by Pete Hegseth
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Reviving American exceptionalism—which includes understanding why America is exceptional—will require building a principled but pragmatic movement focused on the restoration of American citizenship and opportunity at home and leadership in a dangerous, disorderly, and ideologically volatile world abroad. For some of us, this is not an entirely new challenge. Since 9/11, a small few—so many of whom did so much more than me—have resolutely fought vicious enemies in distant lands, dutifully fighting controversial wars while America grew “weary,” self-interested politicians phoned in solutions to mounting problems, and critics sniped from the sidelines. In doing so—with the support of Americans in the arena at home—warriors of our generation dared greatly and found solutions that, as Teddy Roosevelt said, “can in practice be realized.” Like Teddy in 1910—a man who earned both a Medal of Honor and a Nobel Peace Prize—we meet the world as it is (not as we wish it was) and fight to make it better.
But we look out at America today and realize that, tragically, the spirit of Teddy Roosevelt’s speech has been snuffed out. At home we teach our kids to be environmental evangelists but not economically self-sufficient. We give our kids a fifth-place trophy but not the tough love of failure that breeds development, improvement, and ultimately earned success. We put our kids in bike helmets and pink ribbons but we don’t gird them for the hellish threats of systemic Islamic intolerance and female subjugation. We teach them to be unbendingly tolerant, without teaching them that America is the world’s ultimate melting pot—where race, class, and gender ought have no bearing on your ability to succeed as a “citizen of the republic.” We teach them that war is hell but not that injustice and subjugation are far worse. We are a “coexist culture,” taught to tolerate the militant dogma of blind multiculturalism while marginalizing the timeless, unique, and color-blind values America was built on. A popular postmodern bumper sticker reads, Think globally, act locally. Reviving Teddy Roosevelt will require an American citizenry that not only rips off that sticker, but replaces it with one Teddy would proudly approve of: Think locally, act globally.
The ethos of Teddy Roosevelt in 1910 provides a blueprint for fortifying the spirit of 1776 in 2016—thinking locally, but acting globally in the twenty-first century. The thrust of this book is unabashedly conservative, but only in the sense that it reinforces the principles of America’s founding and the citizenship espoused by Roosevelt. Otherwise, my argument intentionally attempts to avoid modern litmus tests because America needs a clear lens through which to view entrenched and stale political characterizations, lest we doom ourselves to status quo gridlock and inevitable decline. We need to transcend the old formulations of political allegiance—and special interests on both the left and right—in order to save our great republic. With America and the Constitution as our lodestar, we need a restorative revolt against a stale political class in Washington, D.C., that has empowered itself while simultaneously running modern America into the ground.
The arena is not about Republicans and Democrats. And it’s not about Teddy Roosevelt. It’s about America.
This book calls every generation to be Teddy Roosevelt’s modern “men in the arena”—tireless and unafraid to meet the challenges of a new century at home and abroad. We are called to know the “great enthusiasms, the great devotions” that come with “daring greatly” for a “worthy cause,” and for America to be restored we must all—some of us again—lace up our boots and fight. Ask yourself this question: If not me, then who? If not freedom-loving and engaged citizens, then who will fight for the America our founders entrusted to us? It’s not going to be your neighbor, who watches Netflix reruns every night and spends the weekend “slaying” dragons on World of Warcraft. If we wait for others to enter the arena for us, then America’s fate is sealed. The fate of great republics is directly tied to the goodness of their citizens, and together we must be the “good citizens” and “good patriots” that Roosevelt describes. And when we fight, we need to fight to win—no matter what. We could ultimately fail in the protection and preservation of our American experiment, but at least it would be for the same worthy cause Teddy Roosevelt articulated a century ago.
