Yo, Miss! Podcast

Presidential press conferences have been part of American political life for more than a century. Woodrow Wilson held the first formal one in 1913; Dwight Eisenhower held the first televised presidential press conference in 1955, although it was recorded and edited before broadcast; and in 1961, John F. Kennedy became the first president to hold one live on television, allowing Americans to watch reporters question the president in real time.

Presidents since then have found different ways to control the format: holding fewer conferences, limiting questions, or relying on more managed appearances. But what Trump is doing now goes further: after accusing CNN, MS NOW and Politico of “fake news,” he barred all three organizations from the White House, and their reporters were subsequently turned away and had their passes confiscated.

Whatever your politics, the distinction matters: this isn’t simply a president trying to manage a press conference. It is a fight over whether entire news organizations can be denied White House access because the president objects to their coverage.

In 1981, shots outside the Washington Hilton nearly killed Ronald Reagan—and the aftermath boosted his popularity as the country rallied around him.

More than four decades later, gunfire again erupted at the same hotel during events tied to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, where Donald Trump was in attendance and later evacuated. The suspect in the Washington dinner shooting ws just charged with attempting to assassinate Trump

Same building. But a very different America.

In 1981, there was broad national sympathy. Today, the reaction is immediate, fractured, and shaped by partisan media ecosystems ranging from calls for increased security via a White House Ballroom to conspiracy-laden speculation that this was a false flag event.

In this video, I break down the eerie historical parallel and ask the real question: in a hyper-polarized era, do moments like this still unite the country the way they did for Reagan… or do they just deepen the divide?

Spoiler: it’s far more likely to deepen the divide than unite the country.

'It's a new world, it's the same constitution'

More than 150 years ago, the Fourteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution was ratified after the Civil War to overturn Dred Scott v. Sandford and make one thing clear: if you are born on U.S. soil, you are a citizen. That principle has held for generations through waves of immigration, political backlash, and changing global conditions. So when today’s arguments try to say the world is different and the Constitution should bend with it, Chief Justice John Roberts pushed back with a reminder that cuts through the noise: it may be a new world, but it’s the same Constitution.

Every year I teach World War I, and every year my students are surprised to learn that the United States once made it a crime to criticize the government. Although this year, a lot of students were less surprised.

The Espionage Act of 1917 despite its name had little to do with spies. Its most sweeping provisions made it a federal crime to obstruct military recruitment or say anything that might cause “insubordination” in the armed forces. It also gave the Postmaster General the power to deny mailing privileges to any publication deemed seditious, strangling anti-war newspapers before they could reach readers.

The Sedition Act of 1918 went further, criminalizing any “disloyal, profane, or abusive” language about the government, Constitution, or military. Not actions. Just words. Socialist leader Eugene Debs was sentenced to ten years for a speech encouraging men to resist the draft. Rose Pastor Stokes got the same sentence for writing a letter to a newspaper saying she opposed the war. Over 2,000 Americans were charged; roughly 1,000 were convicted.

The Supreme Court largely approved. Justice Holmes coined the “clear and present danger” test in Schenck v. United States to justify the convictions, then later dissented in Abrams v. United States, warning the country against suppressing the free exchange of ideas. The Sedition Act was repealed in 1921. The Espionage Act was not. It remains law today.

As a history teacher, I find this episode clarifying rather than distant. The mechanisms used such as vague statutes, postal censorship, equating dissent with disloyalty are not unique to 1917. They are a template. A blueprint. When we hear rhetoric today about punishing the press or treating criticism as betrayal, we are not hearing something new.

I mean, just today, Trump posted the president posted, “Now with the death of Iran, the greatest enemy America has is the Radical Left, Highly Incompetent, Democrat Party!” Trump also said Saturday that “Radical Left Democrats have hurt so many people with their vicious and uncaring ways” and that “Fascist Democrats will never protect America.”

Tomorrow ICE agents are being sent to airports to assist airport security as the DHS shutdown continues.

