Farewell Address

Farewell Address

Rain tapped the windowpanes in soft pulses. The sound of a lone siren rose and fell faintly in the distance. Inside, the Oval Office lights were harsh.

The president sat at his desk with his sleeves rolled up. In his hand was a printed copy of George Washington’s Farewell Address from 1796, double-spaced and underlined in blue ink.

He started to read from the document, but then looked up to finish what he’d memorized. “The name of American, which belongs to you in your national capacity… must always exalt the just pride of patriotism more than any appellation derived from local discriminations.”

He tapped the line with his pen. “That stays,” he said. “Word for word. Washington’s Farewell Address were warnings, and I want to get the word out, his words out.”

Across from him, Speechwriter Ida Barrett didn’t answer immediately. Her laptop was open, but her fingers stopped making keystrokes. She looked up. “Sir,” she said carefully. “I know it’s your Farewell Address. I know you want to quote Washington’s Farewell Address, but that line won’t land the way you think.”

He squinted at her. “Why?”

“Because people don’t feel first, and foremost, we’re Americans right now. Oh, they feel they’re Americans all right, but as a back seat to feeling red is the enemy, or blue is evil. Urban versus rural.”

“That’s why it matters,” he said. “Because the whole premise of our democracy rests on the idea that being American means something beyond zip code or party. American is as American as apple pie.”

“Maybe it is to you,” she said. “But out there? In reality? Whether you’re for it or against, is not the point. The point is our ‘national capacity does not exalt more than local discriminations’. Not when Texas just rejected federal guidance on EPA methane rules. Not when Florida’s trying to block Department of Education funds over curriculum guidelines. Washington’s phrase ‘national capacity’ is going to read as satire. People will either not understand, or laugh.

He leaned back slowly, letting the words sink in. The storm outside was picking up, the glass behind him vibrating slightly with each gust.

“So I say nothing?” he said finally.

Ida shook her head. “No. But if you tell people they’re unified when they know they’re not, they’ll tune out. Or worse—they’ll think you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re not, but you’re talking like it’s 1996. Or 1963. People don’t want lofty. They want acknowledgment that you see how hard it is just to talk across a Thanksgiving table.”

He stood up, walked toward the window, and crossed his arms. The White House lawn was dark, dotted with the blue flash of Secret Service radios. “You know what I saw this week? A middle school history teacher in Kansas got death threats for assigning The Federalist Papers. Not CRT. Not gender curriculum. The Federalist Papers.”

Ida didn’t flinch. “These are strange times.”

“I want that line in there,” he said. “Because the word ‘American’ has to come first, ahead of party. We’re all Americans.”

She watched him faced away from her. In the distance, beyond the glass doors, the top of The Washington Monument shone, pinned against the night sky.

“I get it,” she said. “But people won’t get it. Say, ‘I know we’re fractured. I know it’s easier to withdraw into region or party. But this American identity—we all share it, and it’s not obsolete.’”

He turned back toward her. Silent. Considering.

Then, quietly, he said, “You think I can’t quote Washington?”

“I think you can,” she said. “But not with 1796 language and a straight face. You’re not Washington in homespun. Wasn’t it you earlier today who was at a TikTok-livestream town hall when someone asked if Ohio should secede over vaccine mandates? You’ve got to meet people where they are.”

He sat back down.

The storm had quieted for now. Just a hush outside.

“I’m keeping the American part,” he said. “Next.”

Ida read from her laptop. “You can’t use, ‘But the Constitution which at any time exists, till changed by an explicit and authentic act of the whole people, is sacredly obligatory upon all.’”

“Why not?”

She leaned in. “The phrase ‘sacredly obligatory’ sounds like a prayer. But hardly anyone thinks they’re worshipping the sanctity of the constitution.”

“That’s exactly why I want to say it,” he said, quietly. “Because we need to be reminded it’s not optional. That until it’s amended, it’s ours. All of it. For all of us.”

Ida shook her head. “But whose version of it are you defending when you say that?

“What do you mean?”

“Different states are reading it any way they want, interpreted by different courts.”

The President tossed his hand dismissively. “That’s why we have the Supreme Court.”

