Illustrations by Miki Lowe

One way to gain insight into someone’s psyche is to read what they wrote when they were 13. For Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, that’s his very first published poem, “The Battle of Lovell’s Pond,” which recognizes fallen soldiers whose “names are engraven on honor’s bright crest.” Humbly signed with just “Henry,” the poem foreshadows the sentimental but unambiguous morality for which Longfellow would become known.

“Santa Filomena,” which he wrote for The Atlantic’s inaugural issue, in November 1857, attests to his lifelong belief in the value of sacrifice. Then in his 50s, Longfellow had been a professor at Harvard and was, according to David Barber, a former poetry editor of The Atlantic, “incontestably the most celebrated poet in the land”—popular for his accessible legends. As O. B. Frothingham wrote in 1882, “The poems of Longfellow were in all households that made the smallest pretense to literary cultivation … It was poetry of the heart in its peaceful, not in its martial, moods, and it met those moods not lackadaisically, but hopefully, cheerily, bravely.”

This particular poem—the first of dozens that Longfellow would publish in the magazine—commemorates Florence Nightingale, whose service as a nurse during the Crimean War helped set standards of sanitation and patient care in the profession. Here, Longfellow canonizes her as the “lady with a lamp,” bringing the reader down hospital hallways as she pushes through the “glimmering of gloom” to tend to wounded soldiers. Longfellow suggests that Nightingale will be immortalized as an example of “Heroic womanhood,” because the light she carries will continue to cast its rays into the future “From portals of the past.”

Longfellow’s poems remain a central pillar of the American story, reminding us of the civic values that he hoped would guide and uplift each of his readers. Perhaps the source of the light referenced in “Santa Filomena” isn’t the lamp at all but, rather, Nightingale herself.

— Katherine Hu

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Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth has been busy. Over the past few weeks, he’s been rooting out programs and language related to diversity, equity, and inclusion. The U.S. military is dutifully following his lead: West Point no longer supports those ostensibly suspicious organizations such as the Native American Heritage Forum and the Latin Cultural Club, and the Army Recruiting Command has ended its long partnership with the Black Engineer of the Year Awards.

The new Pentagon boss also zeroed in on the pressing task of renaming Fort Liberty back to Fort Bragg, though it’s not exactly a reversal; Hegseth ordered that the base now honor a World War II hero named Roland Bragg (a private first class who won the Silver Star and a Purple Heart at the Battle of the Bulge) instead of the odious Confederate General Braxton Bragg, for whom it was named in 1918. This change is little more than a clumsy stunt, one that manages to insult a loyal PFC while resurrecting the traitorous general—almost certainly after searching for a hero named Bragg, just so people could use the old name with a wink and a chuckle.

Americans might wonder what all of this performative inanity has to do with arming, training, feeding, and housing the most powerful military in the world, or how any of this showmanship makes the United States safer and more capable of deterring its enemies and fighting for its interests. But Hegseth, like most of Donald Trump’s other nominees, knows that his job is not to administer a department but to carry out Trump’s cultural and political vendettas.

[Elliot Ackerman: Bring back the War Department]

When a government department gets an appointee like Hegseth, it must still find a way to function every day, and those many tasks then fall to the deputies and undersecretaries. Sometimes, the effect is almost imperceptible. Ben Carson, for example, was tapped in Trump’s first term to lead Housing and Urban Development; he was out of his depth and it showed, but HUD slogged on despite Carson’s inexperience. The Defense Department, however, cannot run on autopilot. Mistakes made at the Pentagon can get people killed and endanger the safety of the nation. Unfortunately, with few exceptions, Trump’s current nominees to other top-tier Pentagon positions aren’t much more qualified than Hegseth. As with Trump’s nominations in other departments, the key factors appear to be loyalty, wealth, and ideological fervor, not competence.

Day-to-day operations at the Pentagon and other agencies are usually run by a deputy secretary. The previous deputy under Lloyd Austin, Kath Hicks, has a Ph.D. from MIT and years of experience in national defense, including at the Pentagon. Trump’s nominee to succeed her is the billionaire Steve Feinberg, who co-founded Cerberus Capital. He has no military or Pentagon experience. (Likewise, Trump’s pick for secretary of the Navy, John Phelan, is a wealthy businessman and art collector who has never served in the military or any government position.)