Knowing the history doesn’t guarantee we do better. But not knowing it almost certainly means we won’t.

The Oscars unfolded this year against a backdrop of political division, declining trust in institutions, and a fragmented media landscape where shared cultural moments are increasingly rare. Once drawing more than 50 million viewers, the ceremony now competes in an endless attention economy shaped by streaming and social media. We break down the night’s biggest winners, including One Battle After Another taking Best Picture, with Michael B. Jordan (Sinners) and Jessie Buckley (Hamnet) winning the top acting awards—and what they reveal about the cultural moment. We also examine why so few speeches were overtly political, how the film industry itself is changing, the fading power of celebrity culture, and the ceremony’s “end-of-an-era” mood following the loss of major Hollywood figures. With Conan O’Brien’s self-aware hosting setting the tone, the Oscars felt less like the center of American culture and more like a glittering ritual happening in a country struggling to agree on reality.

In 1864, the United States was literally in the middle of the Civil War. The country was divided. Hundreds of thousands had already died. The future of the nation was uncertain.

And Abraham Lincoln still insisted that the presidential election happen.

He believed that if the United States canceled elections because of war, democracy itself would be lost. Lincoln said that if the rebellion could force us to skip an election, it would prove that a government of the people could not survive a crisis.

So the election went forward. In the middle of a war.

Soldiers voted from the battlefield. The country debated the future. And Lincoln ran for reelection and won. By the way, Lincoln ran under the National Union banner against his former top Civil War general, the Democratic candidate, George B. McClellan who ran as the "peace candidate" In other words, if McClellan would have won the Election of 1864, he would have ended the Civil War.

However, that’s what democracy looks like. We hold elections, even during perilous times.

So when anyone suggests postponing elections because of a war they themselves helped start, history has a pretty clear answer.

If the United States could hold an election during the Civil War, we can certainly hold midterms today.

This week I had the honor of spending time with Gabby Giffords, the former Arizona congresswoman who survived an assassination attempt in 2011 and transformed that tragedy into a lifelong fight to end gun violence.

Her courage and determination helped inspire me to co-found Teachers Unify to End Gun Violence alongside Abbey Clements and Sarah Lerner. At a moment when so much can feel dark and overwhelming, being with her was a powerful reminder that progress is built by people who refuse to give up.

In our conversation, we talk about what comes next in the fight to end gun violence and what each of us can do to help build a safer future.

This is not random. And it’s definitely not neutral.

Hanging banners of Charlie Kirk, Catharine Beecher, and Booker T. Washington on the Department of Education building is a choice. Charlie Kirk built a career as a racist attacking universities and multicultural education. Catharine Beecher championed women’s education but rooted in domesticity and “separate spheres.” She was an ardent anti-suffragist. Booker T. Washington was a giant in Black education, but one whose philosophy emphasized accommodation in the face of segregation. When you put these three together, you’re not just honoring history. You’re signaling a worldview.

Notice who’s missing. No John Dewey. No W.E.B. Du Bois. No Ella Baker. No one who centered democratic activism, structural critique, or student voice. That absence is loud. Because the people you elevate tell us what kind of education you believe in.

This lineup suggests a Department of Education obsessed culture-war messaging and nothing else.

In moments of rising authoritarianism, disinformation, and historical amnesia, artists matter more, not less. From U2’s decades of confronting political violence and inequality to today’s new activist music responding to war, protest, and repression, the tradition is clear: music doesn’t just entertain us. It documents. It humanizes. It refuses to let cruelty become normal. At a time when fear politics tries to make silence feel safer, artists remind us that hope is not naïve. Hope is resistance. And democracy doesn’t defend itself. People do.

In my interview the day after Rep. Deborah Ross questioned AG Pam Bondi, Rep. Ross reflects on how she centered the Epstein survivors and refused to let their voices be sidelined in a high-stakes oversight moment. She explains why accountability isn’t just about politics: it’s about respect, truth, and justice for those who were harmed. It’s a powerful reminder of what principled leadership looks like when it puts people first. That’s how you make history.