What You Say Can Hurt You
Or it can set you free. A Conversation between Gloria Horton-Young and Jay Siegmann
When
published “What They’re Not Telling You About July 4, 2026,” it prompted a wave of responses—some deeply moved, others sharply critical.
I reached out not to debate, but to better understand the layers behind her words. What followed was a thoughtful and candid exchange about intention, truth, correction, and resolve. We spoke not only about the post itself, but the deeper forces it names—and the cost of naming them.
This is our conversation.
Jay: Your recent piece, “What They’re Not Telling You About July 4, 2026,” caught fire—literally and figuratively. You lit match. Some called it prophecy, others panic. What was your intention with that piece?
Gloria:
I lit that match on purpose. It wasn’t prophecy. It wasn’t panic. It was a full-throated warning shouted into the void.
I love this country.
I’ve never once considered living anywhere else. This place—for all its flaws—is the grandest civilization ever attempted by human beings. And I’ll be damned if I let it slip quietly into fascism while I sit on my hands and whisper about unity. That piece was meant to wake people the hell up. No scented candle, no inspirational quote—just fire.
Jay: You said you wanted to write something that “slapped.” Can you talk about how you chose the tone? Was there ever a moment you pulled back—or pushed harder?
Gloria:
I pushed harder. Every word was a decision to not flinch. We’re way past the moment for polite political prose. I didn’t want to hold anyone’s hand. I wanted them to feel the heat. I wrote it like a woman standing in front of a burning house screaming at the neighbors to GET OUT. You think about pulling back—for a second—then you remember what you’re trying to save.
Jay: There’s an urgency that pulses through every paragraph. What moment or document made it impossible for you not to write this? Was there a point when the research crossed over from disturbing to undeniable?
Gloria:
The Religious Liberty Commission. That did it.
Reading that sanitized, state-sponsored poison made my stomach turn. It was Project 2025’s polished death warrant for civil rights, cloaked in the language of morality and “liberty.” It was so calm, so composed, so deliberately crafted—and yet it rang with the cadence of erasure. I saw the architecture of American theocracy forming in real time. That’s when the shift happened. That’s when it went from disturbing to biblical. I didn’t choose to write after that. I had to. It felt like standing at the edge of something ancient and repeating—and I refused to look away.
Jay: Let’s go directly into the criticism. Some people called your framing of Article V “factually wrong” and said it stirred unnecessary fear. Looking back, what’s your own assessment of how you presented that section? What would you clarify now, and what do you still stand behind?
Gloria:
I want to be precise about this: I overstated the immediacy and certainty of an Article V convention in my original wording. The danger is real—and very present—but saying we're just “4–6 states away” and directly tying it to July 4, 2026 gave the impression that there’s a confirmed plan or timeline. That’s not supported by public evidence, and I own that.
But the underlying warning remains valid. There is a well-funded, ongoing push for a constitutional convention—one that many legal scholars describe as legally uncharted and potentially catastrophic. The lack of enforceable rules, historical precedent, or oversight mechanisms is what makes it dangerous. Not because it’s a secret plot, but because it’s a visible one happening in slow motion, and most people are looking the other way.
So yes, I will clarify how I framed that section. I believe in precision. But I also believe we’re in a moment where waiting for perfect proof is how we lose everything. I didn’t write this to appease—I wrote it to wake people up. I still stand by that.
Jay: Do you believe that waking people up justifies risking some factual gray area—or do you think it’s more important to be precise than provocative? Where’s your own personal line between effective alarm and misinformation, especially when the stakes feel existential?
Gloria:
I think the line is honesty. I write with urgency and metaphor, not malice. I don’t believe in lying—but I also don’t believe in sanding down the truth until it fits inside a press release. We are in danger. Existential danger. And I’ll take the risk of being called inflammatory if it means somebody’s eyes open. There’s no neutral tone that saves democracy.
Jay: Your critics say you scared people, not helped them. How do you respond to that? Do you think fear can be useful, or even necessary, to break through collective denial?
Gloria:
Fear is useful—when it’s rooted in truth. Fear wakes people up. It makes them put down the remote, scroll back to the top, and ask better questions. Fear, when it’s earned, gets people off the couch. And right now? Complacency is the death knell of democracy.
I didn’t write to comfort. I wrote to confront.
If it scared someone into paying attention—good.
Jay: You framed July 4, 2026 not as a celebration, but a deadline. Do you see that as symbolic, strategic, or something else entirely? What concrete signs led you to believe that date holds more weight than it’s being publicly given?
Gloria:
It was a stack of small details that built a monster. One agency sunsetting here, a commission formed there—all framed in the language of “efficiency” and “liberty.” It read like a legislative set design: a stage being quietly built for something much bigger, much darker.
And then came the date—July 4, 2026—showing up again and again in the footnotes.
The termination date for DOGE.
The endpoint of the Religious Liberty Commission. Not random. Not symbolic. It felt like a closing number in a scripted performance. Except this time, we’re not the audience. We’re the finale.
Jay: One comment said your post was a “TOTAL CRAP SHOW.” Why did you decide to leave it up?
Gloria:
Because we’re living the crap show. And because that commenter had every right to say it. I respect him. He didn’t like what I wrote. He said so. That’s free speech. And if I believe in that—truly believe in it—I don’t get to delete what makes me uncomfortable.