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I used to say, frequently, that I fought so that my kids won’t have to. It was an honest statement, a hopeful one. We all want to slay the real dragons of our time so our kids can live freely, prosperously, and peacefully. But I no longer say that, and neither should you. It is a comfy platitude with no grounding in reality. Not because the soil my generation spilled blood on in Iraq was eventually lost to an even more vicious Islamic State enemy, but because, on a much larger scale, if we believe it, we deceive ourselves—and the next generation. We must confront the big challenges and threats of our time, for the sake of our kids and the world they will inherit.
I didn’t fight so my kids won’t have to. I fought knowing that my three sons, and your sons, daughters, grandsons, and granddaughters, will have to fight for freedom as well. Teddy Roosevelt fought on San Juan Hill and his three sons served in World War I—with his youngest, Quentin, killed in combat over German skies. I can’t imagine what it would be like for any of my three sons—Gunner, Boone, or Rex—to give their life for this country. I hope they never have to, but I also hope—if it ever came to that—they would be willing to serve, fight, and die for something greater than themselves. Our republic requires such men (and women).
As we fight for the American way of life, we don’t do so angrily, blindly, or arrogantly. As we fight, we learn—and we adapt. We learn with clear eyes about the world we live in, not the world we wished we lived in; at the same time, to borrow a sentiment popularized by Robert F. Kennedy, we don’t merely see things as they are and ask, “Why?” We dream things that never were and ask, “Why not?” We are not unconstrained utopians, but we must be aspirational and hopeful. We view America—her promise and her role—through an intellectually honest lens, but also refuse to cede to mindless, moral equivalency. We see her flaws, but we choose to dwell on her virtues and the limitless potential of her citizens. We are grateful to live in the greatest country in the world. We learn the hard lessons of our battlefields, but choose to resolutely overcome them—militarily and politically—in pursuit of outcomes that advance our security and American interests. We are not cogs in an American empire, but instead engaged citizens in the ongoing American experiment. And we do it all with a grateful spirit and humble hearts, reminded of our fallen nature and utter humanity.
This invitation to enter the arena comes from someone with failures and flaws galore. I have failed—professionally and personally—at every turn of my life; saved only by the redemptive grace of Jesus Christ. I have failed my God, my family, and my organizations in private, in public, and in trying ways. If you’re looking for the perfect person to carry the day, or the perfect moment to get off the couch—neither is coming. Our founding fathers understood this. Men are not angels; we are all fallen, and our system of government must reflect this reality. Every human being is capable of wonderful goodness, but also utter wickedness; and if we were each judged by our lowest moments in life, we’d all be destined for the gates of hell. These flaws, and the other complications and excuses of life, will always give us a reason not to act, not to fight, and not to enter the arena. They represent our inner resistance—they make cowards of even the strongest among us. Overcoming our own failures, temptations, weaknesses, and excuses requires both being humble about them, and owning them (it’s my fault, not yours!).
Otherwise, the excuses—personal, professional, or circumstantial—never end and we never act. And, with our country in peril and the world in chaos, our inaction is action. One of those moments for me was July 13, 2005. I had just returned from my deployment to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and was back to my day job in New York City. I was seated at my crammed desk space on the thirty-eighth floor of the investment firm Bear Stearns in midtown Manhattan, drinking my morning coffee and reading the
Wall Street Journal. My three computer screens were on, but my head was scanning the newspaper headlines instead. It was just like any other morning, until my eyes froze on a blurb in the “What’s News” section. The passage read: “A suicide bomber attacked a crowd of children gathered near U.S. troops passing out candy in a Shiite area of Baghdad, killing 27 people, including 18 children and a soldier.” I read the sentence over and over. And then read further. Twelve of the dead were kids younger than thirteen years old, and the soldier was a twenty-four-year-old American from rural Georgia. As the day progressed, images of escalating violence in Iraq dominated the news coverage on the television above my desk. As a low-level equity capital markets analyst, I was paid good money to be analyzing initial public offerings—but I could not get my mind out of Iraq.
