A lot of history is just dirty politics cleaned up for the

“A lot of history is just dirty politics cleaned up for the consumption of children and other innocents.” – Richard Reeves

In these piercing words, Richard Reeves, the historian and political observer, unmasks one of the great illusions of civilization — that history, the grand story we tell of ourselves, is often less a chronicle of truth than a work of refinement and concealment. His tone is not cynical, but clear-eyed; not despairing, but illuminating. He warns that what we read in textbooks and monuments is rarely the full measure of human struggle, for behind every noble proclamation, behind every page of progress, lies the shadow of power, ambition, and manipulation. To say that history is “dirty politics cleaned up” is to recognize that much of what passes as moral triumph was forged in compromise, deceit, and blood. Yet Reeves’s insight is not meant to destroy reverence for the past, but to awaken discernment — that the wise must look beneath the polish of words to see the truth of deeds.

The origin of this quote lies in Reeves’s lifelong study of political life, particularly in America, where he examined presidents, governments, and the shaping of public narrative. He understood that politics is, by nature, the struggle for power — and that once the victors write the story, they also decide which sins to hide and which virtues to celebrate. Over time, the smoke of battle clears, the language is softened, and the cruelty of men is retold as courage, their ambition rebranded as destiny. What remains is a purified tale, fit for the “consumption of children and other innocents”, as Reeves calls them — those who are taught to honor heroes without knowing their frailty, to trust leaders without glimpsing their appetites. In these words, Reeves reminds us that to study history honestly is to strip away the perfume of myth and to breathe, if we dare, the acrid scent of reality.

For indeed, history as it is lived is never clean. Consider the story of Christopher Columbus, long celebrated in classrooms as the bold discoverer of a new world. To generations of children, his voyage was told as a tale of courage and adventure — ships upon blue waters, the promise of discovery, the triumph of human will. Yet behind that polished tale lay the violence of conquest, the enslavement of indigenous peoples, and the suffering that accompanied Europe’s thirst for empire. The “history” was cleaned for innocence — stripped of its cruelty so that it might inspire rather than disturb. And yet, Reeves would remind us, inspiration built upon illusion is fragile; only truth endures. To honor history truly, we must see both its glory and its grime, for both together form the fabric of human destiny.

So too with the founding of nations. The American Revolution, often hailed as a sacred birth of liberty, was also steeped in contradiction. Its leaders spoke of freedom while owning slaves, and its victory brought independence for some while silencing others. The speeches we memorize were indeed magnificent — the words of Jefferson and Adams still burn with vision — but Reeves’s wisdom compels us to remember that even those who spoke of equality were ensnared by the politics of self-interest. History, when told honestly, is not the story of perfect men, but of flawed men seeking greatness through the fog of imperfection. The polished versions — the ones we feed to “children and innocents” — remove the struggle, and in doing so, they rob us of understanding.

This pattern repeats across time. The Roman Empire is remembered for its grandeur, its roads, its architecture, and its law. Yet it was also a monument built on conquest and slavery, on the blood of those it called barbarian. The Renaissance dazzles with art and learning, yet it was funded by corruption and greed. The Industrial Revolution brought progress but also the grinding misery of child labor and poverty. Reeves’s insight is thus eternal: that every chapter of human history is dual-faced — one side carved in marble, the other stained by the dirt of ambition. The wise student of history must learn to see both, to honor the beauty without forgetting the cost.

Yet there is hope in Reeves’s words, for they are not a call to despair but to maturity. To cleanse history entirely of its dirt is to deceive ourselves; but to wallow in the dirt without recognizing humanity’s capacity to rise is equally false. The truth lies in balance — to love our heritage not because it is pure, but because it is human. The purpose of knowing the past is not to glorify it, but to learn from it, to guard against the repetition of folly and the worship of false gods. For only when we see the corruption that once wore the mask of virtue can we begin to demand integrity in the present. Reeves reminds us that innocence is not an end but a beginning — that wisdom comes only when innocence is shed in the pursuit of truth.

So, my listener, take this lesson deeply into your heart: question what is polished, and seek what is hidden. Do not fear the stains of history, for in acknowledging them, you grow stronger. Read the stories of kings and conquerors, but also of the forgotten, the oppressed, and the voiceless. Let your reverence for the past be honest, not blind. For the world does not need more innocents who repeat the myths of old; it needs seekers who face the truth without flinching.

And thus, as Richard Reeves teaches, let us remember: the wisdom of history begins where the innocence of story ends. When we dare to see the dirt beneath the gold, we do not desecrate our ancestors — we honor them. We learn not only what they did, but why they did it; not only what they achieved, but what they sacrificed. And in that understanding, we find the courage to write our own history — not as a cleaned-up tale, but as a truthful one, worthy of those who will come after us.