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Are you a victim or a quitter? Glenn reads emotional letter from friend

October 07, 2013
Wilson

Writer

"You can be a victim or you can change the world," Glenn said this morning on radio. While the media and the White House like to talk about victims and defenders of minorities, the truth is that they're taking away individual rights from the average American in the name of the "better good" with almost every law they pass. In the words of Ayn Rand, "Those who deny individual rights cannot claim to be defenders of minorities."

So what is Glenn getting at? Why is he talking about this now?

Glenn explained that he received an email from a friend over the weekend. His friend shared a deeply personal and emotional story that ultimately proved why a society of victimization is so dangerous - it takes away individual freedom and allows people to view themselves as flawed.

"More and more I find it interesting when I hear people talk about being a victim of racism, social injustice, or any other malady they think keeps them down," the letter read. "Most people would look at me and say, 'I've had it easy. Who are you to talk about racism or being a victim,' they might say. Because they look at me and they see a white male in my mid‑50s, college degree, good job. Must have had a good life."

But that was certainly not the case.

Glenn went on the read the letter:

That doesn't begin to tell my story. That's the cover of a very complex book. So as a friend I thought I'd share with you the truth.  I was raised in an upper middle class neighborhood in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I have four sisters, no brothers. To all accounts, we seem a well‑adjusted family. As a kid I idolized my father. He taught me how to play sports. I couldn't wait for him to come home so we could play catch. He traveled a lot for business, rarely attended any of my games, but I got used to that... sort of. But here's what very few people know. My father would beat me. I'm not talking about a well‑deserved spanking. I'm talking about being hit multiple times, multiple occasions. One time when I got into a fight with a kid in the neighborhood, my dad found out, he grabbed me by my collar, he lifted me into the air and he carried me down the street, kicking me in the rear end the whole time. I was to apologize to the other kid, which I did with tears screaming down my face.

So here I was a young child who looked up to his father, wondering why would my dad do this to me. I was confused. The beatings kind until I grew tall enough to where he must have thought I wasn't an easy mark.

Then there was an assistant coach of our little league baseball team. He was 20; I was 10. He had a party for the team at his parents' house after the game in the basement. He asked me and another fellow player to follow him. He took us into the bathroom. He said he wanted to make sure we were wearing the correct size jock strap. I won't go into detail. I'll just say this: He didn't touch me, but I was humiliated. I never told my parents because I thought my dad would get mad at me, and I'd do anything to avoid another beating.

Needless to say, my childhood was filled with sadness, confusion, and low self‑esteem. I never felt comfortable ever being me. As I grew older, I learned to wear a mask and hide the things that happened to me as a child. I became very good at wearing that mask.

To others I encountered, I seemed to have it all, have it all. I had it all together. But I was actually an awful lot like a duck, smooth on the surface but ferociously paddling underneath. My work took me to jobs in LA, New York, Atlanta, Chicago. I climbed the corporate ladder and my peers often commented on my ability to handle diverse situations. But inside I felt like I was a fraud. I took jobs and accepted promotions in order to feel better about myself and to show others that I was worthy, but I didn't feel worthy at all. I often dreamed that the fraud police would show up in my office, congratulate me on keeping it together for so long, and then ask me to leave by saying, "The gig is up. We know who you really are." Relationships with women came and went. I had no idea how to be in a loving relationship. And when one did come along, I'd run away for fear of being let down again. And along the way, I found alcohol to numb the pain. And numb I was. Not that I appeared that way to others, you see, but emotionally and spiritually I didn't feel anything. Alcohol made it easier for me to get out of my shell. Hey, I could actually talk to women, at least after a few beers.

For most of my life I felt like I had every reason to feel like a victim. When problems would occur at work or with a relationship, I'd tell myself it was my dad's fault for being so mean and hitting me.  It was my dad who caused me to drink too much. I can't be in a good relationship because my parents never modeled one for me. But deep down inside, I knew that was a copout. I knew I had to take responsibility for my life. And finally I had become sick and tired of being sick and tired.

So 20 years ago I stopped drinking. I attended AA meetings and things started to improve. But still something was missing. Then eight years ago I found out what was missing. I found God. I found the power of forgiveness. For most of my adult life, visits with my parents have been short and not enjoyable. We'd talk about work, talk about the weather, talk about the neighbors, what they were up to. We'd occasionally talk on the phone, mostly just the obligatory holiday greetings. But all that changed when I actually got down on my knees and forgave my dad. In no way did I, nor do I, condone his actions, but I forgave him honestly and fully. But I had yet to share with him. And then a miracle happened. On my next visit to see my parents, I was to meet them at a restaurant for dinner. I arrived first and I waited out front. I saw their car arrive.  I walked toward them. I expected to exchange the usual handshake with my dad. As I held out my hand, he said, "Come on, son.  How about a hug." Now, we had never, never hugged before.  We embraced. I hugged my mom too, but this time it was different. It meant something.