Below the secretary, several undersecretaries serve as the senior managers of the institution, and the news here is also worrisome. In 2020, Trump tried to nominate Bradley Hansell, a special assistant to Trump in his first term, as the deputy undersecretary for intelligence (in order to replace someone whose loyalty came into question among Trump’s advisers), a nomination that was returned to Trump without action from the Senate. This time, Trump has nominated Hansell (whose background is in venture capital) for the more senior job of undersecretary, despite his lack of qualifications. Trump has also tapped Emil Michael, a tech investor and executive at Uber and Klout, as undersecretary for research and engineering. Michael is a lawyer; his predecessor in the research and engineering post in the Biden administration, Heidi Shyu, was an actual engineer, with long experience in defense production and acquisition issues.

One relatively conventional choice among the undersecretary nominees is Elbridge Colby, a well-known defense intellectual who served as a deputy assistant secretary of defense in Trump’s first term. (He’s the type of Washington fixture whom Trump’s people usually distrust, but Colby was careful never to get on the wrong side of the MAGA world.) His views, especially regarding nuclear weapons, are alarming: He once wrote that America should consider nuclear responses to a cyberattack. But Colby is a serious choice compared with his future colleagues.

[Eliot A. Cohen: The U.S. needs soldiers, not warriors]

After Hegseth, Trump’s most disturbing DOD nomination—at least so far—is Anthony Tata, the retired one-star general whom Trump has put forward as undersecretary for personnel and readiness. Tata’s views are extreme: He once referred to President Barack Obama as a “terrorist,” claimed that former CIA Director John Brennan was trying to kill Trump, and pushed the conspiracy theory that Bill and Hillary Clinton had murdered several of their political opponents. Trump had to pull Tata’s nomination in 2020 as undersecretary for policy (the position Colby is now slated to get) just 90 minutes before his Senate hearing, after being told that the votes to confirm him were not there. The president is now going to send Tata back and humiliate the Republicans into voting for yet another unacceptable nominee.

The biggest risk is not that these nominees will do poorly in their jobs. They will have assistants—the same bureaucrats and experienced civil servants whom Trump and Hegseth are trying to drive from the Pentagon—who will make sure that things get done as much as possible in the midst of the chaos. The real danger will come during a crisis, when Trump needs the defense secretary and his senior staff to rise to the occasion and provide advice and options under difficult and perhaps even terrifying conditions. Although these nominees will likely serve up plenty of uninformed or irresponsibly sycophantic views at such a moment, few of them have the depth of knowledge or experience to offer steadier guidance—let alone to push back against the president when needed.

Maybe none of that matters: Trump’s first term showed that he is practically unbriefable and rarely listens to advice. Hegseth and his subordinates seem likely to spend much of their time conducting ideological warfare against their own department, with occasional breaks for tasteless public trolling. But sooner or later, Trump could face a foreign-policy crisis, and he will need better counsel than he can get from billionaire defense dilettantes and a MAGA television personality. At such a moment, Americans can only hope that someone with sober judgment and a healthy sense of patriotism—and who knows what they’re doing—emerges to do the job that Hegseth and others have left aside.

The attempt to end birthright citizenship in the United States is an attempt to reverse history, to push our nation back, way back, before the Dred Scott decision of 1857 and the secession crisis that soon delivered the nation into the Civil War. Calling this action “unconstitutional” is utterly inadequate; the maneuver is the soiling of sacred text with profane lies.

Birthright citizenship is a shield of protection to anyone born in this country, as close to a national self-definition as we have; it is our legal DNA. Section 1 of the Fourteenth Amendment should be emblazoned on small laminated cards and carried in every American’s pocket. The language is amply clear:

All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the state wherein they reside.

That language is as fundamental to the Constitution as any other provision, perhaps even more important to the survival and growth of our pluralistic republic than the First Amendment, which protects free speech, free press, the right of assembly, and the right to petition the government. It is as inherent to constitutional function as federalism itself.

