educated, cosmopolitan élite? My pain is real, in a post-industrial community ravaged by the opioid crisis.” And I know that, when I am upset, the worst thing that someone can say to me, even if it is said with the best of intentions, is “It’s not as bad as you think.” Any therapist will tell you that the first step to healing is to have your pain seen and validated. And I think all of us have to do a better job of recognizing that people don’t have to be right in our mind for what they’re facing to be wrong. And people don’t have to be right in our minds for us to try to right that wrong. That comes down to sort of a core recognition that every single person is more than just one thing about them. And every single person is more than even beliefs that might personally hurt many other people. And the other thing I’ll say on that is to a similar point: early on in my career, I went viral for something.

Do you remember what it was?

Ironically enough, I was an advocate. It was a selfie in a bathroom in North Carolina that I was technically barred from being in.

I see.

The vitriol that came back to me as a twentysomething-year-old was so dehumanizing and so cruel and so mean. It was the closest in my life that I have ever been to suicide becoming a rational thought. I wasn’t suicidal, but it was the first moment where I just went, I want to end this miserable experience.

What was coming at you?

I mean just the level of online bullying and harassment. It was amazing to me that people—person after person—telling me to kill myself could actually hurt me. But it was an onslaught. And, again, I was twenty-five. I was new to all this, and I thought, Maybe I don’t have skin thick enough for this. I sort of went on a journey to understand the psychology of trolling and bullying. I think it was a “This American Life” podcast by a writer who talks a lot about her own weight and grapples with her own body image in a really public and vulnerable way, talking about the experience that she had writing about that hurt and getting outreach from one of her worst bullies and trolls online—someone who had created a Twitter account as her deceased father to troll her from—who opened up to her about what was motivating him. And, listening to that conversation, it really helped me internalize a truth that has allowed me to find balance and grace in the face of hatred or cruelty. And that was: Everyone deals with an insecurity. Everyone deals with something that society has told them that they should be ashamed of or that they should hide. And the thing about me is that I have taken that insecurity, that thing that society has said you should be ashamed of and you should keep quiet—and I’ve not only accepted it but I walk forward from a place of pride in it. Bullies see that. They see that individual agency and conquering my own fears and insecurities, and they’re jealous of that. That has allowed me to find compassion for folks who respond to me in sometimes the way that they do, to recognize that I hope, too, they can find the power to overcome whatever pain is plaguing them.

And so much so that when Nancy Mace made the comments that she did, and put forward the bill that she did—are you able to see it in those terms and not receive the attacks with the same despair that you did when you were in your twenties?

Yes. Yes.

That’s an enormous transformation.

I won’t say that it doesn’t hurt, but, yes, I am not distracted in the same way that I was.

“Distracted” is a small word for it. I mean, what you felt in your twenties must’ve been a lot worse than “distracted,” no?

Yeah. I am able to contextualize it and not feel the pain as much. Again, it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt, but I am able to work through it.

How? That’s a very hard thing. Is it therapy? Is it maturation? Is it living in your skin ten years longer? What is it?

I think the last two: I think it’s maturation, and I think it’s just finding a confidence in myself that allows me not to internalize. I really do seek to find compassion for the people who are acting out, who say the things that they do, because that does help me. That does help me to try to see and understand where a person is coming from, even if the action itself explicitly or implicitly is not well-intentioned, even if it’s being done for cynical purposes—to try to understand that there’s still a person behind that and maybe there’s something in their life that has pushed them to engage in the way that they’re engaging.

In a certain number of weeks, you’re not only going to have to hear about Nancy Mace, you’re going to have to work with her. And you talk a lot about “working across the aisle,” which is a phrase that we hear from politicians all the time. This takes on new levels of meaning—“working across the aisle with Nancy Mace.” Can you do it?

Well, I look forward to working with colleagues on the Republican side of the aisle who are serious about the work that they’re doing. Who have disagreements with me, perhaps profound disagreements with me, but who are serious about getting things done.

For the first time in our conversation, I sense you’re reluctant to answer the question directly. With all respect.

I will work with anyone who’s willing to work with me. And I don’t know this individual member of Congress—I had barely heard of her before this. I will never say that anyone is beyond redemption.

I want to zoom out a bit now and talk about your own unique path to politics and congress. Your late husband, Andrew Cray, was an L.G.B.T.Q.+ health advocate and attorney. What kind of work did he focus on, and what of his legacy can be seen in your own political career and direction?

Andy was the kindest, smartest, and—this is very important for me in a partner—the goofiest person that I had ever met. Just a really good and decent person.

How did you meet?

We bumped into each other at a White House Pride reception during the fourth year of the Obama Administration, 2012. After that, he reached back out to me on social media, on Facebook, and he said that he thought we’d get along “swimmingly.” I thought, Who the hell in their twenties says the word “swimmingly”? But clearly someone I want to spend some time with. So we went out on a date, and I fell in love pretty quickly.

Was he already sick?

No. He was an attorney, as you mentioned, working on health policy, and he was actually working on the implementation of the Affordable Care Act. He was a brilliant mind, but also—and I think this goes back to our conversation about grace—he was so principled. I remember we had a debate once where he won me over—where we had a debate about whether it was appropriate to out anti-L.G.B.T.Q. politicians who were in the closet themselves. I was of the mind that their hypocrisy called on us to out them. And he was of the mind that the principle that we are fighting for—that everyone should be able to live their life fully and freely, be able to live their sexual orientation and gender identity, the way they see fit and the way they need to—if that is not an unbreakable first principle, then what is? And principles only matter when you have seemingly altruistic reasons to violate them. He was someone of just immense grace, principled grace.