We went inside and we sat down, ordered our food. And in the middle of our dinner, my dad looked at me with tears in his eyes and told me how terrible he felt for all the things he had done to me. Wow, I thought. Where is this coming from? But I knew. Thank you, Lord. I stopped him and said, "Dad, it's okay. I'm fine now. And I want you to know that I love you." Now all three of us were crying. My dad said, "You do?  How could you?" I told him that I had already forgiven him on my knees and that my life now was my life and I was to lead my life as I chose."

Every visit thereafter has been meaningful. I was reminded each time we were together now powerful forgiveness is. My father died this last February and I'm grateful that we had several good years together. I miss him and I love him still. I also took the time to write my baseball coach a letter of forgiveness. I never sent it. That wasn't my goal. But just putting it in writing and turning it over to God has removed that burden as well. Now I saved the last part for what's most important to today. I have a 15‑year‑old daughter. Her mother and I are divorced but we've remained friends. We've forgiven each other too. I have so much gratitude to have such a special daughter. She's an angel. When she's with me in the car and we get out to the grocery store, she takes my hand every time. Just the other day she asked to hold it a bit tighter so it wouldn't slip out. Imagine that. A 15‑year‑old girl that still wants to hold her father's hand. Each night when I tuck her into bed and kiss her on the forehead, she always says to me, "Dad, you're the best dad ever, and I love you so much." I smile at her, I tell her thank you, and let her know that I love her with all my heart. She's never seen the anger that I saw from my father. Thankfully I broke that chain.

Glenn, I'm just writing you because I wanted you to know I could choose to remain a victim and let what happened to me years ago control my life, but I chose not to. I'd rather be 100% responsible for my life without any excuses. Personal responsibility isn't a burden. It's actually the opposite.

Personal responsibility is freedom.

When I hear others complain about their circumstances or about what happened to them years ago, I do have compassion because I know it's hard. But I also know that being a victim is a choice. You can always choose to remain one, or you can be free. It's up to you. The bottom line is we all have baggage. Nobody gets a free ride. I'm happy to report that my baggage now fits in a small carry‑on suitcase that fits in the overhead bin, and it does shift from time to time during flight, but it's my job and no one else's to repack it.

"I got that this morning from a friend who's a member of this staff.  You see, what we all forget is that we're surrounded by people that can help us," Glenn said. "We're surrounded by people who have gone through the same thing, if not worse. We all think we're unique. We all think we're different. And we are. We are all as different as our fingerprints, but we're never alone. I've said alcoholics are going to save the country. I don't know if that's true because I'm not sure that the country has a bottom. I'm not sure if enough people have a bottom that they'll ever say, 'Jeez, I've got to stand up and take care of this because I can't live this way anymore.' I think most people would rather live as a slave. I was a slave once, of my own making. To paraphrase Jacob Marley, I forged these chains myself in life, and I am happy to say without the help of any living man, I broke these chains myself as well."

A Sharia enclave is quietly taking root in America. It's time to wake up.

NOVA SAFO / Staff | Getty Images

Sharia-based projects like the Meadow in Texas show how political Islam grows quietly, counting on Americans to stay silent while an incompatible legal system takes root.

Apolitical system completely incompatible with the Constitution is gaining ground in the United States, and we are pretending it is not happening.

Sharia — the legal and political framework of Islam — is being woven into developments, institutions, and neighborhoods, including a massive project in Texas. And the consequences will be enormous if we continue to look the other way.

This is the contradiction at the heart of political Islam: It claims universal authority while insisting its harshest rules will never be enforced here. That promise does not stand up to scrutiny. It never has.

Before we can have an honest debate, we’d better understand what Sharia represents. Sharia is not simply a set of religious rules about prayer or diet. It is a comprehensive legal and political structure that governs marriage, finance, criminal penalties, and civic life. It is a parallel system that claims supremacy wherever it takes hold.

This is where the distinction matters. Many Muslims in America want nothing to do with Sharia governance. They came here precisely because they lived under it. But political Islam — the movement that seeks to implement Sharia as law — is not the same as personal religious belief.

It is a political ideology with global ambitions, much like communism. Secretary of State Marco Rubio recently warned that Islamist movements do not seek peaceful coexistence with the West. They seek dominance. History backs him up.