“Oh really? Do you think it’s concerning when a sitting Supreme Court justice has to publicly deny that they’re coordinating with billionaire donors?”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s not always fire, Ida.”

“But there’s still smoke, sir.”

He laughed and pointe at her with the ‘got me’ finger. “I’m still leaving it in. Washington stressed the importance of the Constitution. I feel the same way.”

“I live to serve, Mr. President.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Ida. It doesn’t look good on you.”

“Sorry, sir.”

The President chuckled. “You’re forgiven. We go back a long way.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now… the debt. I want to say something about the debt.”

“Are you going to quote Washington’s warning?”

“You bet. Growing up, my family’s hardware store kept a budget. He looked up at the ceiling and spoke in a monotone, his hand moving back and forth like he was conducting an orchestra. “Use it as sparingly as possible… avoiding likewise the accumulation of debt, not only by shunning occasions of expense, but by vigorous exertions in time of peace to discharge the debts. I love that, ‘exertions in time of peace.’”

“You don’t think that will come off as hypocritical?”

“Maybe, but I was caught between a rock and a hard place, if you remember.”

“All the same, the debt ran up three trillion while you were president?”

“Congress holds the purse strings. You know that.”

“Three TRILLION?”

The President examined his nails. “I guess it’s a good thing this is my farewell address, hey Ida?”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Now, don’t give me your sour face. Do you know what would happen if I cut entitlements? Medicare, Social Security? And the military? What would happen? Tell me what.”

“The debt would be bought down?”

“Now you’re just being difficult. Stop it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Better yet, let’s just hold off on worrying about it until later. But include the quote, ‘vigorous exertions in time of peace to discharge the debts.’ I like the ring to that. Washington was a poet, I guess.”

“Actually, sir, it was Hamilton who contributed much of the Farewell Address back in 1796.”

“That so? Now… I’ve got one you won’t disagree putting in.”

“Sir?”

“Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports.”

“I don’t advise using that one either, sir.”

“You’re impossible, Ida. Why not?” The President rolled his eyes.

Ida looked down. When she looked up again, her voice was steady.

“Because it doesn’t mean what it meant in 1796. Back then, religion was a loose set of shared values. Today, it’s political branding.”

He crossed his arms. “So, we can’t mention morality now because someone might take it personally?”

“It’s not that simple,” she said. “You say ‘religion and morality are indispensable,’ and half the country hears a code for Christian nationalism. The other half assumes you’re about to roll back rights.”

“I’m not.”

“They won’t believe that. Not when school boards are trying to ban books on world religions. Not when state legislatures are quoting scripture to the detriment of other religions.”

He sighed. “You think I don’t see that? I’m not quoting Leviticus, Ida. I’m quoting Washington.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And when Washington said it, religion was about your conscience. Your sense of right and wrong. But now it’s political. We’ve got lawmakers saying democracy itself is ungodly.”

He stepped around the desk, slowly. “So, I don’t get to talk about morality at all?”

“You can,” she said. “But not like that. Not without naming the difference between faith as a compass, and faith as a weapon.”

He stared at her. Then walked toward the window again, his reflection faint against the glass.

“Ida,” he said finally. “Do you believe in anything?”

“I believe in the separation of church and state,” she said. “And in not burning whatever bridges we have left with the people who think God’s on their side and no one else’s.”

He didn’t turn around.

“I meant do you believe in us,” he said. “In the country.”

“I do,” she said, after a moment. “But belief isn’t blind. That’s faith. And faith gets dangerous when it goes unexamined.”

He nodded slowly, then muttered, “Indispensable supports, I still think it’s a hell of a line.”

She smiled faintly. “It is.”

He came back to the desk and wrote a note in the margin.

“We’ll soften it. Maybe reframe it,” he said. “But I want something in there. A sentence. A word. Something that says we’re not just about self-interests and tribes, something about treating other people as you would treat yourself. Doesn’t every religion believe that?”

She nodded. “Maybe not in those words, sir. But I believe they all do, yes.”

The storm outside had moved on. Just a soft drip from the eaves.

“Next line,” he said.

Ida looked up. “Foreign entanglements. Washington warned against them.”

The President rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re talking.”