Civic Discourse

Can One Honest Voice Still Make a Difference?

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

That question echoed through the Senate chamber in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and it still echoes—in classrooms, hospitals, and quiet corners where people stand up for truth, dignity, and hope. Jefferson Smith’s filibuster wasn’t just about a boys’ camp. It was about integrity in the face of power, and the belief that one person, armed with conviction and courage, could still influence change.

I’ve been reflecting on this a lot lately. As a teacher, a writer, and someone who has walked through the valley of cancer, I’ve observed how fragile hope can be—and how powerful it becomes when shared. Whether it’s a student finding their voice, a patient advocating for better care, or a citizen daring to speak truth in a noisy world, an honest voice still matters. It always has.

Over the past two days, I’ve been watching Mr. Smith Goes to Washington with my American Government students. It’s a black-and-white film from 1939, but it somehow feels more relevant than ever. In a world that often feels noisy, cynical, and divided, Jefferson Smith’s quiet courage still resonates.

He’s not polished or powerful. He’s simply a man who believes in doing what’s right—even if it costs him everything.

“I guess this is just another lost cause, Mr. Paine. All you people don’t know about lost causes. Mr. Paine does.”

That line hit me hard because I’ve been there. Maybe you have too—fighting for something that feels too big, too broken, too far gone. Whether it’s in a hospital room, a classroom, or our country, there are moments when you wonder if your voice matters at all.

But then I remember: it’s the “lost causes” that often need us the most.

Jefferson Smith’s filibuster wasn’t just about a boys’ camp. It was about integrity—about standing up when it would be easier to sit down. About believing that the truth, spoken plainly and with heart, still has power.

“Liberty’s too precious a thing to be buried in books… Men should hold it up in front of them every single day of their lives and say: I’m free to think and to speak.”

That’s what I want for my students. Not just to memorize the steps of how a bill becomes a law, but to believe that their voices matter—that democracy isn’t something that happens in Washington; it happens in classrooms, in conversations, in choices.

And that’s what I want for myself, too.

I’m just starting to write a book—my story of battling cancer, walking through fear, and finding hope. It’s hard to share, but I keep thinking: if one person reads it and feels less alone, maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s what it means to be an honest voice.

So yes, I believe one voice can still make a difference. Not because it’s loud. But because it’s true.

And in a time when so much feels uncertain, that’s something worth holding onto.

The desk of a U.S. Senator, as featured on senate.gov.



Dear Theodosia, and the Quiet Fight for Tomorrow

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

There’s a moment in Hamilton that always stops me. After the chaos of revolution, after the declarations and duels, two fathers sing to their newborn children. “Dear Theodosia,” they begin—not with fanfare, but with tenderness. Burr and Hamilton, rivals in politics and temperament, pause to make promises. Not to their country. To their children.

“You will come of age with our young nation. We’ll bleed and fight for you, we’ll make it right for you…”

It’s a lullaby wrapped in determination. A promise to create something better—not for fame, but for love.

I’ve thought about that song a lot, but never more than right now.

In five days, I return to Emory for new CT scans. On October 14, I’ll meet with my nurse practitioner and surgeon at Winship Midtown. If the scans are clear, it will mark five years since I finished radiation. Five years since I stood at the edge of uncertainty and chose to fight. Five years since I started whispering my own promises to my daughters—not in song, but in presence.

I’ve lived in the space between “no evidence of disease” and “cancer free.” It’s a quiet place— a place of waiting, watching, and wondering. But it’s also where love grows loud, where bedtime prayers turn into battle cries, and every school concert, silly dance in the kitchen, or whispered “I love you” becomes a declaration: I’m still here.

And yet, as I get ready to cross this threshold, I find myself mourning a different kind of uncertainty. One that doesn’t appear on scans.

Our democracy feels fragile. The ideals I’ve just finished teaching—Revolution, Constitution, compromise—seem increasingly distant from our public discourse. We are angry, distrustful, divided. This reflection isn’t a condemnation. It’s not about taking sides. It’s about promises.

Because “Dear Theodosia” isn’t partisan. It’s parental. It’s the quiet voice that says: I will fight for you. I will make it right for you.

And that’s a promise I still believe in.

I believe in the scan that might say “healed.”

I believe in the student who asks, “Why does the Constitution matter?”

I believe in the daughter who says, “Dad, I’m proud of you.”

I believe in the lullaby that dares to hope.

We may not agree on policy. We may not share the same fears. But we owe our children more than noise. We owe them the quiet fight—the one that builds, that teaches, that heals.

So I return to Emory with gratitude. I return to my classroom with resolve. I return to my daughters with open arms. And I return to the promises I’ve made—not just to survive, but to build something better.

Dear Theodosia, we’re still singing. Even in the storm. Especially in the storm.

In the Shade of the Mockingbird

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

“The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.” — Atticus Finch

This reflection was born from rereading Harper Lee’s novel and asking myself not just what Atticus Finch stood for, but what his values might mean today — especially in the classroom. As I prepare to teach Social Studies, I find myself drawing courage and clarity from his quiet defiance, his empathy, and his belief in justice. These words are both a tribute and a promise.