We don’t have to agree to be in the same conversation.
That comment stays. The post stays.
And I stay right here, stirring the storm.
Jay: There’s also the matter of tone. Some say you were too incendiary. Others say you were exactly right. Where do you personally draw the line between responsible reporting and poetic resistance?
Gloria: I draw the line at silence. At respectability politics. At “let’s not upset the neighbors.” That line is a leash. Poetic resistance is responsible when reality demands more than data points. I’m not a journalist. I’m a writer. And my weapon is words that burn.
Jay: Let’s talk about the “end dates.” Can you walk us through what you found in the White House’s own documentation—on DOGE, the Religious Liberty Commission, and other agencies—that led you to spotlight July 4 as a convergence point?
Gloria:
And then came the date—July 4, 2026—showing up again and again in the footnotes. The termination date for DOGE. The endpoint of the Religious Liberty Commission. Not random. Not symbolic.
It felt like a closing number in a scripted performance. Except this time, we’re not the audience. We’re the finale.
Excerpt from the official White House order establishing the Religious Liberty Commission, confirming that all member terms end on July 4, 2026, aligning with America’s 250th anniversary.
Alt Text:
Screenshot from the White House website showing text from an executive order by President Donald J. Trump. It states that members of the Religious Liberty Commission shall serve one term ending on July 4, 2026, marking the 250th anniversary of American Independence, with possible reappointment for two years if extended.
Jay: What’s more dangerous right now: the people pushing this agenda—or the ones pretending it’s not happening?
Gloria:
The ones pretending. The ones who know better and choose comfort. Cowards in khakis, sipping lattes while Rome burns. The architects of this regime are dangerous, yes. And denial is their favorite tool—because it’s quiet, and it wears a smile.
Jay: You described your writing as prophetic, poetic, and political. In this piece, which of those was carrying the weight? Or did you feel like you were embodying all three at once?
Gloria:
All three. The prophet sees it. The poet makes you feel it. The political voice names the target. You need all three if you’re going to start a fire that can’t be put out.
Jay: You wrote that you might be stopped in an airport someday. What truth do you think would provoke that kind of consequence? And if it came to pass—would you still say it?
Gloria:
I think the truth that queer, mouthy women over 70 are still dangerous to regimes would do it. The truth that saying, “this is how fascism starts” might get you flagged in a border system. And yes—I’d still say it. Especially then.
Jay: Some critics have argued that your writing isn’t serving the community—that it’s alarming rather than helpful. But what is the service you believe you’re offering right now? Who are you writing for—and what do you hope they’ll do with what you’ve given them?
Gloria: I write for the people whose hands are shaking but whose voices are steady. I write for the women who never thought they’d have to fight again, but damn it, here we are. My service is sounding the alarm without asking permission. I’m asking readers to wake up, speak up, and stop waiting for someone else to save us.
I write for the women who remember how hard it was the first time around—and who never, not in their worst nightmares or their most exhausted afternoons, thought we’d have to fight the same battles again. I write for the ones who feel the clock breathing down their neck and find themselves wondering, Will I even live long enough to see the difference this time?
Maybe not. And that, frankly, is one of the cruelest punches of this moment: the not knowing. The tick-tock of it all.
But that’s not why I write.
I don’t write because I believe we’re going to tie this all up with a pretty ribbon in time for the next election cycle. I write because what we do right now—with our words, with our choices, with our refusal to roll over—is the blueprint of what we leave behind.
You may not see the harvest. You may not get your parade. But that doesn’t mean you stop planting. You still put your hands in the dirt. You still water the damn ground. You still stand, so that someone else—some girl who hasn’t even been born yet—has a path to walk that isn’t carved out of ash.
This isn’t just about resistance.
This is about inheritance.
And no—you don’t have to scream in the street or chain yourself to a courthouse door.
But don’t go quiet.
Not now.
Not with everything we’ve ever loved standing on the edge of a very steep, very real fall.
Jay: Finally—what’s the cost of being the one who stirs the storm? And is it one you’re still willing to pay, again and again?
Gloria:
The cost? Loneliness. Ridicule. Fear. And maybe—one day—a consequence I can’t outwrite, outtalk, or outlast.
But if the cost of not stirring the storm is losing this country?
Losing every hard-won right, every woman I’ve ever loved, every scrap of justice we’ve fought for?
Then yes. I’ll pay it.
I’ll pay it with both hands and not blink.
Again.
And again.
Until the match burns down to my fingers—
and I light the next one with what’s left of me.
Because if silence is survival, I’ll take the risk.
Because if surrender is safety, I’ll stay dangerous.
Gloria, this written conversation wasn’t just an interview—it was a reckoning. And I want to be clear: I’m not just observing from across the ocean. I am standing beside you. What you’ve written here, what you’ve warned—my own research confirms it, detail by chilling detail. This isn’t speculation. This isn’t performance.
The storm is real, the structure is cracking, and the ship is already tilting hard to starboard.
There will be lifeboats—and only for the top 5%.
The rest will be left to tread water in the wreckage, told it was all too “radical” to name in time. But you named it. And I’m with you. We keep naming it—louder, sharper, clearer—because we still believe someone, somewhere, will hear and rise.
Thank you for walking this path alongside us.
Jay & Gloria
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