One of my favorite songs is Gil Scott-Heron’s Winter in America. Released in 1974, in the wake of the Vietnam War and as the Watergate scandal unraveled the Nixon presidency, it captured a national mood of disillusionment and political fatigue. The Civil Rights Movement had stalled, trust in government was crumbling, and the promise of a just America felt increasingly distant.

Heron’s lyrics are both powerful and depressing. “Nobody’s fighting ‘cause nobody knows what to save,” he sings, summing up a moment when America seemed not just broken, but lost. The song wasn’t just a critique of failed expectations and political leadership; it was a lament for a country adrift, unsure of its future.

And here we are, nearly fifty years later, and “things still seem the same.”

Since the release of Winter in America, the U.S. has cycled through administrations that offered fleeting hope or deepened despair. For many, the presidencies of Bill Clinton and Barack Obama were moments of cautious optimism. But they were followed by less empathetic presidencies (i.e., Reagan, the Bushes, and Trump) and more turbulent times: endless wars that America participated in, economic volatility, rising inequality, mass incarceration, and political divisions so deep they feel unbridgeable. Now, in Trump’s second term, despair is settling back in.

A few months ago, while driving through the streets of Washington, DC, I saw deflated Santas slumped over on lawns, months after Christmas, long past when they should have been put away. I couldn’t help but feel like they symbolized something deeper. It’s as if the country has collapsed under political, emotional, and existential exhaustion. You can almost hear people saying, not just “What the hell are we gonna do?” but “Why the fuck bother?”

Winter in America was written in a different time, but its message still resonates. Although new methods of communication, especially social media, have entered the scene, they often amplify the same confusion and discontent that Heron captured decades ago. The platforms may be new, but the sense of alienation and polarization they foster remains the same, if not more intense than ever.

Meanwhile, the institutions we’re supposed to trust (Congress, the Supreme Court, police, etc. ) often seem more interested in protecting power than serving the average American. Heron sings “The Constitution… Struggled, but it died in vain.”

The wealth gap has only widened. The streets of American cities echo with homelessness, frustration, and fear. (Visible reminders that many of today’s politicians like to distract us with).

We’ve been here before. In the 1970s, New York City and Detroit teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, and urban decay was blatantly visible. After 9/11, and again during the COVID-19 pandemic, we saw the same patterns: fear, isolation, blaming the powerless, and uncertainty about what the future holds.

But this time, the darkness that Heron sings about feels heavier. Perhaps it’s because we’ve already lived through so much. Perhaps because the contrast with the hope that came before it feels so sharp. Maybe because the myths of justice for all, religious freedom, the land of opportunity, etc., no longer hold.

Winter in America remains relevant not just because it predicted cycles of decline but also because it reflected on something deeper—the emotional toll of living in a country that promises so much but delivers so little to so many.

That kind of winter doesn’t end with a change in the weather. It starts with a critical self-examination, like the one Albert Hirschman discussed in his book, Exit, Voice, Loyalty.

It continues when we decide to confront the myths upon which the country was built, attempt to educate those who believe them to be true, collectively work for a just society, and elect leaders at the local, state, and federal level who truly care about the welfare of others and who don’t use their positions to line their own pockets.

Photo Credit

Title: Gil Scott-Heron in Locorotondo, Italy, July 2010

Photographer: Michele Giaovelli