This summer, with more hours than usual and a mind leaning toward reflection, I found myself back in Maycomb County, rereading To Kill a Mockingbird. It wasn’t the only trip I made into the past — I also read Jon Meacham’s Franklin and Winston, an account of an unlikely but profound political friendship. And now, I’ve turned the pages of Go Set a Watchman, Harper Lee’s more unsettling follow-up to the story that shaped generations. These books, each in their own way, prompted me to ask: How do our heroes change when viewed through a different lens? And what lessons still echo when we return to a story after time and experience have reshaped how we read?

I first read To Kill a Mockingbird in tenth grade at Hardaway High School, in Mrs. Romine’s English class — a place where stories began to mean something more to me. Maybe I was predisposed to love the book; my mom, herself an English teacher, had taught it too. But it wasn’t just admiration passed down — it was discovery. As part of our class, we held a mock trial, and I played Atticus Finch. I don’t remember the verdict, but I remember the feeling: standing in his shoes, arguing for justice in a world tilted by bias. Our jury had women on it, unlike the all-male reality of 1930s Alabama — a small but meaningful contrast that made me reflect even then on who gets to be heard.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but embodying Atticus Finch during that mock trial was less a performance and more a prophecy. I argued with conviction, not just for Tom Robinson, but for the idea that truth matters — even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s obscured. I listened. I questioned. I stood calmly in front of my peers, much as I’ll soon stand before my students. Teaching, like law, is not only about facts; it’s about fairness. It’s about helping young minds ask “why,” consider “what if,” and feel empowered to say “I believe.”

Atticus Finch, in To Kill a Mockingbird, stands as a paragon of principled leadership and moral clarity. He’s not a hero because he wins — he’s one because he tries, in the face of deeply embedded injustice. He approaches the world with a quiet steadiness, teaching his children and his community by modeling how to live with dignity and decency. Atticus doesn’t posture or chase recognition; he simply does what is right, even when it’s thankless. In the courtroom, on his porch, and through his parenting, he lives out a belief in fairness that transcends cultural convenience. For me, his character represents the gold standard of civic responsibility: to speak calmly, act courageously, and listen generously.

Atticus’s ethos — “you never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view” — feels tailor-made for the divisiveness we see today. In an age of echo chambers and algorithm-driven outrage, radical empathy demands deliberate pause. It means asking not just “What do I believe?” but “Where is this other person coming from?” This kind of understanding isn’t soft or passive — it’s rigorous, uncomfortable, and often inconvenient. But when practiced with sincerity, radical empathy becomes an act of resistance against polarization. It allows us to sit with difference without defensiveness, and to seek common ground without compromising our core values. Atticus offers us a lens not for agreement, but for genuine connection.

In reading To Kill a Mockingbird, I didn’t just admire Atticus Finch — I chose him as a model for the kind of person, and the kind of educator, I hope to be. His unshakable sense of justice, his quiet strength, and his radical commitment to understanding others offer more than literary admiration — they offer a blueprint for leadership in the classroom and beyond. Teaching Social Studies is not just about government structures or historical facts; it’s about shaping citizens who ask difficult questions, engage with complexity, and seek truth with empathy.

Atticus reminded us, “There is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockefeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein… That institution, gentlemen, is a court.” In the classroom, I see an echo of that institution — a place where every student, regardless of background, is offered equal footing to grow, question, and be heard. And when the work becomes tough, and real change feels far off, I remember his words to Jem: “I wanted you to see what real courage is… It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.”

If I can foster even a fraction of Atticus’s moral clarity and patience in my students, then I’ll consider my role not just successful, but deeply meaningful.

The Day We Almost Chose:  A Reflection on July 4th, History, and the Hope for Unity

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

This year, I’ll be spending the Fourth of July with my wife and our best friends. There may be fireworks. There will be laughter. And there will be a quiet moment—maybe just for me—when I pause and think about what this day really means.

I’ve always loved history. I’m not a teacher yet, but I hope to be. I want to help students see that history isn’t just about dates and battles—it’s about the choices that shape our past. And one of the most important choices in American history happened not on July 4, but on July 2.

That was the day, in 1776, when the Continental Congress voted for independence. John Adams believed July 2 would be remembered as the great American holiday. He imagined future generations celebrating with “pomp and parade… bonfires and illuminations.” He was only off by two days. On July 4, Congress approved the final wording of the Declaration of Independence, and that date became etched into our national memory.

But I keep coming back to July 2. The vote. The decision. The moment we said yes to something bold and unfinished.

The Declaration of Independence is a beautiful document. It speaks of unalienable rights—life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness. It claims that all men are created equal. But from the beginning, those words were more aspiration than reality. Enslaved people remained in chains. Women were excluded. Indigenous nations were erased from the vision of the republic.

