As the United States approaches its 250th birthday in 2026, a momentous anniversary known as the semiquincentennial, Americans are taking time to reflect on national identity, unity, and the ever-evolving nature of leadership. The echoes of history seem especially poignant now, as the nation grapples with deep divisions reminiscent of those that threatened to tear it apart on the eve of the Civil War. Looking back to February 22, 1861—George Washington’s birthday—offers a window into a past when the country’s very survival hung in the balance, and when the meaning of patriotism and leadership was fiercely debated.
On that chilly February day in Louisville, Kentucky, two of the city’s most prominent newspaper editors, George D. Prentice and John H. Harney, climbed atop the old Jefferson County courthouse. In a dramatic gesture meant to honor both the Union and the legacy of George Washington, they unfurled what was likely the largest U.S. flag ever flown over the city. According to the Louisville Journal and Louisville Democrat, no fewer than 50,000 men, women, and children gathered to witness the spectacle—a crowd nearly rivaling the city’s entire 1860 population of 68,000. The Louisville Courier estimated a slightly smaller turnout of 30,000 but acknowledged the impressive scale, noting that visitors had come from as far as New Albany and Jeffersonville, Indiana.
The timing of this patriotic display was anything but coincidental. Just weeks before the outbreak of the Civil War, seven deep South slave states had already seceded from the Union, forming a new government with a constitution explicitly safeguarding slavery and white supremacy. Kentucky, a border slave state, found itself deeply divided. While the majority of its citizens and its General Assembly favored the Union, a significant secessionist sentiment simmered, particularly in the state’s far southwest corner. Louisville, however, stood firmly with the Union—its residents eager to demonstrate loyalty to the flag and the nation’s founding ideals.
“Kentucky is true and loyal, and by the blessing of Heaven and under the precepts of Washington, she will be the last State to leave the Confederacy,” declared the Louisville Journal in its February 23, 1861, edition. It’s worth noting that in this context, “Confederacy” was used to mean the Union. The symbolism of the day was palpable: salvos of artillery thundered in salute from morning till evening, and flags of every size fluttered from the homes of prominent citizens. Homemade banners crowded every available space, striving to include each of the 34 stars representing the states.
James Speed, a close friend of Abraham Lincoln, delivered a rousing Union speech to the assembled crowd. Yet, Kentucky’s loyalty to the Union did not equate to support for Lincoln himself or his Republican Party. When Lincoln was elected president in November 1860, he received only 1,364 votes statewide, including a mere 106 in Jefferson County. As Speed put it, “We have come together this day with a two-fold purpose — one to celebrate the anniversary of the birthday of Washington, the other to erect over this public building the flag of our country, the cherished emblem of our nationality.”
After Speed’s address, Prentice and Harney, assisted by four local women, hoisted the flag into the clear Kentucky sky. The Journal described the scene with poetic flourish: “The glorious banner streamed to the breeze of as lovely a vernal day as Providence ever breathed upon the earth.” The Stars and Stripes flew not only over the courthouse but also above the offices of the Journal, the Democrat, and the Anziger—a German-language, staunchly Unionist newspaper. Notably absent was the flag from the office of Walter N. Haldeman’s Louisville Courier, a paper with strong secessionist leanings. When Union troops occupied Louisville in September 1861, federal authorities shut the Courier down as treasonous, prompting Haldeman to flee and continue publishing behind Confederate lines until the war’s end.
Such public demonstrations of loyalty were not just about flags and speeches. They were about defining what it meant to be American at a time when the nation’s future was uncertain. Fast-forward to the present, and the same questions linger—though the context has changed. As the United States prepares to mark its 250th year, debates over leadership, national character, and the meaning of patriotism are as lively as ever.
In a recent commentary for Slate, writer Joel Achenbach draws a sharp contrast between George Washington and modern leaders, particularly Donald Trump. While both men were born into wealth, acquired vast real estate holdings, and were keenly aware of their public image, their approaches to power could hardly be more different. Washington, as Achenbach notes, “readily and repeatedly gave up power,” stepping down after the Revolutionary War and again after two presidential terms. His era revered selflessness as a core virtue, and Washington’s actions at critical moments reflected that ideal.
Yet, the portrait of Washington as purely selfless is too simplistic. Historians like Joseph Ellis have described Washington as possessing a “monumental ego,” deeply ambitious and obsessed with his reputation. Peter Henriques, another biographer, argues that Washington “was not a ‘selfless’ man or one who was simply engaging in disinterested service. Rather, a pattern emerges of a man who was deeply ambitious, massively concerned with his reputation, and in regular search of the public approbation, even as he denied such desires.” Washington craved what he called “secular immortality” and carefully curated his image for future generations.
Washington’s concern for legacy extended even to the issue of slavery. He owned more than 50,000 acres of land and, in his will, arranged for the emancipation of the enslaved people he controlled—though only after his wife’s death. These actions, taken with an eye on history, reflected both the limitations and aspirations of his time.
By contrast, Achenbach argues that Trump’s approach to leadership is marked by self-aggrandizement and a disregard for constitutional norms. Trump has put his name on government buildings, openly campaigned for the Nobel Peace Prize, and even demanded Greenland as compensation when he failed to receive it. Most notably, Trump refused to accept the results of the 2020 election and encouraged efforts to subvert the peaceful transfer of power—actions that stand in stark contrast to Washington’s example. “That’s as un–George Washington as it gets,” Achenbach writes. “Washington knew he was part of something bigger than himself. He had helped create a nation, but it didn’t belong to him. So after eight years fashioning the office of the presidency, he did something simple and exemplary: He went home.”
As Americans prepare for another milestone birthday, the stories of Washington’s ambition, Louisville’s loyalty, and the ongoing debates about leadership serve as reminders that the nation’s ideals are constantly being tested and redefined. The challenge, now as then, is to find common purpose in the face of division—and to remember that the meaning of America has always been shaped by those willing to put the country above themselves.