Dear President Obama,
If we compared your Fourth of July message with a family picnic, we would see the familiar ingredients: somber reflection here, elegant phrasing there. All brought together with a pinch of hope.
Writing at our sister site, RedState, Jennifer Oliver O’Connell shared Obama’s truly inspiring message:
Independence Day is a reminder that America is not the project of any one person. The single most powerful word in our democracy is the word ‘We.’ ‘We The People.’ ‘We Shall Overcome.’ ‘Yes We Can.’ America is owned by no one. It belongs to all citizens. And at this moment in history—when core democratic principles seem to be continuously under attack, when too many people around the world have become cynical and disengaged—now is precisely the time to ask ourselves tough questions about how we can build our democracies and make them work in meaningful and practical ways for ordinary people.
Pardon me as I wipe my eyes.
Democracy, in your eyes, is a “continually under attack,” a polished and familiar phrasing that’s weightless. By repeating that phrase, you bring to mind the image of a teacher who repeats the same lesson repeatedly, while at the same time, ungraded test papers pile up in high stacks.
After watching your post-presidency for nearly a decade, only one question remains unanswered: What exactly are you doing?
Diagnosis Without a Cure
Three years ago, at Stanford, you delivered what became one of the most talked-about speeches of your post-presidency.
You warned us of disinformation, an insidious weed that’s eroding our democratic foundation. You droned on about algorithms, manipulation, and shared facts being broken down. In your words, platforms were a design flaw in our democracy.
In your legendary mind, you diagnosed an illness, but without a cure.
But where was your cure? You didn’t call upon lawmakers to draft legislation, nor did you initiate any visible pressure campaigns to create local initiatives that teach media literacy in under-resourced schools.
Biden’s Disinformation Governance Board didn’t merit even a mention from your sacred mouth. Why should it? You didn’t build it or defend it, and when it found itself in a political firestorm, you couldn’t be bothered to say anything. Not a word.
That wasn’t the first time you drifted off and couldn’t be bothered. In 2017, reports surfaced that you warned Mark Zuckerberg privately about the dangers of fake news on Facebook. You urged him to act, and what became of it? Nothing. (See a pattern?) That was behind closed doors. Publicly, you were as quiet as a church mouse.
Now, over eight years removed from your presidency, you’ve analyzed the problem repeatedly. As yet, you haven’t offered a solution, idea, or anything close to action.
The Lecturer-in-Chief Routine
In 2008, you clearly saw America not as a finished product, but as something flawed, needing fixing and reimagining.
It’s fair to say our democracy is still a work in progress. Yet over time, you stopped offering encouragement and started to scold.
Remember “Hope and Change?” That seemed like a powerful message until your “Perfect Union” speech that defended Jeremiah Wright and indicted us for being such a racist country. Your speech was constructed brilliantly, but it set the tone that America has a problem needing explanations, not solutions.
Soon, you outgrew our national press, so you moved your message to the international stage.
While you were in France, you told the world how badly the U.S. showed arrogance.
In Cairo, you cast our relationship with the Islamic world as something needing repentance. In Strasbourg, you told Europe we’d “fallen short.” In Hiroshima, you reflected on the horror of nuclear war, stopping just short of an apology, though the tone didn’t miss the mark.
One could argue those were diplomatic overtures. But back home, it played differently. It sounded like a man apologizing for the country he was elected to lead.
After each performance came the usual applause from academics, world leaders, and cable panels. But regular Americans? They got tired. Not of ideas, but of being told they were the problem.
The Netflix Presidency
When you left office, you didn’t retire quietly. You inked a production deal with Netflix. “Higher Ground” was the brand. Smooth, symbolic, and, yes, profitable.
You became something close to a media figure, narrating documentaries, hosting panel specials, and attending award ceremonies. You delivered wisdom, not policies. Sentiment, not structure.
And the work you could have been doing by developing programs, organizing, legislating by proxy through influence, was replaced with narration over mood music.
In short, you stopped building. You started producing.
You became a brand. Narrating documentaries. Speaking on leadership. Showing up on panels. You looked polished. Purposeful. Set against soft lighting and stirring scores.
But where were you?
Where were you when school boards begged for guidance on civics education in the TikTok age? Where were you when deepfakes began distorting elections abroad? Where were you when communities were drowning in political misinformation, desperate for clarity?