He got sick about a year into our relationship. He developed a sore on his tongue and went in thinking it was just a benign growth. He had a little minor surgery to remove the benign growth, which was aborted in the middle of the procedure as they realized perhaps that it was something more. About a week later, he was diagnosed with oral cancer. It was a shock to both of us. I mean, we were both young invincibles, something that he had written about as he worked on the A.C.A., right? We never would’ve imagined that cancer would enter our lives in our mid-twenties, but we knew from the very start how lucky we were. He knew in particular, given his work, how lucky he was to have health insurance. And we were both very lucky to have flexibility with our jobs that allowed Andy to get care: a twelve-hour surgery that left him having to relearn how to talk, how to eat, how to breathe. I was lucky to be there by his side to care for him, to suction his tracheostomy tube, to tend to his wounds, to hold his hand through the absolute fear.

And then eventually, when his cancer turned out to be terminal, to be there by his side, to marry him, and to walk him to his passing, which happened a couple of days after we were fortunate enough to get married in our building. My brother, who’s a radiation oncologist, said to me, “I’ve seen a lot of people pass away from cancer. And one thing you should try to take stock of over the weeks ahead, as Andy’s health deteriorates, is that you are going to bear witness to acts of amazing grace that will fill your life.” And truly that grace and those miracles were everywhere. I think it has fundamentally shifted my perspective on the world and my ability to see that grace, to see beauty and tragedy, and to recognize that hope, as an emotion, only makes sense in the face of hardship.

In other words, you’re thinking about him all the time through this?

Yes. Yes.

And what does that do for you?

It makes me feel less alone in navigating this. It makes me feel more confident in what I’m doing and how I’m trying to go about this. There’s certainly things that I wish I could talk to him about and get his perspective on, but I try to take the lessons from our couple of years together and try to draw those lessons into action in this moment.

We began our conversation with you talking about how moved you were to be in the halls of Congress for the first time as a soon-to-be member, and seeing and sensing all that had happened in progressive terms, in liberatory terms, over time and in previous centuries. My guess is that this is not going to characterize the next two years for you in Congress. The Democratic Party, in large measure, will be fighting a rear-guard action against all kinds of initiatives by a Trump Presidency in a Republican Congress. How do you anticipate the coming next two years? What kind of role will the Democrats and you play? What will be your day-to-day life, do you think?

Well, there’s no question that we’ve got our work cut out for us. There’s no question that we’re going to have to push back on a lot of damaging and dangerous policies.

But, look, I think the biggest challenge for us is not that we understand that there’s a fight. And we will do the work. The challenge is going to be to summon the hope necessary to see that fight through. I think that one of the challenges that we have in this country right now, particularly for Democrats, is that, really since the nineteen-sixties, it has felt like if we simply work for it, if we vote for it, if we volunteer, if we share our stories, if we lift our voices, that we can then inevitably bend the arc of the moral universe toward justice. And we felt that, I think particularly, in 2008 and when we elected Barack Obama, and then A.C.A. passed, and marriage equality became a law of the land. It just felt like there was this sort of unfolding sense of great progress.

It feels different right now. It doesn’t feel like, if we simply work for it and fight for it, that change will come, that things will work out. We can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. But the other thing that I thought about, as I sat in that chair on the floor of the House, was about not only the elected officials that served there but all of the advocates and activists and citizens who lived through those different chapters in our country’s history. We have to recognize that that sense of inevitability with hard work that we felt twenty years ago, thirty years ago—that’s the exception in our country’s history. Every single previous generation of Americans has been called to conquer odds much greater than the ones that we’re facing right now. And they had every reason to believe that change would not come. They could not see the light at the end of the tunnel. Enslaved people in the eighteen-fifties had no reason to believe that an Emancipation Proclamation was on the horizon. Unemployed workers during the early days of the Great Depression had never heard of a New Deal. Patrons at the Stonewall Inn never knew of a country where they could live openly and authentically as themselves. And yet they persevered. They summoned their hope, they found that light, and ultimately they changed the world.

The narrative you describe is very, how do I put it—Obamian? It reminds me of Obama’s speech in Selma, the last one he gave there as President, about a kind of parade of American heroic advance. And when I talk to a lot of younger people in my office, in my life, in my family, they don’t all share the sense of determined hope that you do. There’s a good deal of depression—if not giving up, then a kind of sense that these are going to be very dark times to come. And with all the emergencies surrounding us, at home and abroad, and environmentally, it’s very hard to muster hope. As a politician, as a member of Congress, what do you tell them?

You cannot tell me that the reasons for hopelessness now are greater than the reasons for hopelessness of an enslaved person. You cannot tell me that the reasons for hopelessness now are greater than the insecurity and the fear of workers in the midst of the Great Depression, and a country that very easily could have fallen into totalitarianism and fascism, as many liberal democracies around the world were falling into that, in the early thirties.

Hope is not always an organic emotion. Sometimes we have to consciously find it and consciously summon it. And, yes, there are big challenges right now. Maybe those challenges are insurmountable. Maybe we will be, because of social media, incapable of restoring our capacity to have a national dialogue. Maybe because of the culture that we live in right now, we will no longer be able to have conversations across disagreement. Maybe because of unchecked wealth and corporate power, we won’t be able to conquer climate change. The list goes on. Maybe. But we would be the first generation of Americans to give up on this country, and we would be the first generation of Americans who were unable to find the path forward. And I just don’t believe that we are. And I certainly believe that we don’t have to be.