The Heart of Lincoln and the War for the American Soul

There are moments in history when events align in ways that feel like fate, when something lost returns to the world precisely when it is needed most. The rediscovery of The Heart of Lincoln, a long-lost silent film from 1915, is one of those moments. It is not just the unearthing of an old reel of film—it is a spark, a flare in the night sky reminding us of the war that has never truly ended.

Because history does not repeat. It is recontextualized. Not rewritten, but reshaped by those who hold the pen in any given era. And right now, the pen has gone digital. It is wielded not only in law books and courtrooms but in headlines, social media feeds, and the relentless tide of public discourse. History is not simply a record of what has been—it is a weapon, sharpened by those who seek to wield it in their favor. And at this moment, the fight over history is also a fight over democracy itself.

I have spent my life reading, questioning, and listening, not in the halls of academia, but in libraries, in the quiet spaces where the real work of learning happens. I am a woman who has lived long enough to recognize the patterns, to see where we have been and where we are going. I have watched the rise and fall of political movements, the rewriting of narratives, the slow erosion of rights that were once thought secure. I have never married, never found the kind of life that fits neatly into a household ledger, but I have observed, studied, and sought to understand. And what I know is this: we are standing at another breaking point in American history, one that Lincoln himself would recognize all too well.

The nation he led had never truly been united. It had always been ruled by compromise, by a delicate arrangement that allowed a few to control the many. Every major decision in the country’s first century had been a balancing act between those who wanted democracy and those who wanted control. The Constitution, as originally written, was a document of half-measures, a structure built to accommodate both freedom and slavery without fully committing to either.

For decades, that illusion of unity held. But then came Dred Scott.

The Supreme Court’s ruling in 1857 shattered any pretense that democracy and oppression could coexist indefinitely. It declared that Black Americans, whether enslaved or free, were not citizens and had no rights that the government was bound to respect. It did more than justify slavery—it set the stage for its expansion. It sent a clear message that the South, already dominant in law and politics, could dictate the future of the nation.

And so, when Lincoln was elected, war was inevitable. Not because he wanted it, but because the South no longer saw the need for compromise. The government had been on their side for so long that they assumed it would remain so forever. Lincoln’s very presence in office was enough to convince them that the old order was at risk. And they were right.

But Lincoln did something extraordinary. He did not simply fight to preserve the Union—he fought to transform it. He understood that the war could not simply end with the South’s defeat. It had to end with the nation’s reinvention. If the country emerged from the war unchanged, if it was simply stitched back together without altering its foundations, then the bloodshed would have been for nothing.

That is why Lincoln championed the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments. The war was not just about the South’s rebellion; it was about ensuring that democracy itself could not be undone by those who saw it as a threat to their power. And at the core of that transformation was the Fourteenth Amendment, with its promise of birthright citizenship.

Before Lincoln, American citizenship was a vague and unstable concept. The Constitution did not define who was or was not a citizen, leaving it up to individual states to decide. That was how Dred Scott had been possible—because citizenship itself was a moving target, something that could be granted or denied at will. Lincoln understood that if the war was to mean anything, that ambiguity had to end. Citizenship had to be inherent, not conditional. It had to be a right, not a privilege.

And so, the Fourteenth Amendment was written into law. It ensured that anyone born in the United States was a citizen, no matter their race, their parentage, or their status. It was the legal mechanism that secured the promise of democracy—not just for Black Americans, but for all future generations. It was a firewall against those who would seek to redefine belonging, a barrier meant to prevent the country from ever slipping back into the legal limbo that had made slavery possible.

But history does not move in a straight line.

Even as the ink dried on the Reconstruction Amendments, the forces that had fought against them began to adapt. They could not overturn the Fourteenth Amendment outright, so they worked to weaken it. The right to vote was guaranteed, but laws were passed to make it difficult in practice. Citizenship was secured, but segregation and economic exclusion ensured that its benefits were limited. The courts, once used to expand democracy, were gradually reshaped to restrict it.

And now, over 150 years later, those same forces have found new ways to attack the very foundations of Lincoln’s vision.

The Fourteenth Amendment, meant to ensure equal protection under the law, is being weaponized against the very people it was designed to protect. It is being used to challenge civil rights laws, to dismantle affirmative action, to strip away the legal protections that have made democracy more inclusive. Birthright citizenship, once seen as untouchable, is now being questioned, with calls to reinterpret or even revoke it entirely. The Constitution itself is being reshaped not to defend democracy, but to serve those who seek to limit it.

And all of this is happening at the very moment that The Heart of Lincoln has been rediscovered.

This is not coincidence. It is history’s way of reminding us that the battle is not over. Lincoln’s war did not end with Appomattox. It did not end with Reconstruction. It did not end with the Civil Rights Movement. It has never ended, because the forces that opposed him have never truly gone away. They have changed tactics, shifted arguments, rebranded their ideology—but their goal remains the same.

Lincoln understood that democracy is never self-sustaining. It must be actively defended, generation after generation, or it will be taken apart piece by piece, not in a single grand act, but in a slow, deliberate erosion of rights.

This is what makes this moment so urgent.

The past is not dead. It is being fought over in real time. And the question is the same now as it was in Lincoln’s day: Who controls the pen?

Because history is not just remembered. It is shaped. It is wielded. It is used to justify justice or to dismantle it. And as those who oppose democracy work to redefine Lincoln’s legacy, as they manipulate the very amendments meant to prevent them from reclaiming power, the challenge before us is clear.

Do we allow them to rewrite the story?

Or do we take up the pen ourselves?

Because Lincoln did not wait for history to be kind to him. He did not wait for permission to act. He recognized the moment he was in, and he made choices that shaped the future.

Now, it is our turn.