You had the voice. You had the reach. You had the gravitas. You just didn’t have the follow-through.
Where’s the Blueprint?
Do you want to save democracy? Then where’s the plan?
- Where’s the media literacy program you could have started in underfunded school districts?
- Where’s the nonprofit coalition you could have built to push for tech accountability?
- Where’s the sustained, grassroots push to elevate civic awareness in swing states?
You have the platform. You have the access. You have the donor base. You’ve got a library with your name on it and a national following that would mobilize in 48 hours. So what’s stopping you?
Your TED Talk is over. The curtain fell. We clapped. Now what?
The Apology Tour That Never Ends
You didn’t apologize for Hiroshima. You were careful. Polished. Presidential.
But let’s not kid ourselves: your global rhetoric softened America’s image not through strength, but through self-critique. You turned diplomacy into personal therapy. You reminded foreign audiences of our sins, not our resilience. You mourned the past, but rarely affirmed the future.
In Cairo, you framed America’s relationship with Islam not as a partnership, but as a course correction. In Germany, you criticized America’s role in the Iraq war while still ordering drone strikes in Somalia, Yemen, and Pakistan. In effect, you talked like Gandhi and governed like George W.
There’s a word for that: contradiction. And Americans noticed.
The Trump Contrast You Quietly Count On
Let’s be blunt. You’ve built your second career on contrast. You don’t shout. You don’t tweet erratically. You don’t insult journalists in public. You’re not Trump, and that has carried you further than most realize.
But contrast is not substance. Quiet composure is not governance. So while Trump sells cologne and raises tariffs, you sell gravitas and raise expectations. Both are marketing. Only one of you governed recently.
And for all your calm, for all your elegance, what exactly have you built since leaving office?
Stanford Was a Stage, Not a War Room
At Stanford, you said platforms should “be transparent about how content is promoted.” You mentioned the need for “rules of the road” for social media. You warned of the “flood of sewage” in public discourse.
Good lines. Strong metaphors.
But after the applause, you left. No committee. No working group. No foundation grant.
You turned Stanford into a sermon, not a strategy.
Real Reformers Don’t Just Speak
William Wilberforce fought slavery in Britain for 46 years. He didn’t get a podcast. He got votes. He didn’t fund a documentary. He funded abolition.
You talk about empathy. You speak of community. You grieve over disconnection. But when it comes time to act, when the camera turns off, you vanish.
Wilberforce didn’t just describe injustice. He moved people through it.
You describe dysfunction with clarity. But you won’t touch the machinery.
Is it fair to ask: are you afraid? Afraid to fail? Afraid to offend? Afraid to trade applause for risk?
Because if you’re not scared, the only other explanation is worse.
So Here’s the Ask
It’s time to lead.
Not narrate. Not produce. Lead.
Launch a civic initiative in Chicago. Fund literacy programs in Detroit. Work with mayors in Georgia. Speak in South Texas. Visit Fresno. Call on black Americans not just as voters, but as builders. Invest in their solutions. Back their proposals. Treat them like citizens, not checkboxes.
If you want to preserve democracy, prove it. Walk the neighborhoods. Build the coalitions. Show your face in places that don’t applaud you automatically. You can still move mountains.
But first, you need to stop looking in the mirror and start looking out the window.
Legacy vs. Lecture
Right now, your legacy is at risk of becoming a voiceover for a Benny Hill comedy bit.
You’re on the edge of being remembered as the man who once inspired, then withdrew. Who once stood for change, then faded into the commentariat.
That doesn’t have to be your story. But it’s where it’s headed.
The choice is yours.
Thank You. Now Move.
Thank you for your call to conscience.
But America doesn’t need more conscience right now.
It needs conviction.
It needs steel and grit.
And it needs that from you, not through another carefully filmed documentary, not through a well-crafted tweet, but in person, in the field, in the fight.
Less voice. More action. That’s the legacy that lasts.
To close, I’m going to liberally borrow and paraphrase from my Bono letter.
Keep an eye on the calendar, Mr. President. Retirement is calling. You might want to consider hanging up the halo and giving humanity a breather.
Whatever you decide to do, good luck. After reading this, please don’t go away mad. Just go away.
Related: A Letter to Saint Bono, Protector of Tax Havens, Limericks, and Fake Humility
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