One of the most powerful reflections came from Frederick Douglass, who delivered a speech on July 5, 1852, in Rochester, New York, titled “What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?” Speaking to a crowd gathered by the Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society, Douglass honored the courage of the Founders—but then turned to the painful contradiction at the heart of the celebration:

“This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn.”

His words weren’t meant to divide—they were meant to awaken. To remind the nation that liberty, if it is to mean anything, must be for everyone.

This year, I feel this tension more than ever. Because of my past cancer, I can’t enjoy the grilled foods I used to love. My body reminds me every day that freedom—true freedom—is fragile. Yet, I still believe in the promise of this country. I still believe in the power of memory, of reflection, and of choosing hope.

I’m also deeply grateful for those who’ve defended that promise—our veterans, our active-duty service members, and those who serve even when the cost is high. This year, my thoughts are especially with the soldiers who are being asked to leave the military, some unwillingly, not because of their performance or dedication, but because of who they are. Many of them have served with honor, deployed overseas, and led with courage. Their sacrifice, like that of all who wear the uniform, deserves to be remembered.

I know we’re a divided nation. We’ve been divided before. It’s often said—perhaps more myth than math—that only a third of colonists supported independence in 1776. Whether or not that’s accurate, it reminds us that America has always been a nation of debate, disagreement, and difficult choices. The Civil War, the Great Depression, the Civil Rights Movement—each was a reckoning. Each forced us to ask: Who are we? And who do we want to be?

Unity, when it has come, has often been forged in crisis. But what if we didn’t wait for crisis? What if we chose unity—not uniformity, but shared purpose—on ordinary days, too?

What if we remembered July 2 as the day we chose independence, and July 4 as the day we committed to its ideals?

What if we saw this holiday not just as a celebration, but as a challenge?

“We hold these truths to be self-evident…”

Are they? For everyone?

I write this not to lecture, but to wonder. To hope. To remember that democracy isn’t a finished product. It’s a draft. A living document. A promise we keep revising.

This July 4, I’ll be celebrating. I’ll be surrounded by people I love. I’ll be thinking about the stories we tell—and the ones we’re still writing.

Because I love this country enough to ask more of it. And I believe the story of America isn’t over yet.

Did You Know? – The Continental Congress voted for independence on July 2, 1776. – The engrossed copy of the Declaration—the one now in the National Archives—was mainly signed on August 2, 1776. – Three U.S. presidents and Founding Fathers—John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and James Monroe—died on July 4. – Calvin Coolidge is the only U.S. president born on the Fourth of July.

Your Turn: What does independence mean to you this year? What truths do you still hope we’ll hold as self-evident? I’d love to hear your reflections, feel free to share in the comments or reach out directly.

Sources:

John Trumbull’s 1819 painting, Declaration of Independence, depicts the five-man drafting committee of the Declaration of Independence presenting their work to the Second Continental Congress.

What It Means to Speak Truth With Civility

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Tuesday, June 17, 2025

This was originally posted on Facebook and later added to my blog.

I’m not someone who yells to make a point. I don’t see the value in shaming people into agreement. But I do believe in being honest about what I see—especially when it feels like the noise around us is drowning out the truth.

I live in Northwest Georgia. A lot of folks around here support Donald Trump. I know and love many of them. And still, I feel deeply troubled by what the Trump era has done to our country—the constant us-versus-them tone, the erosion of empathy, the vilifying of anyone who dares to disagree.

That kind of rhetoric doesn’t just stay in Washington or on cable news; it appears in school board meetings, county politics, and how we communicate with each other in the grocery store, in the comments section of a Facebook post, and certainly on social media—where people frequently express things they’d never say face-to-face. I’ve seen longtime friends clash online like adversaries. There’s something about being behind a screen that seems to strip away empathy, and that matters. When the volume of our politics increases, the volume of our humanity often decreases.


I’ve had a front-row seat to what really matters in life. In 2020, I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. I was told I might have just eight months to live without surgery. Everything changed. I lost my lower lip and jaw. I still can’t eat by mouth. But I’m here. And I’ve learned that when you’re facing something that raw and real, politics don’t matter the way they once did. What matters is who shows up. Who brings peace into the room instead of more fire.

That experience gave me a clarity I didn’t expect. I don’t have time for hate, and I’m not interested in pretending that silence equals peace either. You can speak up without tearing others down. You can stand for something without shouting over everyone else in the room.

Civility isn’t weakness. It’s being steady when the world wants you to scream. It’s listening for the sake of understanding, not just to reload your argument. It’s choosing to believe that dignity still belongs in public conversation—even if fewer people seem to practice it.

This is the world I want my daughters to grow up in. It’s the kind of classroom I hope to lead soon, as I finish my degree and begin student teaching. I want my students to know: you don’t have to agree with everyone. However, you must respect that their story is just as sacred as yours.

That’s why I’m writing. Not because I think I’ve got it all figured out. But because I still believe that calm voices can carry. And maybe, just maybe, help others feel brave enough to speak truth with kindness too.

Take Care, 

Matt