How Sharia arrives

Political Islam does not begin with dramatic declarations. It starts quietly, through enclaves that operate by their own rules. That is why the development once called EPIC City — now rebranded as the Meadow — is so concerning. Early plans framed it as a Muslim-only community built around a mega-mosque and governed by Sharia-compliant financing. After state investigations were conducted, the branding changed, but the underlying intent remained the same.

Developers have openly described practices designed to keep non-Muslims out, using fees and ownership structures to create de facto religious exclusivity. This is not assimilation. It is the construction of a parallel society within a constitutional republic.

The warning from those who have lived under it

Years ago, local imams in Texas told me, without hesitation, that certain Sharia punishments “just work.” They spoke about cutting off hands for theft, stoning adulterers, and maintaining separate standards of testimony for men and women. They insisted it was logical and effective while insisting they would never attempt to implement it in Texas.

But when pressed, they could not explain why a system they consider divinely mandated would suddenly stop applying once someone crossed a border.

This is the contradiction at the heart of political Islam: It claims universal authority while insisting its harshest rules will never be enforced here. That promise does not stand up to scrutiny. It never has.

AASHISH KIPHAYET / Contributor | Getty Images

America is vulnerable

Europe is already showing us where this road leads. No-go zones, parallel courts, political intimidation, and clerics preaching supremacy have taken root across major cities.

America’s strength has always come from its melting pot, but assimilation requires boundaries. It requires insisting that the Constitution, not religious law, is the supreme authority on this soil.

Yet we are becoming complacent, even fearful, about saying so. We mistake silence for tolerance. We mistake avoidance for fairness. Meanwhile, political Islam views this hesitation as weakness.

Religious freedom is one of America’s greatest gifts. Muslims may worship freely here, as they should. But political Islam must not be permitted to plant a flag on American soil. The Constitution cannot coexist with a system that denies equal rights, restricts speech, subordinates women, and places clerical authority above civil law.

Wake up before it is too late

Projects like the Meadow are not isolated. They are test runs, footholds, proofs of concept. Political Islam operates with patience. It advances through demographic growth, legal ambiguity, and cultural hesitation — and it counts on Americans being too polite, too distracted, or too afraid to confront it.

We cannot afford that luxury. If we fail to defend the principles that make this country free, we will one day find ourselves asking how a parallel system gained power right in front of us. The answer will be simple: We looked away.

The time to draw boundaries and to speak honestly is now. The time to defend the Constitution as the supreme law of the land is now. Act while there is still time.

This article originally appeared on TheBlaze.com.

Why do Americans feel so empty?

Mario Tama / Staff | Getty Images

Anxiety, anger, and chronic dissatisfaction signal a country searching for meaning. Without truth and purpose, politics becomes a dangerous substitute for identity.

We have built a world overflowing with noise, convenience, and endless choice, yet something essential has slipped out of reach. You can sense it in the restless mood of the country, the anxiety among young people who cannot explain why they feel empty, in the angry confusion that dominates our politics.

We have more wealth than any nation in history, but the heart of the culture feels strangely malnourished. Before we can debate debt or elections, we must confront the reality that we created a world of things, but not a world of purpose.

You cannot survive a crisis you refuse to name, and you cannot rebuild a world whose foundations you no longer understand.

What we are living through is not just economic or political dysfunction. It is the vacuum that appears when a civilization mistakes abundance for meaning.

Modern life is stuffed with everything except what the human soul actually needs. We built systems to make life faster, easier, and more efficient — and then wondered why those systems cannot teach our children who they are, why they matter, or what is worth living for.

We tell the next generation to chase success, influence, and wealth, turning childhood into branding. We ask kids what they want to do, not who they want to be. We build a world wired for dopamine rather than dignity, and then we wonder why so many people feel unmoored.

When everything is curated, optimized, and delivered at the push of a button, the question “what is my life for?” gets lost in the static.

The crisis beneath the headlines

It is not just the young who feel this crisis. Every part of our society is straining under the weight of meaninglessness.

Look at the debt cycle — the mathematical fate no civilization has ever escaped once it crosses a threshold that we seem to have already blown by. While ordinary families feel the pressure, our leaders respond with distraction, with denial, or by rewriting the very history that could have warned us.

You cannot survive a crisis you refuse to name, and you cannot rebuild a world whose foundations you no longer understand.

We have entered a cultural moment where the noise is so loud that it drowns out the simplest truths. We are living in a country that no longer knows how to hear itself think.

So people go searching. Some drift toward the false promise of socialism, some toward the empty thrill of rebellion. Some simply check out. When a culture forgets what gives life meaning, it becomes vulnerable to every ideology that offers a quick answer.

