Not on My Watch: Cultural Memory, Political Resistance, and the Fight for American Truth
We cannot save democracy without protecting institutions that tell the whole story
My parents often took my sisters and me to museums and galleries throughout our lives. Museums and cultural centers bridge the gap of human connectivity—they help us understand life through another individual’s culture, experiences, and hardships. Cultural institutions temporarily immerse you into another section of the globe, one that doesn’t require a passport for entry.
Our family vacations were mainly rooted in camping trips across the United States. Not the typical tropical getaways or summer beach homes on the Cape, but a deep connection to the natural beauty of the land through hikes, fishing, kayaking, and appreciating the simplicity of life—if only for a brief moment. Still, I always looked forward to waking up in a tent within a state or national park, because that meant we were about to be enriched with cultural heritage—an opportunity to understand America and her regions more intimately. The complexity of storied people, places, and pasts.
As the oldest, I had the luxury of repeating a fair amount of those trips when Seymone and Ava became a part of the family. That meant revisiting some of my favorite museums in Washington D.C., all run and operated by the Smithsonian Institution—a symbol of American excellence and a global icon of cultural achievement.
The First Ladies and the Power They Carried
I’ve visited D.C.’s cultural hub more times than I can count. And when asked which museum is my favorite, my answer has always been the same: The First Ladies exhibition at the National Museum of American History.
The exhibit first opened in 2011, and when we returned to D.C., it felt especially meaningful. I was older, with more context from school, and a historic sense of victory now resided at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. My mother had once given me a book on powerful female political figures when I was just seven. Back then, the only person who looked like me holding a high seat of power was Condoleezza Rice. Now? The possibilities were growing: President’s Cabinet, First Lady… dare I say, President of the United States?
I remember walking into The First Ladies exhibition completely captivated by the elegance and symbolism of it all. The exhibit showcases the lives and legacies of America’s First Ladies through a stunning collection of gowns, personal artifacts, and historic White House china. But beyond the beauty, what struck me—even then—was how much these women carried. Their dresses weren’t just fashion statements; they were political tools, cultural markers, and reflections of the eras they represented. From Martha Washington’s simple style to Michelle Obama’s modern grace, each display told a deeper story about gender, power, and public expectation in America. History is both personal and political—and women, even in silence, have always shaped the nation.
To this day, I still can’t place exactly why the exhibit has such a hold on me. But that’s the thing about cultural experiences—they evoke emotions, curiosity, and sometimes, the early seeds of inspiration for something you may not yet understand.
Years later, during my sophomore year of college, I visited my grandparents in Florida for spring break. It was a much-needed pause from the chaos of campus life. As a surprise, they took me to a lecture by a professor who specialized in U.S. First Ladies. (Yes, I really do love history that much—the fastest way to my heart is always through knowledge.)
For two hours, I was completely immersed. I learned about Dolley Madison’s role in the early republic—how her social events wielded real political influence. About Eleanor Roosevelt, who led this country through two of its greatest crises—the Great Depression and World War II—and helped draft the 1948 United Nations Declaration of Human Rights. I listened to how Jackie Kennedy redefined White House culture by restoring its historical integrity and turning it into a living museum. And of course, Michelle Obama—the most educated and first Black First Lady—who changed the role entirely with her Let’s Move! initiative, her support for military families, and her relentless advocacy for education and healthy living.
Maybe one day the role of First Lady will evolve—formally—from ribbon cuttings and china selection to the position it’s always quietly been: a diplomatic, strategic political powerhouse. An equal to the President of the United States. I hope I live to meet the woman who finally gets that title.
Black History Is American History
My dual major in Political Science and History invigorated me. I learned how the world works—domestically and internationally. (My Poli Sci concentration was International Relations, specifically terrorism and weapons of mass destruction, while my History degree was rooted in U.S. policy and social movements—shocker, I know.) My senior year, 2017–2018, was the most rigorous: two theses, written at the same time.
Don’t get me wrong—I loved dissecting the influence of intercontinental ballistic missiles on global diplomacy. But it’s my History thesis that still stays with me.
“Gay Rights in the Civil Rights Movement” was my way of illuminating the sacrifices and forgotten heroes of progress. Especially Bayard Rustin, the strategic genius behind the Civil Rights Movement and Dr. King himself. The man who orchestrated sit-ins, built alliances, and organized the March on Washington—yet was pushed to the background because of his sexuality. There’s one moment I’ll never forget: when Civil Rights leaders posed for a photo that would go down in history, MLK asked Rustin to stand in the back. He didn’t want him to be a “distraction.”
The man who built the movement was literally pushed out of the frame.
That’s why we preserve history.
To correct it. To complete it.
When the National Museum of African American History and Culture opened in 2018, it felt like a national declaration: We have always been here.
It was a sacred expansion of education. A testament to the depth and dignity of the Black experience in America—through pain, resilience, joy, music, science, policy, literature, culinary innovation, and beyond.
Blackness is not an accessory to American identity. It is synonymous with it.
Erasure Has Entered the Chat
Which brings me to now.
On March 27, 2025, President Trump signed an Executive Order titled: “Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History.”
At first glance, the language seems innocuous—who wouldn’t want truth in history? But behind the patriotic veneer lies a chilling reality: this order seeks to defund, censor, and dismantle educational programs and cultural institutions that highlight the contributions of marginalized communities, including African Americans, immigrants, LGBTQ+ individuals, and Indigenous peoples.
It mandates a revisionist curriculum under the guise of “patriotic education,” erasing the uncomfortable truths of America’s past—enslavement, systemic racism, civil rights struggles, and the activism that forced this nation to grow. It discourages discussion of gender, sexuality, and race in federal grants and public exhibitions. It ties federal funding to institutions’ willingness to whitewash history.
This is not about truth. This is about control.
This is an attack.
On culture.
On identity.
On every story I just told you.
It is an effort to silence Bayard Rustin’s legacy.
To paint over Jackie Kennedy’s political strategy.
To reduce Michelle Obama to a gown instead of a groundbreaking First Lady.
To remove the National Museum of African American History and Culture from the public record of who we are.
To cut off access to the very museums that raised me.
This is political.
This is personal.
This is an act of war.
To erase our stories is to erase our right to dream, to belong, to build legacy.
To whitewash history is to destroy the roadmap for justice.
But I refuse to let that happen.
I am a historian. A creator. And the founder of a collective built to preserve truth through art, memory, and resistance.
And I will not sit quietly as our histories are rewritten for someone else’s comfort.
Not on my watch.
The Responsibility of Remembering
This isn’t just my fight—it’s ours. Artists, educators, curators, writers, organizers: your work is more important than ever. We need your voices, your stories, your memory-keeping. Let this be your reminder that culture is resistance. And legacy doesn’t happen by accident—it’s built, piece by piece, by people like us who refuse to forget.
Written by:
Nina Orm