For generations, American children—Black and white—were taught the classic fable of young George Washington and the cherry tree. As the story goes, Washington’s father discovered his prized tree chopped down and confronted his son: “George, did you cut down my cherry tree?” The boy, still holding the hatchet he had been given as a gift, could have deflected or lied. Instead, he reportedly met his father’s gaze and declared, “I cannot tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.”

The story is entirely fictional—Parson Weems invented it in the early 19th century. Yet the myth endured because it expressed a civic ideal Americans wanted to believe about themselves: that honesty, integrity, and moral courage were foundational to leadership and citizenship. At its heart, the cherry-tree tale was not about Washington but about us—who we hoped to be as a nation.

And that is precisely why our current moment feels so jarring.

We now live in a country where a significant portion of the public elevates a man whose relationship to truth is not merely casual but fundamentally adversarial. Donald Trump has been documented telling thousands of falsehoods, distortions, and inventions. But as philosopher Harry Frankfurt famously noted, Trump’s defining trait is not lying—lying at least acknowledges truth well enough to hide it. Trump’s method is bullshitting, a complete indifference to truth itself. What matters is emotional impact, domination, and personal advantage, not factual coherence.

The scandal is not that such a person exists. The scandal is that millions embraced him anyway.

What should have been disqualifying—pathological dishonesty, moral emptiness, and documented criminality—was instead discounted, rationalized, or even celebrated. The answer to why lies deep in the American character. For many voters, truth was less important than feeling represented in anger, validated in grievance, or promised revenge. Others saw Trump as a vehicle for policy goals, ideological victories, or the protection of racial and cultural hierarchies. The cherry-tree ethic collapsed under the weight of fear, resentment, and self-interest.

Folklore alone cannot sustain a democracy. A republic requires citizens capable of valuing truth over convenience, integrity over tribal loyalty, and moral leadership over emotional gratification. That capacity failed in large swaths of the electorate—and we are now living in the consequences.

So the question becomes: what do we do to repair such an ethical rupture?

One answer begins with the next generation. If civic character is to be rebuilt, it must be taught with the seriousness the cherry-tree myth once attempted, but with examples grounded in real moral courage rather than invented parables.

A model stands before us today: Admiral Alvin Holsey, whose recent resignation drew national attention. Confronted with illegal and unethical orders, Holsey chose to uphold the principles instilled in him long before he wore four stars. As a Morehouse man, he was taught that truth, integrity, and responsibility are not optional traits but essential components of leadership. Holsey’s decision was not symbolic—it was costly. And that is precisely why it is instructive.

Children—and adults—need more stories like this. Stories where character is not romanticized but demonstrated. Stories where the measure of leadership is not power or celebrity, but the willingness to do what is right when the cost is high. Stories that remind us that the strength of a democracy depends not merely on elections, but on the moral fiber of those who participate in them.

The cherry-tree story was meant to shape the American conscience. It told us who we hoped to be. Our current crisis reveals how far we have strayed from that aspiration.

If we are to heal our civic life, we must teach—not mythically but truthfully—what Washington’s invented confession symbolized: that honesty is the first duty of a leader. And we must uplift contemporary examples, like Admiral Holsey, who show what moral courage looks like in practice.

America cannot survive on folklore alone. But it can be renewed by truth, integrity, and a new generation taught to value both.