That was the day I decided to try to volunteer to deploy to Iraq. I immediately jumped on my email, contacting anyone I knew on active duty who was headed there. I had very few connections but used the few that I had. As fortune would have it, one of the men I emailed was my former platoon trainer from the Infantry Officer Basic Course at Fort Benning; he was now a company commander in the storied Rakkasans brigade of the 101st Airborne Division and needed a new Second Platoon leader. He told me, in a near-immediate email response, that if I could navigate the Army bureaucracy and get there within eight weeks, he would like to have me. We both knew it was a long shot, but he got approval through his chain of command, and I through mine. After much paperwork and with only a few days to spare, my packet was stalled somewhere in the Pentagon labyrinth. Against the advice of many, I refused to wait—and called in a favor from the only general I knew, a man I had met only once. He unclogged the approval process, and the transfer was done. The day my deployment orders were cut, I received a phone call on my Bear Stearns landline from a blocked number; it was a full-bird colonel in the personnel department of the Pentagon. He said, “Your orders to join the 101st for their tour in Iraq have been cut. I don’t know who you think you are, or how you made this happen—but don’t fuck this up, Lieutenant.” I apologized and thanked him, both of which are better than asking for permission. Less than two months later—having joined the unit at Fort Campbell and conducted final training in Kuwait—I was leading an infantry platoon in Baghdad, Iraq.
That day at Bear Stearns, I cut out that paragraph from the Wall Street Journal, laminated it, and have carried it ever since. I carried it with me every day in Iraq, next to Teddy Roosevelt’s quote. And I still carry it with me today in my wallet. It reminds me of the stakes of our fight against Islamism, but it also reminds me that—no matter the obstacles—there is always a way into the arena. Don’t make excuses. Don’t allow people to tell you that it can’t happen. There is always an exception, always a path, always a way to navigate the labyrinth of life.
Barriers to entering the arena not only lie within but also come from others. Entering the arena also means being maliciously attacked, professionally and personally. In Iraq, we knew every patrol, convoy, or mission could quickly turn violent or bloody. Our enemy attacked from the shadows, usually melting away into the civilian population and rarely fighting us toe-to-toe. Islamic insurgents hoped their attacks would deter us from continuing the fight, mentally testing us day after day. The calculation, if not the medium, is much the same at home. Personal attacks come in an entirely different form than combat, but the perpetrators seek the same insidious mental impact. They want you to quit, and whether online or in person, critics snipe from the sidelines—flagrantly and falsely impugning your motives, character, and family. Most hide behind their computers, bravely taking to their Twitter and Facebook accounts to take below-the-belt shots from the cheap seats. But others will confront you—either by shouting or whispering—in intensely personal ways.
I first experienced baseless personal attacks when, just months after returning from a combat tour in Iraq and mere weeks after starting to advocate for the Iraq surge, the left-wing website Daily Kos published a highly publicized article about me titled “Phonied-Up Republican Soldier.” The article attacked my military service, the personal appearance of my (ex-) wife, and even accused me of breaking the law. I had not attacked them and I certainly wasn’t well-known. The article was unprovoked, completely uninformed, and devoid of any factual substance—a complete smear and hit job. Others like it would follow. The organized and ideological Left saw me as a threat and tried to hit me early and often. They attacked then, and still attack today. I know they, and others, will never stop. But when attacked in the media or in person, I always remember two things: First, nobody is physically shooting at me—so it can always be worse (until the new domestic threat of the Islamic State, of course). And, second, they are attacking because they perceive a threat—which means we’re on the right track. Being attacked isn’t fun, nor is it easy—especially the first few times; but pushing through the resistance is critical to being in the arena.
The critics will be ferocious, shameless, and many, but, as Teddy Roosevelt so powerfully articulated in his speech, “it is not the critic who counts,” it is those actually still in the arena—spending their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honors for a worthy cause. Every American citizen must find his or her hill—literal or metaphorical—inside the arena. They must hold it, defend it, fight for it, and then seek to take other hills. With each passing day and generation, it becomes even more important that, as free people, we win—lest we doom ourselves, as Ronald Reagan famously said, to “spend[ing] our sunset years telling our children and our children’s children what it was once like in the United States where men were free.”
