The United States has long been a beacon of hope for countless people across the globe. Whether it was the Irish fleeing the potato famine, Jews escaping the horrors of the Holocaust, or those seeking political freedom, economic prosperity, or social stability, America has often been seen as the promised land. A city on a hill, shining brightly as a symbol of opportunity and possibility.
But, as history has shown us, even the brightest stars can fall.
Today, we are witnessing such a fall. Once the beacon of freedom and refuge, America now finds itself in a moment of moral and political unraveling. The metaphor of a "falling star" feels especially apt. Like ancient Rome, which crumbled under the weight of its own contradictions, America — still a young nation — now faces growing fractures. The cracks are becoming impossible to ignore.
As we reflect during this Black History Month, we’re reminded of the extraordinary journey we’ve traveled — one of remarkable progress but also painful setbacks that underscore the cyclical nature of our national story. From the brutality of slavery to the eventual granting of citizenship to Black Americans in 1868, we’ve witnessed some of the most significant turning points in human rights.
This progress was never linear. The rise of Jim Crow laws and the violent struggle for civil rights in the 1960s marked painful chapters where the fight for justice seemed to falter, only to reignite again. These turning points demonstrate a national moral compass that, despite great efforts, often wavered.
The election of Barack Obama in 2008 was a moment of profound optimism. It offered the possibility of a "post-racial" society, a world where racial barriers could finally be dismantled. For many, it was the culmination of a long, hard-fought battle for equality.
The rise of President Donald Trump — along with his attempts to dismantle Diversity, Equity and Inclusion (DEI) programs — is a stark reminder that our moral star does not burn steadily. It flickers, dims and falls, sometimes when we least expect it.
The implications of America’s fallen star extend far beyond our borders. For much of the world, we have been a barometer for righteousness, reliability and moral authority. We have led global efforts to champion human rights and served as a moral compass in calling out injustices committed by others.
As we slip from that pedestal, the rest of the world may feel emboldened to follow suit. Countries that once looked to us as an example of ethical leadership may now feel they can lower their standards of human rights and accountability. America’s loss of moral credibility also weakens our ability to call out our own allies who commit violations or oppress their people. America's falling star isn’t just a domestic tragedy — it will reverberate across the globe for years to come.
While we face a moment of moral reckoning, the possibility of redemption still exists. The question as we look to the future is: How can we rise again?
Obama's presidency ushered in a new era, one that recalibrated our national discourse. It also highlighted a painful reality: the idea that our progress — particularly for BIPOC and LGBTQ+ communities — was perceived by many as a threat to the working class. The belief that only certain groups can thrive, while others are left behind, has created deep divisions. Some feel that the success of marginalized groups must come at the expense of others.
As I look at the state of our nation today, I am reminded of my own neighborhood in Boulder, where I live. For the first time, I find myself feeling a deep fear — not for myself, but for my neighbors. Recently, I learned from a constituent that the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) had been patrolling our community.
I’ve always felt safe here, but now, I can’t help but think of how my immigrant neighbors might feel under constant threat. It’s a stark reminder that the same forces that once enforced the brutal system of slavery are still at work today, in new forms. I now understand the historical context of slave patrols in a way I never have before. Back then, it was Black enslaved people who lived in constant fear of being hunted, but today, it is immigrants. Tomorrow, it could be any one of us.
This feeling of fear and alienation is something we must address, for it is deeply tied to the very soul of our nation. It reminds me of the famous words from "First They Came" by Martin Niemöller:
First they came for the Communists,
And I did not speak out,
Because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the Socialists,
And I did not speak out,
Because I was not a Socialist...
Then they came for me,
And there was no one left
To speak out for me.
The lesson is clear. If we do not stand up for the least among us, we risk allowing the cycle of injustice to continue. Ultimately, we all lose.
This Black History Month, we must summon the courage of all those who have stood for justice in the past and find inspiration in their resilience to speak up for those who are still being oppressed today.
The path to a more just and equitable future must be inclusive — one that brings all voices to the table. If we are to rise again, we need to ensure that no one is left behind, whether they are from a community of color, a queer identity, or a working-class background. Only then can we truly move forward, together, in building a society where justice, equality and freedom are not just ideals but realities for all.
As we stand at this crossroads, let us reflect on the lessons of the past, not only as a testament to how far we’ve come but also as a guide for how far we still have to go. Our stars may rise and fall, but the journey toward a better tomorrow is one that we must continue to walk — together.
Junie Joseph is the House District 10 Representative, the Democratic House Majority Caucus co-chair and secretary of the Democratic Black Caucus. She resides in Boulder.