In this blog, I assert that white American Christian men must reclaim the right to speak their identity openly and proudly. I confront the cultural silencing of a group foundational to American history and argue that acknowledging their contributions isn’t an act of exclusion but of rightful remembrance. I trace my family’s deep American roots to highlight a broader point: we can honor our ancestors’ roles, even their imperfections, without shame. I refuse to apologize for legacy, courage, or cultural influence. Identity belongs to all—not just the aggrieved—and must be voiced or it will be rewritten without us.
In today’s cultural climate, every group is encouraged—rightly—to embrace and assert its identity. We celebrate Black heritage, Latino pride, Asian traditions, indigenous ancestry, LGBTQ+ experiences, and more. Each community is invited to articulate who they are, where they came from, and what they’ve endured. And yet, one group remains conspicuously silent—or worse, silenced—when it comes to claiming their own legacy: white American Christian men.
Let’s be clear. Identity isn’t just a shield for the marginalized. It’s not a zero-sum game. It’s the narrative thread that connects us to our past and future. And when one group is discouraged or shamed from naming theirs—especially the group that has shaped the foundational structure of the society we all share—we don’t achieve equity. We create a vacuum. And in that vacuum, others project guilt, shame, or silence where there should be pride, contribution, and continuity.
My own family, the Ragsdales, arrived in Virginia in 1638. That’s 387 years ago—just three decades after Jamestown. We are, by every historical measure, one of America’s native families. Not indigenous in the tribal sense, but native by permanence, by rootedness, by blood shed and soil tilled over nearly four centuries. The story of America is in our bones—and we are not alone.
White American Christian men helped build this country—not alone, not without flaws, but undeniably. And more importantly, we gave the world something deeper than material wealth or power: we gave it the liberal republican ideals that enshrined individual liberty, free speech, religious pluralism, and democratic governance. The very tolerance and diversity of thought that modern society now demands were first codified and championed by the very people now expected to self-erase.
We also need to reclaim the right to use the words that describe us. “Colonizer,” for instance. That word is usually hurled as an insult today. But let’s stop flinching. Yes—our ancestors were colonizers. Damn right they were. So were the ancestors of nearly every civilization that survived long enough to write history. They were warriors. They fought for what they wanted—alongside tribes and empires from every corner of the globe. That our ancestors succeeded in so many battles, wars, and civilizational struggles is not a moral flaw—it’s a reflection of their ability to organize, to innovate, to outmaneuver, and to lead. In sport, we call people like that champions. I do not apologize for that.
But let’s also be clear: just because we are proud of our history doesn’t mean we would follow that same playbook today. We live in a different era, with different values. We cherish freedom, inclusion, and the rule of law. We strive not to conquer, but to collaborate. Still, pride in one’s ancestry and achievements—especially those that gave rise to today’s institutions of rights, law, and liberty—is not something to be ashamed of. It is something to understand, to carry with responsibility, and to honor.
If we do not claim our identity—openly and unapologetically—we forfeit it. We hand our story over to those who will gladly rewrite it without us. And let’s be honest: much of what exists around us—our institutions, infrastructure, freedoms, and global influence—was built by our people. Not alone, not without fault, but undeniably. Fair or unfair, right or wrong, it was our hands on the tools, our names in the founding documents, our blood in the soil. That’s not arrogance. That’s history.
To be a white American man today is not to walk a tightrope. It’s to stand on ground your ancestors carved out—then be told you don’t belong on it. But we do. We’ve been here for centuries. We fought, we built, we governed, we shaped this nation from its raw beginnings into the modern world’s leading republic. That doesn’t make us better—but it does make us foundational to the story. A central part, even today. And no one should be expected to deny their role in history just to be allowed a voice in the present.
We don’t need to apologize for being here. We don’t need to whisper about our heritage. We stand proudly—not to exclude others, but to remind them that identity is not a privilege reserved for the aggrieved. It is a right of all people. And if we don’t speak it, someone else will speak over us. We are not relics. We are not villains by blood. We are Americans. And it’s time we say so—with pride, with clarity, and without asking permission.
…