Deep into his speech Wednesday night, President Barack Obama spoke of “the character of our country,” a phrase he took from the deathbed letter of Sen. Ted Kennedy. The president – the president! – described the great tug-of-war in the hearts of all Americans. This is what he said.

One of the unique and wonderful things about America has always been our self-reliance, our rugged individualism, our fierce defense of freedom and our healthy skepticism of government. And figuring out the appropriate size and role of government has always been a source of rigorous and, yes, sometimes angry debate. That’s our history.

And:

[Our] large-heartedness — that concern and regard for the plight of others…It, too, is part of the American character — our ability to stand in other people’s shoes; a recognition that we are all in this together, and when fortune turns against one of us, others are there to lend a helping hand; a belief that in this country, hard work and responsibility should be rewarded by some measure of security and fair play…

How do we square the blessed possibilities of individual freedom with the soul-shaping joys and heartaches of our lives with others? How do we light out for the territories alone and stay in our lovers’ beds?

Is it true what the poets and the philosophers say? That freedom is a plural term? That no one is free when another is in chains? That “territories” is a term about human relationships of many kinds, not just a topographic description?

The rub comes often. It comes to our homes, it comes to our politics. It haunts our spousal anxieties over small things (“Pick your socks up off my floor!”) and large (“Back off. I’m claustrophobic.”).  It haunts our collective negotiations about national health care policy with fantasies that, though false, are no less frightening to some (“You can’t have my money to pay her doctor bill.”).

I think this dilemma is to democracy like the horizon is to the pioneer. It’s always there, no matter how far we walk. We are lucky to suffer it. When it disappears, freedom goes with it.

Slave masters did their violent best to deprive slaves of the dilemma. The masters tried to strip from their chattel a self that could ponder the social and the individual.  Lighting out for the territories was something slaves couldn’t do. The same is true today of the ghettoized and the forgotten. It’s telling, though, that as soon as the real horizon does appear to us as something we can pursue, this aching joy wakes inside us with more force than it does in those who take freedom a little too much for granted.

Didn’t Jefferson wonder at it all? James Madison? Emerson? Thoreau? Margaret Fuller? Abraham Lincoln? Franklin Roosevelt? Martin Luther King, Jr.? June Jordan, fearless essayist, activist and professor, wrote:

Demos, as in democratic, as in a democratic state, means people, not person. A democratic nation of persons, of individuals, is an impossibility, and a fratricidal goal. Each American one of us must consciously choose to become a willing and outspoken part of the people who, together, will determine our individual chances for happiness, and justice.

On her retreat to the Southern woods, Jordan was raped by a stranger. With a painful creative genius of a saint, Jordan draws a parallel between her self-imposed isolation from others and the brutal violation of her own individuality. And so, she contests the popular, if in many ways misunderstood, view of Thoreau’s Walden.

But someone raped me in the middle of my rented, pseudo-Walden Pond. Someone had insinuated himself into that awkward, tiny shelter of my thoughts and dreams. He had dealt with me as egotistically as, in another way, I had postponed dealing with anyone besides myself. He had overpowered the supposed protection of my privacy, he had violated the boundaries of my single self. He had acted as though nothing mattered so much as his certainly brute impulse. And was that conduct entirely different from my own, supposing that nothing mattered as much as my artistic impulse, the one that ruled my friends and family and my neighbors out of my usual universe?

In a free world, all the doors are open. We enter and we leave. As Genevieve Van Cleve wrote in her tribute to the truth about immigration, "People move."

That a president of the United States would speak publicly and movingly to the democratic dilemma of the self and others is heartening. It speaks to something all Americans know to be true, because all Americans face some version of it every day. It is at the center of our conversation about health care reform. Hell, it is at the center of everything.

Darrell Scott’s song, “The Open Door,” poignantly captures the American spirit of the perpetual immigrant caught between self and others. The narrator is leaving his beloved, a familiar trope in American song and story. He asks her not to grieve, promising to “show you what I found.” But he’s not sure.

And, at the end, Darrell Scott expresses as national anthem what our better selves feel about America, and about one another:

I love you with a fever
I love you with a past
My heart is a keeper
As long as it will last
 
As long as it will last
I’ll tell you what I know
We walk this road together
And we walk this road alone

.

A related essay can be found at my new politics and culture blog, DogCanyon.org. We have a cast of extraordinary writers, a take that Paul Begala and Arianna Huffington describe as Molly Ivins-like, and a rockin’ good time. The Canyon’s just down aways from the Lake. 

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  3. Sotomayor: Now Media Heathers Want to Talk “Character”
  4. Dick Cheney: I’m Proud I Tortured to Protect Our Country But Not Our Allies
  5. Jim Cramer: “There’s Too Much Democracy in This Country”