[Read: The Attack on Birthright Citizenship Is a Big Test for the Constitution]

The Trump administration now scoffs at this history, purporting to end this guarantee with an executive order signed on Donald Trump’s first day back in the Oval Office and tragically titled, in a fantastic act of Orwellian doublespeak, “Protecting the Meaning and Value of American Citizenship.” The administration makes a phony originalist argument based on the claim that the Fourteenth Amendment’s guarantee extended only to the freedmen and their descendants. Quite the contrary, the amendment’s authors explicitly envisioned the immigrant population and its descendants as part of their plan. Congressman John Bingham, Section 1’s author, defended the amendment by drawing on the authority of the Constitution’s Framers, who had “invited the workers and builders whose honest toil clothes and shelters nations,” and who hailed from “every civilized nationality” to become “citizens of the Republic.” This is why, in blocking Trump’s order last week, the Federal District Court Judge John C. Coughenour said without caveat: “This is a blatantly unconstitutional order.”

Section 1’s origins lie deep in our past. It is rooted in the petitions of African Americans during and after the American Revolution that demanded freedom and natural rights for their service to the patriot cause. It stems from many ideas and strategies of the British and American abolition movements. It echoes Thomas Jefferson’s inclusion of equality among “these truths” in the Declaration of Independence and Abraham Lincoln’s use of the same word in the Gettysburg Address, as well as his full-throated embrace of immigration well before the Civil War. Its most direct and powerful harbinger is the emancipation of nearly 4 million slaves in the midst of the war. Without that greatest transformation in American history, there would be no Fourteenth Amendment—no birthright citizenship and no equal-protection clause either, a codification just as sacred.  

Most profound, birthright citizenship is rooted in the blood of more than 700,000 Americans who died in the Civil War, a catastrophe that made possible what most historians now call the “second founding” of America. The rebirth harkened in the Fourteenth Amendment is the core of this phrase’s meaning. The Trump administration’s desire to obliterate birthright citizenship is part of a larger quest to undo most of this egalitarian tradition, to shift American history into a kind of permanent reverse gear back to an age of secure constitutional white supremacy.

[Read: The Coming Assault on Birthright Citizenship]

One cannot overstate the gravity of Trump’s proposed action, nor the historical ignorance on which it stands. The original Republicans who crafted birthright citizenship into the amendment were doing nothing less than harvesting the greatest results of the Civil War, making good on the promise of freedom for millions of any creed, color, or national origin at the time and for all time to come. Section 1 explained to the world what that war had meant. To erase any part of it now is to tarnish the legacy of William McKinley, Trump’s new favorite president, who fought in the Battle of Antietam. The Union victory there is what prompted the Emancipation Proclamation.

For Bingham, a deeply Christian abolitionist Republican from Ohio, this debate went back at least to the 1850s crises over the expansion of slavery. In 1858 he said, “Every man knows that under our free institutions, every person born of free parents within the jurisdiction of the United States … is a citizen of the United States.” Bingham, of course, overestimated such consensus, because Chief Justice Roger B. Taney in Dred Scott v. Sandford had ruled for a 7–2 majority of the Supreme Court the previous year that Black people possessed “no rights” whatsoever under American law. One of the grand purposes of the Fourteenth Amendment was to relegate the Dred Scott decision to history.

By the winter of 1866, as Congress debated the content of an amendment, it faced many overwhelming obstacles, especially bone-level, historical racism and the doctrine of federalism that fundamentally protected states’ rights. Congress had just fought an all-out war to restore the Confederate states to the Union and to end slavery with an overwhelming use of federal power.

But the Republicans, despite fierce debates, were confident. “I can hardly believe,” wrote Thaddeus Stevens, the radical floor manager for his party, “that any person can be found who will not admit that every one of these proposals is just.” They knew exactly what they intended to achieve. Bingham defended the amendment as protection of the “in-born rights of every person.” Stevens thought they had to “fix the foundations of the government on principles of eternal justice.” Senator Lyman Trumbull saw them advancing principles “which the great Author of all has implanted in every human breast.” They believed that they were enacting justice and morality, not only for freed slaves but for the country’s immigrant future, a fact they deeply understood because they had lived through the recent waves of Irish and German immigration.

[Read: The Real Origins of Birthright Citizenship]

As for states’ rights, Bingham had a constant answer. For “generations to come,” he announced, he sought to “arm Congress … with the power to enforce the Bill of Rights as it stands in the Constitution … in the states.” In the states, by federal power.