The quiet return of meaning

And yet, quietly, something else is happening. Beneath the frustration and cynicism, many Americans are recognizing that meaning does not come from what we own, but from what we honor. It does not rise from success, but from virtue. It does not emerge from noise, but from the small, sacred things that modern life has pushed to the margins — the home, the table, the duty you fulfill, the person you help when no one is watching.

The danger is assuming that this rediscovery happens on its own. It does not.

Reorientation requires intention. It requires rebuilding the habits and virtues that once held us together. It requires telling the truth about our history instead of rewriting it to fit today’s narratives. And it requires acknowledging what has been erased: that meaning is inseparable from God’s presence in a nation’s life.

Harold M. Lambert / Contributor | Getty Images

Where renewal begins

We have built a world without stillness, and then we wondered why no one can hear the questions that matter. Those questions remain, whether we acknowledge them or not. They do not disappear just because we drown them in entertainment or noise. They wait for us, and the longer we ignore them, the more disoriented we become.

Meaning is still available. It is found in rebuilding the smallest, most human spaces — the places that cannot be digitized, globalized, or automated. The home. The family. The community.

These are the daily virtues that do not trend on social media, but that hold a civilization upright. If we want to repair this country, we begin there, exactly where every durable civilization has always begun: one virtue at a time, one tradition at a time, one generation at a time.

This article originally appeared on TheBlaze.com.

A break in trust: A NEW Watergate is brewing in plain sight

Gary Hershorn / Contributor | Getty Images

When institutions betray the public’s trust, the country splits, and the spiral is hard to stop.

Something drastic is happening in American life. Headlines that should leave us stunned barely register anymore. Stories that once would have united the country instead dissolve into silence or shrugs.

It is not apathy exactly. It is something deeper — a growing belief that the people in charge either cannot or will not fix what is broken.

When people feel ignored or betrayed, they will align with anyone who appears willing to fight on their behalf.

I call this response the Bubba effect. It describes what happens when institutions lose so much public trust that “Bubba,” the average American minding his own business, finally throws his hands up and says, “Fine. I will handle it myself.” Not because he wants to, but because the system that was supposed to protect him now feels indifferent, corrupt, or openly hostile.

The Bubba effect is not a political movement. It is a survival instinct.

What triggers the Bubba effect

We are watching the triggers unfold in real time. When members of Congress publicly encourage active duty troops to disregard orders from the commander in chief, that is not a political squabble. When a federal judge quietly rewrites the rules so one branch of government can secretly surveil another, that is not normal. That is how republics fall. Yet these stories glided across the news cycle without urgency, without consequence, without explanation.

When the American people see the leadership class shrug, they conclude — correctly — that no one is steering the ship.

This is how the Bubba effect spreads. It is not just individuals resisting authority. It is sheriffs refusing to enforce new policies, school boards ignoring state mandates, entire communities saying, “We do not believe you anymore.” It becomes institutional, cultural, national.

A country cracking from the inside

This effect can be seen in Dearborn, Michigan. In the rise of fringe voices like Nick Fuentes. In the Epstein scandal, where powerful people could not seem to locate a single accountable adult. These stories are different in content but identical in message: The system protects itself, not you.

When people feel ignored or betrayed, they will align with anyone who appears willing to fight on their behalf. That does not mean they suddenly agree with everything that person says. It means they feel abandoned by the institutions that were supposed to be trustworthy.

The Bubba effect is what fills that vacuum.

The dangers of a faithless system

A republic cannot survive without credibility. Congress cannot oversee intelligence agencies if it refuses to discipline its own members. The military cannot remain apolitical if its chain of command becomes optional. The judiciary cannot defend the Constitution while inventing loopholes that erase the separation of powers.

History shows that once a nation militarizes politics, normalizes constitutional shortcuts, or allows government agencies to operate without scrutiny, it does not return to equilibrium peacefully. Something will give.

The question is what — and when.

The responsibility now belongs to us

In a healthy country, this is where the media steps in. This is where universities, pastors, journalists, and cultural leaders pause the outrage machine and explain what is at stake. But today, too many see themselves not as guardians of the republic, but of ideology. Their first loyalty is to narrative, not truth.

The founders never trusted the press more than the public. They trusted citizens who understood their rights, lived their responsibilities, and demanded accountability. That is the antidote to the Bubba effect — not rage, but citizenship.

How to respond without breaking ourselves

Do not riot. Do not withdraw. Do not cheer on destruction just because you dislike the target. That is how nations lose themselves. Instead, demand transparency. Call your representatives. Insist on consequences. Refuse to normalize constitutional violations simply because “everyone does it.” If you expect nothing, you will get nothing.

