An Open Letter to Our Former Presidents

Clinton. Bush. Obama. Biden.

There are only five people alive who truly know what it means to carry the weight of this office.
Five who have sat in that chair, faced what the rest of us never will, and felt the full gravity of what it means to lead this nation.
Only four of you ever truly honored it.
Only four of you understood the sacredness of the role.

Because of your faith in God and in country, you led with decency—
and with a respect for humanity.

We are living through something none of us ever believed we would see in our lifetimes.
And yet—here we are.
Bearing witness to the unraveling of all we once held so dear.

Most of us thought COVID-19 would be the worst crisis we would ever live through as a country.
But at least during that terrifying chapter, there was a clear enemy: a virus.
And today, it’s each other.

Now we are isolated in a different way.
Families torn apart.
Lifelong friendships gone.
Neighbors turned strangers.

And in the place of leadership, we have chaos.
We have retribution.
We have fear.

The poor, huddled masses who once yearned to breathe free and live the American dream are now being hunted—
disappeared from our streets by violent thugs in masks.

Today, we watched ICE agents beat the father of three U.S. Marines outside an IHOP.
They dislocated his shoulder.
Denied him food.
Denied him water.
Denied him medical care.

And as that happened, Iran launched missiles at U.S. troops in Qatar—
while the President of the United States celebrated online
and claimed divine credit for starting it.

We mourn the ghosts of America’s past in restless fits of sleep.
And we awaken each day to cruelty, to vengeance, to erosion.

Steady, capable leadership has been replaced by instability.
Certainty replaced by spectacle.
The great American experiment has become a living nightmare—
not because we failed to defend it,
but because we failed to imagine just how fragile it truly was.

Each of you, in your presidencies, were expected to rise to the occasion.
None of you were perfect. You made mistakes—as we all do.
But when the time came to stand for the country, to unite us, to steady the nation,
to remind us who we were supposed to be—you delivered.

In your own ways, you showed up.
You understood that the presidency wasn’t just about one man—
it was about all of us.

And even when you were unsure, even when you weren’t at your best,
you surrounded yourselves with brilliant, capable leaders—
people who were steady, principled,
and loyal not to you personally,
but to the Constitution you all swore to defend.

But one of the five—the one currently occupying the office—has never respected any of that.
He never tries to meet people where they are.
He never tries to understand them.
He exploits our divisions.
He weaponizes our pain.
He incites insurrection.
He fuels a movement built on vengeance.

And just two days ago,
he led this country into war—without transparency, without oversight, and without a plan.

We are living through the most extraordinary crisis in modern American history.
And we are being dragged—not led—toward something irreversible.
We are teetering on the edge of the precipice.

And just days ago, we witnessed something that should have stopped the nation cold—
a sitting state representative assassinated. A state senator critically wounded.

Two elected officials, targeted and shot in cold blood—
not overseas, not in theory—but here, on American soil.

We’ve barely begun to grieve, and already we’re being told to move on.
But we shouldn’t.
We can’t.

Because that wasn’t just a tragedy.
It was a warning.

I am the mother of two sons.
And most unfortunately, this president is practically all they truly remember.

He has hovered over their adolescence like a storm that never passed—
eroding trust, hijacking headlines, normalizing hatred.

Even after Mr. Biden won in 2020, he never really left.
He just kept lurking in the shadows,
firing off potshots and conspiracies—like clockwork.

But it’s not just my children I’m worried about.
It’s all of them.

I’ve spent most of my life serving children and families—
especially the ones who are easiest to forget.
The vulnerable. The sick. The poor. The system-involved. The unseen.

I have sat across from mothers who lost their babies—
to preventable violence,
to poverty,
to indifference.

I’ve held hands with children navigating trauma most adults couldn’t survive.
I’ve watched them cling to hope in systems that were never designed to protect them.

And now—
they are growing up in a country that feels hostile to their very existence.

How do we explain this moment to our children?
That ICE agents can drag fathers off the street in ski masks
while their sons wear military uniforms?
That school boards are overrun by book-banners and militias?
That war is being used as a campaign tactic?

We’re teaching them that the loudest man wins.
That cruelty is strength.
That truth is whatever your leader says it is—
no matter what you see with your own eyes.

I’ve seen what children carry when the adults around them choose silence.
And I’ve seen what happens when we show up anyway.

We don’t have the luxury of waiting any longer.
Because children are watching.

They have the opportunity to become the very best version of themselves—
or their worst.

Because they are not just absorbing this moment—
they are being shaped by it.

And if we don’t fight for them now,
we will lose more than a nation.
We will lose a generation.

Today, I watched my young adult son and his friend splashing in the pool—
laughing and throwing the football like they did when they were kids.
And all I could think about were the parents whose children are in the Middle East,
standing in desert heat with missiles being launched at them.

I couldn’t stop the tears.

I imagine when they’re homesick, they think about these moments.
Summer barbecues and cornhole in the backyard.
The sound of baseball on a summer afternoon.
The freedom of a quiet hike.
Mountains. Streams. Oceans.
Their people.
Their peace.
Their version of America—the one that makes it feel like home.

And now, under this presidency,
they have targets on their backs—used to serve the selfish interests of our Commander in Chief.

We have humble warriors patrolling the streets of Los Angeles,
hunting the parents of their comrades.

We use them as political theater.
We parade them in front of a dictator like toy soldiers.

We don’t honor their service.
We exploit it.
We dress them up for the cameras.
Strip their dignity when the news cycle ends.
And deny them healthcare if they don’t support the regime.

And then—
we dare to speak of patriotism as though it’s a brand.

We are witnessing a psychological assault on the American people—
a campaign of confusion, division, emotional exhaustion, and fear.

And it’s working.
It’s wearing people down.

This is not sustainable.

Whether or not this country ever truly meant the promises in its founding documents,
we believed in them.

I am as patriotic as they come—
born on the Fourth of July, during a tornado.

Not the kind of patriotism that waves a flag and looks away,
but the kind that digs deep, names the harm, and fights for something better.

Loving this country means never denying its history.
It means acknowledging the dark parts—
and using them as fuel to become what we always aspired to be.

That’s what patriotism looks like to me:
Not silence.
Not obedience.
But devotion to justice and truth.

So I’m writing to ask that you don’t stay silent.

The weight of your words still matters.
The wisdom of your experience still matters.

The power of four former presidents—
without parties or borders, speaking in one unified voice—
would send the strongest of messages to the weakest of men,
and remind this nation who we are supposed to be.

We don’t need you to be perfect.
We just need you to show up.

We may not have the right to ask this of you, after all you’ve already given.
But this moment—this choice—could be the turning point for our country.

A signal to the American people
that we still have compassionate leaders who show up
when it matters most.

And if you won’t rise to meet this moment—
then what were all the others for?

Sincerely,
Lisa Gonzalez
A citizen. A mother. A witness.

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