In floor debates, Bingham spoke with great eloquence about the purposes of the amendment. “The day of the freedman’s deliverance has come,” he declared, “not without suffering, not without sorrow, not without martyrdom, not without broken altars and broken hearts.” But now he saw potential days of glory, not only for ex-slaves but for the immigrant. The Constitution could now “provide that no man, no matter what his color, no matter beneath what sky he may have been born, no matter in what disastrous conflict or by what tyrannical hand his liberty may have been cloven down, no matter how poor, no matter how friendless … shall be deprived of life or liberty or property without due process of law.” Above everything, “all persons born” here were forever citizens.  

Trump and his allies have picked a fight over this crucial provision in the Constitution. Americans have to engage the fight, in the courts and with every mode of persuasion. Trump and his allies’ vision is an egregious abuse of real history and the new Constitution it forged in the 1860s. If they succeed, then Grant has surrendered to Lee at Appomattox.

Battle against new wildfires continues in California

Firefighters are battling the worst wildfires ever to hit Los Angeles while criticism mounts over poor preparations.

Almost everyone knows what it’s like to face insurmountable odds—to feel ineffective, unable to see a way out, doubtful that the struggle to prevail is even worth the fight. Sometimes a challenge is genuinely life-and-death, or involves dire consequences; other times, the obstacles in your path may be lower stakes, but still feel frustratingly immovable. As diverse as these experiences can be, they tend to share a common quality: They can become powerful stories.

As a result, literature is full of reminders that long odds can sometimes be surmounted—that David can defeat Goliath, that perseverance can pay off, and that action can lead to change. The seven books below follow people who faced extraordinary predicaments and, instead of caving in, found ways to push back. Some protagonists overcome their obstacles; others confront them on their own terms or weaken the systems they’re up against. Many of their stories are infuriating, but the unlikely achievements within are all elementally hopeful, because they might galvanize readers to fight another day.

All In: An Autobiography, by Billie Jean King with Johnette Howard and Maryanne Vollers

When King came up in tennis in the 1960s, female players were an afterthought at best. The money they received for winning tournaments was a fraction of what men received, and the sexism was constant: King was once told she’d be No. 1 someday because she was ugly. In her autobiography, King frankly recounts the opposition she faced on and off the court, and also recognizes the challenges faced by other barrier-breaking players such as Althea Gibson, Arthur Ashe, and Renée Richards. “There was this gap between what I thought I was capable of and the world as it was,” she writes. “I saw that gulf clearly. I was less sure how to breach it.” King found a way across: In addition to winning 39 Grand Slam titles, she helped create a women-only invitational that proved female players could sell tickets. In 1973, she also defeated Bobby Riggs in the Battle of the Sexes, a watershed cultural moment watched by 90 million people.  All In reads like one of King’s tennis matches: An intense volley of obstacles fly at her, and she returns them all with power and headlong determination.

The Adventures of Amina al-Sirafi, by Shannon Chakraborty

In many works of fiction, pirates—even the most plundering, pillaging types—are portrayed sympathetically, as people who don’t fit into society and turn to a life on the high seas in order to be their authentic selves. The Adventures of Amina al-Sirafi is one of those stories. The novel takes place in a fantastical version of the medieval Islamic world, specifically on the Indian Ocean, where the titular captain, Amina, once helmed her own ship and crew. Ten years after leaving the pirate life, she’s older, and a mother; she has the aches and pains to prove it. Unsurprisingly, given how these stories usually go, circumstances draw her back to her ship and the sea: She needs to rescue the daughter of a dead crewmate, and her journey gets her embroiled with magical forces that are literally leviathan in nature. Her specific challenges are, obviously, not of our world, but her desire to control her own life, and her refusal to be whipped around by powerful, indifferent forces, is deeply relatable. And although the themes of the story are serious, the tone is relatively light—hope and humor lash its pages, making for a swashbuckling read.

[Read: How to succeed at failure]

The Radium Girls, by Kate Moore

In the late 1910s, corporations used radium, a radioactive material found in uranium ore, to make the numbers and dials on watches glow in the dark. They hired young women to paint the substance on, and employees were encouraged to twirl the brushes between their lips to get them to a fine point. The radium accumulated in their bones, killing many of them—they glowed at night as it destroyed their bodies from the inside. Ultimately, groups of these women took two separate companies—the United States Radium Corporation and the Radium Dial Company—to court, and after years of efforts, their former employers were finally held accountable. Although financial compensation was important to cover medical bills and support their families, the women mainly wanted the truth exposed; at least 50 of them died before the trials concluded. Moore demonstrates that USRC and Radium Dial knowingly sentenced the painters to death for the sake of profit, denying that there was any risk to their health even when their own medical examinations proved otherwise. More important, she puts these workers front and center, as women who had full lives before, and after, they picked up a paintbrush.