My kids will be taught to be freedom fighters, in one capacity or another. Maybe they’ll carry a rifle, and I hope they do. But they may also carry the balance sheet of a capitalist, the notepad of a patriotic journalist, or the clipboard of a freedom activist. No matter what they carry, they will carry with them the weight of history—the weight of American responsibility. They will be taught to seek the arena.
If you believe America’s best days are behind us, this book is not for you. But if you believe in the America our founders bequeathed to us, and are looking for inspiration to fight for it, then I hope you’ll turn the page. This book is for American citizens and freedom lovers—right or left, white or black, male or female, rich or poor, straight or gay, old or young—who believe the next century can be, and ought be, an American century. Teddy Roosevelt stood at the beginning of a new century and boldly charged ahead. His unique speech—which I physically carried into battle and back home again—provided America’s guiding star then, as it does today. The principles, warnings, and exhortations from his speech provide modern-day Americans with a timeless lens through which to examine the current state of affairs in America, the perils of our current course, and hope for the future of our country and the free world.
History is not over.
Pick up your green duffle bag, with that black frame inside, and get in the arena.
PART I
The Good Citizen | Roosevelt’s Speech and Our Republic
ONE
Hold Your Own: The Virtues and Duties of Citizenship
With you here, and with us in my own home, in the long run, success or failure will be conditioned upon the way in which the average man, the average woman, does his or her duty, first in the ordinary, everyday affairs of life, and next in those great occasional crises which call for heroic virtues. The average citizen must be a good citizen if our republics are to succeed. The stream will not permanently rise higher than the main source; and the main source of national power and national greatness is found in the average citizenship of the nation.
Self-restraint, self-mastery, common sense, the power of accepting individual responsibility and yet of acting in conjunction with others, courage and resolution—these are the qualities which mark a masterful people. Without them no people can control itself, or save itself from being controlled from the outside.
—TEDDY R
OOSEVELT, 1910
Confidence in the face of risk.
—DEFINITION OF MANLINESS, HARVEY MANSFIELD, PROFESSOR OF GOVERNMENT, HARVARD UNIVERSITY
The photograph online struck me. The Islamic State fighter—with a long beard, military camouflage, and Rambo-style ammunition belts across his chest—stands atop an American-made Humvee, clutching a Quran in one hand and an AK-47 rifle in the other. It’s high noon and the vehicle is parked in the middle of a busy street. Throngs of civilians surround him. He is gesturing forcefully, his eyes determined, and the crowd is hanging on his every word. Hours earlier, he and fellow fighters had captured the small Syrian city from regime forces. It was a fierce fight, but another victory for the Islamic State. With God on his side and the wind at his back, he is a conquering warrior. He is a soldier of Allah. He does not want a job, or a city council seat; he wants an Islamic caliphate. He is fighting for something greater than himself. He is fighting for his god. He is alive, but willing to die. He is a man, and he is in an arena. The wrong arena, but an arena nonetheless.
The photograph struck me because I recognize that fighter, even though I’ve never met him. I am drawn to him, because I relate to him. I deplore what he stands for, what he does, and how he does it. He is a soldier of hate, subjugation, and sheer evil. But I understand his passions. Like many other veterans and freedom advocates—who also despise every other aspect of Islamists—I relate more with the passions of that fighter than I do selfish, lazy, and disengaged so-called United States citizens. Apathetic, self-indulgent, and coddled Americans often feel to me like aliens from another planet who lucked out and landed in America. Many Americans know nothing of where freedom comes from, don’t appreciate how special it is, and refuse to do their part to advance it. They are not men or women in an arena; they are masters of their parents’ basement, heroes of an alternate video game universe, or perpetual victims of a cruel world. They fight for nothing. They are not alive, and see nothing worth dying for. They are not men, and while they may occupy space in America, they are not in any arena—even though they live in the greatest country in human history.