Do not hand your voice to the loudest warrior simply because he is swinging a bat at the establishment. You do not beat corruption by joining a different version of it. You beat it by modeling the country you want to preserve: principled, accountable, rooted in truth.

Adam Gray / Stringer | Getty Images

Every republic reaches a moment when historians will later say, “That was the warning.” We are living in ours. But warnings are gifts if they are recognized. Institutions bend. People fail. The Constitution can recover — if enough Americans still know and cherish it.

It does not take a majority. Twenty percent of the country — awake, educated, and courageous — can reset the system. It has happened before. It can happen again.

Wake up. Stand up. Demand integrity — from leaders, from institutions, and from yourself. Because the Bubba effect will not end until Americans reclaim the duty that has always belonged to them: preserving the republic for the next generation.

This article originally appeared on TheBlaze.com.

Warning: Stop letting TikTok activists think for you

Spencer Platt / Staff | Getty Images

Bad-faith attacks on Israel and AIPAC warp every debate. Real answers emerge only when people set aside scripts and ask what serves America’s long-term interests.

The search for truth has always required something very much in short supply these days: honesty. Not performative questions, not scripted outrage, not whatever happens to be trending on TikTok, but real curiosity.

Some issues, often focused on foreign aid, AIPAC, or Israel, have become hotbeds of debate and disagreement. Before we jump into those debates, however, we must return to a simpler, more important issue: honest questioning. Without it, nothing in these debates matters.

Ask questions because you want the truth, not because you want a target.

The phrase “just asking questions” has re-entered the zeitgeist, and that’s fine. We should always question power. But too many of those questions feel preloaded with someone else’s answer. If the goal is truth, then the questions should come from a sincere desire to understand, not from a hunt for a villain.

Honest desire for truth is the only foundation that can support a real conversation about these issues.

Truth-seeking is real work

Right now, plenty of people are not seeking the truth at all. They are repeating something they heard from a politician on cable news or from a stranger on TikTok who has never opened a history book. That is not a search for answers. That is simply outsourcing your own thought.

If you want the truth, you need to work for it. You cannot treat the world like a Marvel movie where the good guy appears in a cape and the villain hisses on command. Real life does not give you a neat script with the moral wrapped up in two hours.

But that is how people are approaching politics now. They want the oppressed and the oppressor, the heroic underdog and the cartoon villain. They embrace this fantastical framing because it is easier than wrestling with reality.

This framing took root in the 1960s when the left rebuilt its worldview around colonizers and the colonized. Overnight, Zionism was recast as imperialism. Suddenly, every conflict had to fit the same script. Today’s young activists are just recycling the same narrative with updated graphics. Everything becomes a morality play. No nuance, no context, just the comforting clarity of heroes and villains.

Bad-faith questions

This same mindset is fueling the sudden obsession with Israel, and the American Israel Public Affairs Committee in particular. You hear it from members of Congress and activists alike: AIPAC pulls the strings, AIPAC controls the government, AIPAC should register as a foreign agent under the Foreign Agents Registration Act. The questions are dramatic, but are they being asked in good faith?

FARA is clear. The standard is whether an individual or group acts under the direction or control of a foreign government. AIPAC simply does not qualify.

Here is a detail conveniently left out of these arguments: Dozens of domestic organizations — Armenian, Cuban, Irish, Turkish — lobby Congress on behalf of other countries. None of them registers under FARA because — like AIPAC — they are independent, domestic organizations.

If someone has a sincere problem with the structure of foreign lobbying, fair enough. Let us have that conversation. But singling out AIPAC alone is not a search for truth. It is bias dressed up as bravery.

Anadolu / Contributor | Getty Images

If someone wants to question foreign aid to Israel, fine. Let’s have that debate. But let’s ask the right questions. The issue is not the size of the package but whether the aid advances our interests. What does the United States gain? Does the investment strengthen our position in the region? How does it compare to what we give other nations? And do we examine those countries with the same intensity?

The real target

These questions reflect good-faith scrutiny. But narrowing the entire argument to one country or one dollar amount misses the larger problem. If someone objects to the way America handles foreign aid, the target is not Israel. The target is the system itself — an entrenched bureaucracy, poor transparency, and decades-old commitments that have never been re-examined. Those problems run through programs around the world.

If you want answers, you need to broaden the lens. You have to be willing to put aside the movie script and confront reality. You have to hold yourself to a simple rule: Ask questions because you want the truth, not because you want a target.

That is the only way this country ever gets clarity on foreign aid, influence, alliances, and our place in the world. Questioning is not just allowed. It is essential. But only if it is honest.

This article originally appeared on TheBlaze.com.