Whalefall, by Daniel Kraus

On the surface, Whalefall spins a wild premise into a gripping tale: A young diver, Jay, is fighting to escape a sperm whale that inadvertently swallows him while hunting a giant squid. As you get deeper into the novel, however, the plot becomes more complex. Yes, it’s a thrilling story of survival—Jay’s body is shattered, beaten and ruptured in various places, and the oxygen in his tank is rapidly dwindling. But it’s also about his grief for his estranged father: Kraus flits between Jay’s Herculean efforts to stay alive inside the whale’s stomach and memories of his dad, who—ravaged by terminal cancer—ultimately chose to die in these same waters. Whalefall interweaves past and present via short, immediate prose as “Jay lived and died and lived again in the deep.”

[Read: How kids learn resilience]

Go Down Together: The True, Untold Story of Bonnie and Clyde, by Jeff Guinn

In the early 20th century, the media and Hollywood turned Bonnie and Clyde into infamous bank robbers, inflating their often-fumbling exploits to super-gangster status. As Guinn explains in Go Down Together—a book that aims to move past the myth and paint a more accurate picture of the two—many Americans eagerly bought into the image the press created. Reality didn’t matter: The story of the couple became a touchstone for people’s frustrations. “In 1933 bankers and law enforcement officials, widely perceived to have no sympathy for decent people impoverished through no fault of their own, were considered the enemy by many Americans,” Guinn writes. “For them, Clyde and Bonnie’s criminal acts offered a vicarious sense of revenge.” In reality, Clyde—who had been serially raped by another inmate in prison—“was more interested in getting even than in getting ahead,” and Bonnie wanted a life filled with fame and adventures, and “was willing to risk arrest to have them.” What their legend truly shows is just how badly the American public wanted to crown a hero who stood up to the establishment on its behalf—an impulse that persists, dangerously, to this day.

The Half Life of Valery K, by Natasha Pulley

From its first pages, The Half Life of Valery K gets to the core of what humans facing a seemingly hopeless situation must do to carry on. “The way to not sink into self-pity and despair—the way not to die—was to look forward to things,” Valery thinks. “Anything; the tinier the better, because then you were more likely to get it.” Incarcerated in a Siberian prison, he must stave off “the terrible docility that came before you gave up.” Valery is a Soviet biochemist specializing in radiation who gets transferred to City 40, ostensibly to study the effect of a nuclear accident the government has spun as a planned “experiment” on an ecosystem. Pulley’s novel is inspired by real events: In September 1957, an explosion in the Soviet Union spread radioactive material, causing mass evacuations and contamination. The book itself has sharp edges. Pulley’s characters are not only physically wounded; they are forever scarred by their trauma. But Valery, despite his lack of power in a despotic system, is able to help others, and finds a way to not just survive his pain but also live with its lasting effects.

[Read: Schopenhauer’s advice on how to achieve great things]

A Passionate Mind in Relentless Pursuit, by Noliwe Rooks

Rooks’s history of the educator, philanthropist, and civil-rights leader Mary McLeod Bethune is more of a meditation on the effect she had on those in the Black community, including the author, than a formal biography. “I think Bethune—her image, her statues, her name—may be a kind of talisman, or maybe a light, guiding, promising, showing a path,” Rooks writes early on. Over about 200 pages, Rooks unpacks Bethune’s legacy in fighting racism, exploring her efforts to found a school and secure investors to buy land near the ocean and create Bethune Beach, the only beach in Florida’s Volusia County where Black Americans could congregate without restrictions during Jim Crow. In 2022, a statue of Bethune replaced that of a Confederate general in the U.S. Capitol’s National Statuary Hall, where she represents the state of Florida. As Rooks puts it, the activist “taught me that there is strength in numbers, always a reason to hope, and that if someone disrespects you and yours, it is in your best interest to find a way to use the metaphorical flag that professes your citizenship, rights, and humanity as a weapon, and ‘get it done.’”